“Welcome to the Bastion.”
The words were a cold pronouncement, a sealing of fate. Olenka met his gaze, her own expression unreadable. She would have to construct his ruin from the inside. This was merely the first layer of concrete.
The armored transport accelerated, an obsidian slab cutting through the predawn gloom. Miko, still clutching his tattered plush ‘Glimmerwing’, leaned his head against Olenka’s arm, his breathing shallow and even. The shock had receded, replaced by the deep exhaustion of a child who had witnessed too much. Olenka’s hand settled on his small back, a purely reflexive action, stripped of warmth. He was a vulnerability, a vector. Nothing more.
She looked out at the blurred skyline, the towering structures of Neo-Veridia, and her mind flickered back to a different night, five years prior. A night of desperate improvisation, when the city had died for a full twelve hours.
***
The power grid collapsed at 02:17. The blackout rippled through the city like a physical shockwave, plunging districts into sudden, absolute blackness. Olenka, then twenty-one, had used the chaos as cover. The Kordas data vault, located in a high-rise corporate tower, was her target. Her family’s last hope.
She had anticipated the backup generators, the emergency lighting. What she hadn’t accounted for was the Kordas subsidiary holding its annual investor retreat in the same building. Or for the frantic, poorly labeled hotel rooms.
Her optical scrambler distorted the room number, blurring the ‘7’ into an ‘8’. She picked the lock with routine ease, slipping into the dark, unlit space. The air was heavy with the scent of stale coffee and something else—a faint, metallic tang. Not the server room she expected. Instead, a figure sat hunched by the window, silhouetted against the faint emergency glow from a distant district. His face was buried in his hands.
“Identify yourself,” Olenka stated, her voice low, amplified by her vocal modulator. Her palm already hovered over the stun-emitter at her hip.
The figure slowly raised his head. Henrik Kordas. Younger then, his face etched with a different kind of weariness, not yet hardened by the constant vigilance that would define him. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days, dark crescents under his eyes.
“Lost power, didn’t we?” His voice was a flat monotone, barren of surprise, empty of fear. “Expected. The network strains under its own weight.” He waved a hand vaguely at the dark city. “You’re not an assassin. Your approach was too… methodical for a kill, too hesitant for a snatch-and-grab. What do you want?”
Olenka froze. His perception was unsettling. “Wrong room. My apologies.” She began to back away, her mission compromised.
“Wait.” His voice stopped her. He turned, his dark eyes fixing on her. “You came in. You could leave. But you paused. There’s something in that pause. You’re not just ‘wrong room’. You’re… seeking. What are you seeking?”
Olenka hesitated. The blackout was a window. Her target was miles away, across the darkened city. And this man, Henrik Kordas, was a known insomniac, famed for his strategic brilliance even then. He looked utterly drained, his guard down in a way she might never see again.
“A moment of peace,” she lied, the words tasting like ash in her mouth. “A break from… the constant pressure.”
He watched her, his gaze unsettlingly sharp despite his exhaustion. Then, a dry, humorless chuckle escaped him. “A moment of peace. Yes. A rare commodity.” He gestured to the empty chair beside him. “Join me. The city will awaken soon enough.”
She didn’t sit. She didn’t leave. The air crackled with a strange, almost transactional tension. He was desperate for a distraction, a brief respite from the relentless grind of his empire. She was desperate for an opportunity, any opportunity. The night unfolded, not with romance, but with a cold, almost clinical mutual recognition of need. A temporary alliance of convenience, born of a city’s sudden silence and two relentless wills.
***
Present.
“Here, my dear. A little more to the left.”
The sycophantic voice pulled Olenka from the memory. She stood on a raised pedestal in the Kordas Bastion’s grand bridal suite, a cavernous space of polished plasteel and stark, minimalist aesthetics. Three dressmakers, draped in pastel-colored smocks, fluttered around her like agitated moths. Their faces, plump and unlined, were a stark contrast to Olenka’s own sharp features. They looked like they had never known a hard day’s work.
