The comm unit’s static clawed at the air, Morza’s voice a venomous hiss. “All units, initiate Block-wide lockdown. Flood Sector Rho’s maintenance tunnels with toxic smog. No survivors. Burn them out.”
The words echoed in the cramped substation, a death sentence delivered with chilling calm. Karsik, still pale, pushed himself upright, his breath coming in shallow gasps. The faint luminescence from his chest plate pulsed, a fragile beacon. He moved to rise, teeth set against the pain.
“No.” Berya’s voice was a low growl, her hand firm on his shoulder. “You won’t.” She saw the faint tremor in his arm, the effort it took just to hold himself up. The factory’s core, which had thrummed with renewed vigor moments ago, now felt like a fragile, overstretched drum. Every ounce of his restored vitality was precious, a currency she would not allow him to squander.
“We can’t stay here,” Yulic stated, his rifle held ready, scanning the dark maw of the tunnel entrance. The air already carried a faint, acrid tang, metallic and sharp.
Berya looked at her twins, huddled close, their faces streaked with grime but their eyes fixed on her, trusting. She could feel the factory, a humming presence behind her eyes. It was a barren landscape now, stripped of its accumulated wealth, but its core still pulsed, a final, stubborn reserve of energy. Enough for one last gamble. One devastating throw of the dice.
“We won’t be staying,” Berya said, her gaze hardening. “Yulic, can you get the twins to the upper service conduits? There’s a ventilation shaft near the old recycling plant. It should bypass the central concourse, lead them out to the perimeter wall.”
Yulic’s brow furrowed. “And you, Tarsin?”
“I’m going to surrender.”
Karsik’s head snapped up, a flash of protest in his gaze. “Berya, no. What are you planning?” His voice was hoarse, but edged with command.
“Something Morza won’t expect,” she replied, ignoring his question. “A final transaction. You are too weak to fight, Karsik. And if you use that artifact again, you might as well hand her the pistol yourself. I need you safe. Yulic, if anything happens to me, you get them out. Understand?”
Yulic hesitated, then gave a curt nod. “Understood. But Morza won’t just take a surrender. She’ll make an example.”
“Let her,” Berya said, a cold smile touching her lips. “Let her think she’s won.”
She looked at Karsik, her expression softening for a fraction of a second. “Survive, Karsik. That’s an order.” Without another word, she moved toward the main tunnel entrance, leaving the others to their hurried escape plan. The acrid smell of the smog grew stronger with every step, clinging to the damp air.
She emerged into the main concourse, the vast, echoing space a stark contrast to the cramped tunnels. Above, the soaring, brutalist arches of the Vrozhan Communal Block met a grimy, glass-paneled ceiling, filtering the sickly grey light of the Sovari sky. Below, a crowd had gathered, a fearful, hushed mass of Block residents, forced to witness Morza’s public spectacle. Vanguard soldiers, clad in their grim black uniforms, formed a cordon, their pulse-rifles held ready. At the center, on a hastily erected dais, stood Madam Morza, flanked by two stern-faced bureaucratic overseers. Her face was a mask of triumphant vindication.
Morza’s voice, amplified by a crackling vox-unit, filled the plaza. “Let this be a lesson to all who would defy the regime! To all who would steal and conspire!” Her gaze, sharp as fractured ice, landed on Berya, who stood alone, hands held loosely at her sides, seemingly defeated. “Berya Tarsin! Your foolish resistance ends here. Your so-called ‘empire’ is dust, your children will be re-assigned, and your treasonous accomplice will be executed!” A cruel smile stretched across her lips. “Tell me, where is your rogue husband? Cowering in the smog, no doubt, like the vermin he is?”
Berya met her gaze, her face unreadable. “He’s gone,” she stated, her voice carrying across the hushed floor. “You won.”
A ripple went through the crowd. Morza’s smile widened, a predatory gleam in her eyes. “Indeed, I have. And now, you will pay.” She gestured to the guards. “Bring her.”
As two guards advanced, Berya took a single, deliberate step forward. In her mind, the factory’s core pulsed, a single, potent charge accumulating. She mapped the plaza, the guards' comm-units, Morza’s vox-unit, the vast array of surveillance nodes woven into the Block’s architecture. She had gambled everything on this final play.
[Energy Flux: Maximal Output Achieved. Localized Electro-Magnetic Pulse – Engaged.]
A blinding flash erupted from Berya’s position, not a physical explosion, but raw, unseen force that tore through the air. A collective gasp rose from the crowd. Lights flickered violently throughout the hall, then died, plunging sections into deep shadow. The vox-unit in Morza’s hand emitted a high-pitched shriek, then went silent, a wisp of smoke curling from its grilles. The troopers' comm-units popped and sparked, their pulse-rifles going dead, their security visors blacking out. Panic rippled through their ranks.
Morza stared at her defunct vox-unit, her face contorting in disbelief and rage. “What… what was that?!”
Then, a new sound, chillingly clear, reverberated through the now-silent public address system, somehow untouched by the EMP. It was Yulic’s voice, a crisp, professional recording. “— intercepted communication between Madam Morza and known smuggler Varkos. Morza: ‘The Tarsin patents must be secured. My daughter-in-law is a fool, she’ll break easily. Frame her for theft, ensure her twins are orphaned. The Directorate will reward my loyalty with command of Sector Rho’s industrial output.’ Varkos: ‘The transponder codes for the cargo train are ready, Madam. The contraband will be placed, the Enforcers notified.’ Morza: ‘Excellent. My rise requires this sacrifice. The Tarsin bloodline will fade, but their machines will serve me.’”
The recording played on, detailing Morza’s schemes, her avarice, her contempt for the very regional officials now standing beside her, their faces aghast. The smug satisfaction vanished from Morza’s features, replaced by dawning horror. Her eyes darted to the officials, then to the silent, stunned crowd. Her career, her reputation, her entire life’s ambition, lay shattered around her, broadcast for all to hear.
Berya watched Morza’s world crumble, a grim satisfaction settling in her gut. She had sacrificed her fortune, nearly Karsik’s life, but this—this was vindication. This was the ruin she had promised.
Morza’s gaze, now utterly devoid of triumph, locked onto Berya. A raw, desperate fury twisted her features. Her hand, shaking, plunged into the folds of her elaborate tunic, emerging with a compact, Directorate-issue pistol. Without hesitation, she raised it, her eyes black with murderous intent. The shot rang out, impossibly loud in the suddenly quiet square, aimed squarely at Berya’s chest.