Jaskya barely slept. The biometric sweep countdown pulsed behind her eyes, a digital timer ticking down her family’s ruin. Orik, nestled against her, snored softly, oblivious to the clock hand sweeping toward midnight. She spent the scarce hours of dark hunched over her comm-pad, tracing the Apex’s network architecture, searching for the backdoors her past self must have built, but finding only layers of cryptographic ice. The sheer audacity of her past self, constructing such an impenetrable fortress, now mocked her present, vulnerable self. Every failed attempt twisted a knot in her gut. She pictured Nemi, tubes spiderwebbing from her arm, the quiet hum of her life support, and her resolve hardened. She would find a way. She had to.
The next morning, an enforcer with a scarred jowl, Grendyl, materialized in her quarters. His shadow fell over Orik’s breakfast bowl. “The Vendra Apex requires your presence, Architect. Boardroom, Level 7. Now.”
Jaskya’s stomach tightened. She glanced at Orik, who was meticulously arranging his nutrient paste into tiny geometric shapes. “He stays here. It’s not a suitable environment.”
Grendyl’s lip curled. “Master Vendra specifically requested the boy be secured in the designated childcare suite. For his safety, of course. And yours.” The last words were a soft, cold warning.
Jaskya’s throat dried. Authority. Her throat locked under his stare, muscles stiffening into rigid paralysis. She dropped to one knee instead, pulling Orik close. “Be good for the attendant, okay, my star? Mommy will be back.” She pressed a quick kiss to his hair, clutching his small shoulder. Orik, sensing her distress, simply nodded, his small hand gripping her tunic before letting go.
The walk to Level 7 was a blur of polished steel and hushed corridors. The boardroom felt like an airlock under pressure. A slab of black obsidian plasteel anchored the center. Tarkis stood at its head, posture straight, gaze unblinking. Around the perimeter sat a dozen figures in sharp cut vests—representatives from the cartel factions carving up Drevka's perimeter sectors.
Among them sat an engineer named Cynric, lead draftsman for the Karrus Conglomerate. Tarkis gestured to an empty seat near his own. “Master Volen. Glad you could join us.” His tone was a low rumble.
“Gentlemen,” Tarkis said, his voice dropping an octave. “The Apex build has shown stress anomalies. Given your shared claims on the shoreline perimeter, I brought in the initial planner. Master Volen has reviewed the foundation layers.”
Every head turned. Cynric leaned forward, teeth showing in a mock grin. “The initial planner? How quaint. Word was the primary builder fled when the load limits failed inspection. It takes reckless folly to sign off on bedrock so fractured.”
Jaskya froze, her breath locking in her chest as the tabletop reflected her pale, hollow expression. Her pulse sputtered. She stared down at the black gloss, unable to force words past her dry tongue while the silence dragged out.
Tarkis rapped his knuckles on the plasteel. “She is here to deliver solutions, not field petty slights, Cynric. Have you forgotten Karrus Tower, where your work yielded a twenty-story shear crack?”
Cynric scowled. “That was flawed alloy stock, Vendra, not layout error.”
Jaskya’s head snapped up. Tarkis’s defense, however backhanded, was a spark. It cut through the paralyzing fog of her self-doubt. Tarkis was a monster, but he needed *her*. And Cynric, with his smug superiority, was challenging *her* authority, *her* past self’s work, no matter how lethal. A flicker of her inherent stubbornness ignited. Tarkis’s harsh words to Cynric had, ironically, given her a voice.
She pushed her chair back, metal scraping against composite flooring. “Defective stock your stress metrics failed to register until the frame was nearly finished,” she said, her voice hard and clear. “Or did the grade-seven hyper-alloy warp without thermal spikes your blueprint neglected to anticipate?” She tapped the terminal, throwing a cyan wireframe over the table. “Unlike Karrus Tower, the Apex faults stem entirely from unauthorized alterations made after my departure—deviations any competent builder would recognize as catastrophic to base distribution.”
Cynric’s face darkened, his sneer replaced by a flush of anger. “Are you claiming our firm bungled it, Volen? Or was your layout defective from the start?”
“I am stating,” Jaskya said, stepping toward the light array, “that anyone unable to distinguish between an intentional emergency shunt and a balance fault has no business pouring foundations. My schematics factored in coastal tremors and baseline sea erosion. They did not factor in cheap retrofits that swapped primary load pillars for scrap grade composite and diverted heavy conduit through shear walls. If your firm audited the plans, you missed the rot on purpose.”
The engineer drew back, flushing red. Across the table, the visiting cartel envoys exchanged dry smirks. Tarkis leaned back in his seat, the trace of a grim smile on his mouth.
Before Cynric could formulate a retort, a piercing whine ripped through the air, followed by a deafening *CRACK*. The massive plasteel window, designed to withstand a direct missile strike, spiderwebbed instantly, then exploded inwards in a shower of glittering, razor-sharp shards. A dark, sleek drone, its optical sensors glowing red, hung briefly in the smoky void where the window had been, before unleashing a volley of high-velocity projectiles into the room.
Chaos erupted. Syndicate enforcers, hitherto lounging, sprang into action, drawing concealed energy pistols. The air filled with the crackle of energy weapons, the shouts of men, and the metallic tang of ozone. Tarkis, with surprising speed, shoved Jaskya to the floor, pulling her behind the reinforced table. “Stay down, Volen!” he bellowed, drawing a heavy-caliber sidearm from beneath his jacket. He returned fire with brutal efficiency, the powerful shots tearing through the drone’s chassis.
More drones appeared, swarming the shattered opening. Explosions rocked the room as they targeted the syndicate heads. The air thickened with smoke and the acrid smell of burnt wiring. Jaskya, pressed against the floor, watched in horror as a rival enforcer, caught in a crossfire, crumpled. This wasn’t just a structural anomaly; it was open warfare. The Vendra Apex, her gilded cage, was under attack. She had to get to Orik. She had to get to Nemi.
Suddenly, the firing ceased. A heavy silence descended, broken only by the groans of the injured and the distant wail of sirens. The drones were gone, leaving behind smoldering destruction and a room littered with debris. Tarkis slowly rose, his weapon still raised, scanning the wreckage. He moved with a cold, predatory focus, assessing the damage, the casualties.
Then a thin voice cut through the ringing smoke. “Mama?”
Jaskya looked up, the air freezing in her lungs. In the ruined frame of the entryway, framed by the hall lights and scattered plaster, stood Orik. He had slipped free of the crèche, his small silhouette framed squarely in Tarkis Vendra’s line of sight.