The wedding gown, a cascade of optic-white silk and delicate, laser-cut lace, felt like a tactical straightjacket. It restricted her arm articulation, weighed down her posture, and its sheer volume presented too many snag hazards. Every seam, every bead, screamed “vulnerability.”
“The train is… inefficient,” Olenka stated, her voice flat, without inflection. “It would impede rapid egress in an emergency. The lace, while aesthetically pleasing, is highly susceptible to tearing, reducing its utility as protective layering.”
The head seamstress, a woman with a tightly coiffed platinum bob, gasped delicately. “But, Mrs. Varga, it’s not meant for… utility. It’s for beauty! For the occasion!”
“Beauty serves no purpose when one is pinned under collapsing debris,” Olenka countered, turning her head slightly to assess the gown’s rear view in the multi-panel mirror. The fabric, while luxurious, offered zero ballistic resistance. A critical design flaw.
The attendants exchanged nervous glances. The lead seamstress forced a smile. “Perhaps a different cut, then? Something less… voluminous?”
“The volume is fine,” Olenka said, her gaze drifting to the ornate jewel piece they held. A choker, thick with a double strand of luminous, spherical beads. “The stones, however, are inefficient.”
“Inefficient?” the seamstress echoed, her smile faltering.
“Yes. They are simply decorative. They could be functional.” Olenka extended her hand. “May I see it?”
Reluctantly, the woman placed the heavy collar into Olenka’s palm. The beads were cool and smooth. Olenka’s thumb brushed against the clasp, her eyes scanning the room. The fitters were momentarily distracted, debating structural seams. Miko was in an adjoining, soundproofed playroom, supervised by one of Henrik’s trusted guards. No eyes on her, not truly. This was her chance.
Her other hand, concealed by the voluminous sleeve of the gown, dipped into a tiny, custom-made pocket sewn into the inner lining of the silk. She palmed a small, slim case. Inside were six micro-EMP charges, each no larger than a pea, disguised to mimic the collar's beads. They pulsed with a faint, almost imperceptible warmth.
With methodical dexterity, her fingers moved, swift and precise. The clasp was intricate, designed for aesthetic beauty, not field disassembly. But Olenka’s touch found the hidden release. Six beads clicked free, falling into her palm with a soft rustle. She replaced them with the EMP charges, their matte surfaces blending seamlessly with the genuine nacre. The charges, once activated, would generate a localized electromagnetic pulse, capable of frying low-level Kordas biometric readers and digital locks without a catastrophic system-wide collapse. It was surgical, a hidden key.
“There,” she said, her voice betraying nothing, as she handed the modified choker back to the woman. “Much better.”
The seamstress, oblivious, smiled brightly. “Oh, it’s simply divine, Mrs. Varga! It perfectly frames your neck.” She moved to secure it around Olenka’s throat.
Before she could, the heavy plasteel door to the suite hissed open. Henrik Kordas stood there, dressed in a tailored, dark grey suit, his presence filling the opulent space. His gaze swept over Olenka, missing nothing, acknowledging everything. The stylists instantly went still, their chatter dying. The seamstress dropped her hands from the collar, her face paling.
“You are dismissed,” Henrik stated, his voice a low rumble. Not a request, an order. His eyes did not leave Olenka’s face.
The attendants scrambled, gathering their swatches and measurement tapes, murmuring apologies as they fled the room. The door hissed shut, leaving Olenka and Henrik alone in the vast, quiet suite.
Henrik walked towards her, his stride even, measured. He stopped directly in front of the pedestal, looking up at her. His gaze was unreadable. He reached out, his long, lean hand taking the collar, his thumbs brushing lightly over the very beads Olenka had just replaced. The micro-EMPs rested cool under his touch, armed and waiting.
His gaze lifted to meet hers, holding it. A slow, cold smile spread across his lips, full of dangerous knowledge. He leaned closer, his voice a low murmur, just for her. “I know you are building a trap, Olenka. I just have not found it yet.”