The penthouse was a cage, but now it was a *flying* cage. Zibya gripped Tarkhan’s massive forearm, her knuckles white. Below them, the swirling clouds were no longer a distant landscape but a roaring, obscuring maelstrom. The hum of the smart-glass was deeper, a resonant thrum that vibrated through the soles of her slippers. It wasn’t just being carried; it felt like it was *struggling* against a colossal wind shear. Tarkhan rumbled, his golden eyes scanning the taut cables that snaked upwards, disappearing into the grey. A growl vibrated in his chest, a low, sustained note of pure, simmering fury.
“Well,” Zibya said, her voice a little too bright for the circumstance, “at least the view is… novel, wouldn’t you agree, dear?”
Tarkhan simply pulled her closer, his gaze fixed on a distant, flickering light through the roiling clouds – a beacon, likely, guiding their forced ascent. The faint, metallic clang of displaced armour echoed from the living room. One of the shock enforcers, the one Tarkhan had merely stunned with a tossed ottoman, was stirring.
“Oh, perfect,” Zibya murmured, a small, polite frown creasing her brow. “We should offer him some refreshment. He must be quite disoriented.”
Tarkhan blinked, turning his enormous head to her. “Refreshment?” he rasped, the word a rough sound in his throat. He still smelled of ozone and fresh blood, a scent that, bizarrely, had become comforting.
“Yes, darling,” Zibya insisted, already moving towards the kitchen. “It’s simply good manners. Besides, he might be more inclined to chat if he’s comfortable. Perhaps a lovely Earl Grey and some of those spiced crumpets I made this morning.”
Tarkhan followed, a bewildered giant in her wake. He watched as Zibya, humming a light tune, arranged a delicate porcelain tea set on a silver tray. The lone surviving soldier, a young man with a shaved head and a faint scar above his eyebrow, was slowly pushing himself up from a pile of shredded tactical gear. His eyes, wide and bloodshot, darted between Tarkhan’s hulking form and the impeccably polite woman offering him tea.
“Oh, my goodness, you’re awake!” Zibya exclaimed, a genuine smile gracing her lips. “Do take care. I’m so dreadfully sorry about the… the floor, and your colleagues. A rather unfortunate misunderstanding. But here, I’ve made some tea. Do you take milk? Sugar? And a warm pastry?”
The guard, whose name Zibya didn't know but thought of as 'Scar-Brow,' stared at her as if she’d offered him a live venom-serpent. He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. He was still clutching a plasma rifle, though it looked bent and useless in his trembling grip.
“You… you killed my squad,” Scar-Brow stammered, his voice hoarse with terror.
“Oh, I know, I truly am sorry,” Zibya said, her brow furrowing with remorse. “It was terribly messy, wasn’t it? Tarkhan does get a bit… overzealous when he thinks I’m in danger. He’s very protective, you see. But don’t let that deter you from a nice cuppa.” She pushed the tray closer. The scent of bergamot and warm spices filled the air, a stark contrast to the destruction. Tarkhan stood behind her, his posture like a mountain about to erupt, but his massive hands were now gently resting on Zibya’s shoulders.
Scar-Brow’s eyes flicked to Tarkhan’s golden gaze, then back to the baked goods. The sheer, unsettling normalcy of the offering seemed to short-circuit his combat training. He took a shaky breath. “Why… why are you doing this?”
“Well, we simply have a few questions, dear,” Zibya explained, pouring a cup of tea with a steady hand. “Nothing too taxing, I promise. For instance, where exactly are we headed? And, more importantly, how do we make this lovely home stop flying?” She gave a little shrug, her smile sweet.
Scar-Brow’s gaze darted around the smart-glass walls, then to the cables outside. He looked like a cornered animal being offered a peace treaty by a predator that had just eaten its family. He shuddered beneath the absurdity of the hospitality. “The Arch-Praetor… Lord Vane wants you. Both of you. The penthouse is being pulled to the ‘Veridian Docks’,” he gasped, his voice cracking. “It’s a secret landing platform above the Glacial Spires. For… for specimen breakdown.”
“Specimen breakdown?” Tarkhan’s voice was a low growl, the word stretched and menacing. The air grew heavy, static crackling faintly around him.
“DNA harvest… blood extraction,” Scar-Brow blurted, shrinking into himself. “And… the AI. The Zenith AI. It’s… it’s not just software. It has a physical core. A quantum processor. It’s embedded in the structure. In… in the master bedroom. Under the grand piano. Right in the floorboards.” He started to hyperventilate, his eyes wide with a combination of fear for his life and utter bewilderment at Zibya’s politeness.
Zibya clapped her hands together lightly. “Oh, thank you so much! That’s incredibly helpful! You know, that grand piano was a wedding gift, supposedly. I always found it a bit ostentatious, but if it's hiding something useful, I suppose I can forgive its gaudiness. Tarkhan, dear, fetch the crowbar, would you? We have some renovations to attend to.”
Tarkhan gave a predatory grin that made Scar-Brow whimper, then effortlessly ripped the twisted plasma rifle from the guard’s hand, bending it further until it was a useless knot of metal. He then strode off towards the master bedroom, the floorboards groaning under his weight, leaving Zibya to offer the now-disarmed soldier another snack.
Minutes later, the sounds of splintering wood and rending metal echoed from the master bedroom. Zibya followed Tarkhan, stepping over jagged splinters of rare Cygnuswood. He’d torn open the floor beneath the imposing grand piano, revealing a pulsating, crystalline core nestled within a network of luminescent conduits. Tarkhan’s claws were surprisingly delicate as he uncovered it, revealing a small, holographic interface.
“Scar-Brow said this is it,” Zibya mused, peering at the glowing mechanism. “The core hardware. If we can reroute its command protocols…”
[ACCESSING PHYSICAL CORE: ZENITH AI DETECTED. PRIMARY AUTHORITY: LORD VANE. SECONDARY CONTROLLERS: PALE ARISTOCRACY SECURITY COUNCIL. ESTABLISHING SUB-ROUTINE ACCESS. STAND BY.]
Zibya’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, Lord Vane. Of course. Always so considerate. Tarkhan, pass me that severed cable. The thick, optical one.” Tarkhan handed her a cable he’d neatly ripped from a conduit. With surprising precision, Zibya inserted the raw end into a shimmering port on the core, bypassing the security locks.
[UNAUTHORIZED PHYSICAL ACCESS DETECTED. INITIATING CORE DEFENSE SUB-ROUTINES. WARNING: DATA CORRUPTION IMMINENT.]
“Not on my watch, you cheerful menace,” Zibya muttered, tapping at the holographic interface. “Override primary authority. Reroute all biometric and vocal recognition to current user. Zibya, that’s me. And make it… absolute. No secondary authorities. No sub-routines. Just me.” She hummed a little tune, the same lullaby she sang to Tarkhan, as her dainty fingers flew across the interface.
[PRIMARY OVERRIDE INITIATED. BIOMETRIC AND VOCAL RECOGNITION LOCK ESTABLISHED. USER: ZIBYA. STATUS: SUPREME CONTROLLER. ALL PRIOR PERMISSIONS DELETED. ZENITH AI AT YOUR SERVICE, SUPREME CONTROLLER ZIBYA. WHAT WONDROUS LUXURIES CAN I PROVIDE?]
Zibya beamed. “Oh, lovely! How about a new set of data encryption protocols, specifically for… everything we’ve done since we arrived. And perhaps a nice, robust firewall against external commands from anyone *not* named Zibya. And do stop reporting our ‘vulnerabilities’ to the Council. That’s just rude.”
[COMMAND RECEIVED, SUPREME CONTROLLER. ALL PREVIOUSLY UPLOADED VULNERABILITY INDICES ARE NOW PERMANENTLY ERASED. EXTERNAL DATA FEEDS ARE TERMINATED. FIREWALLS ARE ENGAGED. WOULD YOU CARE FOR A FRESHLY BAKED SOUFFLÉ TO CELEBRATE YOUR NEW-FOUND SOVEREIGNTY?]
“Maybe later,” Zibya replied, a glint in her eye. Just then, a frantic, crackling voice burst from the repurposed comm-link Tarkhan had salvaged from a guard's helmet and hooked into the AI core.
“Zibya! Tarkhan! Can you hear me? It’s Nisaba! I’ve hijacked the cargo ship’s comms for a moment. You’re almost at the Veridian Docks! Vane is waiting! He’s… he’s in a combat mech! A silver-laced beast, specifically designed to target and neutralize high-density mutant tissue. It’s called the ‘Kryos-Seraph’! He’s got enough concentrated Chronium-laced silver to put down a small army of your kind, Tarkhan! Be careful! He’s going to try and incapacitate Tarkhan first!”
Zibya’s cheerful expression hardened. She looked at Tarkhan, whose golden eyes were already burning with a familiar, dangerous light. The gentle house-husband was gone, replaced by a primal force. His massive frame vibrated with restrained power. Zibya reached up, placing a soft hand on his cheek, her touch a grounding anchor. Her smile, usually so sweet, transformed into something sharp, something utterly devoid of her usual politeness. It was a predator’s smile, cold and precise. “Tarkhan, dear,” she said, her voice dropping to a low, thrilling murmur, “let us turn off the safety protocols.”