The outer threshold cleared, Oskars Berzins stumbled into the airlock, the heavy steel beam clattering to the grated floor. Ash and superheated air billowed past him, momentarily filling the vestibule with a choking, grey haze before the pressure regulators could compensate. He coughed, a wet, rattling sound, then straightened, his eyes scanning the interior through the distorting haze. Mantas, poised at the primary terminal, watched Oskars on the internal feed. The moneylender was a hulking man, his broad shoulders straining the seams of his soot-stained jacket, his face a mask of grime and exertion. Mantas grinned, his pulse steadying behind his ribs. This was not the same Oskars who had once sauntered through the city, collecting debts with a sneer. This was a man stripped bare, desperate. Yet, the predatory glint in his eyes remained, an unsettling constant.
[Coolant Reserve: 17%] [Warning: System Overload Imminent.] The core's chimes intensified, a frantic, percussive beat. The air in Mantas’s Safe Quarters grew thick, pushing against his skin with a suffocating warmth. He ignored it. He had a plan, a necessary brutality to inflict.
He activated the intercom, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. “Berzins. Drop the bar. Step away.”
Oskars ignored him, his gaze fixed on the hardened inner hatch. He tugged at a pocket, producing a small, tarnished flask. He uncorked it with his teeth, took a long swig, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Kaminskas. Thought you’d be toast, you eccentric worm. Guess some prophecies do come true.” His voice was rough, but carried an undercurrent of his usual arrogance.
“My prophecies, yes. Yours? Not so much. That door won’t open for you. Not unless I allow it.” Mantas pressed a button, and a low, grinding sound emanated from the inner airlock door. A series of thick, multi-layered durasteel shutters slid into place from the ceiling, floor, and sides, sealing Oskars into the vestibule with an audible thud. The interior lights flickered, then dimmed, casting long, menacing shadows. A low hum filled the space, the whine of the auxiliary vents struggling against the heat.
Oskars cursed, kicking the nearest shutter. “What is this? You think you can trap me, you glorified plumber?”
Mantas leaned closer to the mic. “This is the purification chamber, Berzins. Or, as I like to call it, your new home.” He activated a floor panel, and a section of the grated floor in Oskars’s cell hissed open, revealing a short, steep slide. At the bottom, a faint, flickering light indicated a chamber below. “Through the chute. Now.”
“Go to the Maw!” Oskars roared, hefting the steel beam. He slammed it against the hardened shutters, the impact echoing through the corridors. It was a futile gesture, the sound of metal against metal, but it conveyed his fury.
[Coolant Reserve: 15%] [Warning: Core Capacitor Degradation.] The warning chimes became a desperate, irregular pulse. Mantas felt a prickle of sweat on his forehead. This was taking too long. He reached under the desk, retrieving a bulky, modified thermal-rifle. Its barrel glowed with a faint, internal heat, a safety measure against accidental discharge. He aimed it directly at Oskars through the armored viewport of the airlock, the red laser dot settling squarely on the man’s chest.
“I won’t tell you again. Chute. Now. Or I’ll fry you from the inside out and let the White Scald finish the job.” His voice was devoid of emotion, a cold, hard threat. He felt nothing but a stark, professional resolve. This was a necessary calculation.
Oskars paused, his breathing ragged. He looked at the rifle, then at the chute, then back at Mantas, his eyes narrowing. The arrogance began to chip away, replaced by a flicker of genuine fear. He tossed the steel beam aside, a heavy clang. “Fine. You want to play warden, Kaminskas? Let’s play.” He moved towards the chute, his movements grudging, but swift. He slid down, disappearing into the darkness below.
Mantas tracked his descent on the auxiliary cameras. Oskars landed hard on a padded floor in a secondary Cooling Ward, a smaller, more utilitarian version of the main processing chamber. The air here was already warmer, the ventilation sluggish. The space was sparse: a bolted steel cot, a sanitary station, and a neural-tether apparatus emerging from the wall, its flexible, multi-pronged cable waiting. Mantas spoke through the ward’s dedicated intercom. “Strap in, Berzins. The machine awaits your confession.”
Oskars scoffed. “Confession? You think I’m going to confess to some mechanical god, you madman?” He approached the tether with a sneer, but Mantas could see the apprehension in his posture. The gun was still aimed, a silent, persistent threat.
“The alternative is a slow bake. Your choice. Your past, your transgressions, they’ll fuel us. You’ll save us. Or you’ll burn. It’s that simple.” Mantas’s finger rested on the trigger. He could feel the familiar weight of the weapon, the hum of its internal mechanisms. He watched Oskars, the predatory glint in the moneylender’s eyes dimming further under the unwavering aim.
With a defeated sigh, Oskars lowered himself onto the cot. His hands, thick and scarred, fumbled with the straps, securing his wrists and ankles. He then reached for the neural-tether, its metallic prongs glinting under the dim light. He hesitated for a long moment, his gaze defiant even as his body submitted. Then, with a grunt, he pressed the array against his temple. The system engaged with a faint *click*.
[Neural Link Established. Subject: Oskars Berzins.]
A low thrum filled the Cooling Ward, followed by a sudden, intense blue glow emanating from the central core, visible on Mantas’s main display. The temperature in Oskars’s ward, and throughout the entire complex, began to plummet with shocking speed. Mantas watched the digital thermometer on his display. *+180°C... +150°C... +100°C... +50°C... +20°C...* The drop was monumental, far exceeding anything Tadas’s remorse had generated. A cold, refreshing breeze, smelling faintly of ozone, swept through Mantas’s Safe Quarters. The stifling warmth was replaced by a crisp, invigorating chill. The core chimed, a steady, rhythmic cadence, no longer frantic.
[Coolant Reserve: 45%] [Primary Capacitor Charging: Optimal.]
Oskars convulsed on the cot, his body arching, a guttural groan escaping his lips. Images flashed across Mantas’s secondary monitor, a torrent of raw, unfiltered memory pulled directly from Oskars’s psyche. Debt collections escalating into brutal assaults. Businesses seized through intimidation. Families ruined, lives shattered. There were flashes of a burning building, a desperate struggle in a dark alley, the glint of a knife. The sheer volume of guilt, the depth of his transgressions, was staggering. It flowed into the core, a dark, potent charge, stabilizing the entire system.
Mantas allowed himself a long, slow breath. Tension drained from his neck. He felt the cold air on his face, a sensation he hadn't truly believed he would experience again. He walked over to a smaller monitor, switching to the feed for Sector Gamma. Laima, Tadas’s daughter, sat curled on a makeshift bed, clutching a worn rag doll. She shivered slightly, but it was from the beneficial cold now, not fear of the heat. She was safe, for now, untouched by the machine's brutal demands. Mantas allowed himself a rare, fleeting moment of something akin to peace.
Just as the Kardiak Engine settled into a low, contented hum, and the shelter’s ambient temperature stabilized at a comfortable +15°C, a high-priority external alert blared. Mantas frowned, turning back to the primary desk. He hadn’t expected anything to survive the Scald, let alone approach the shelter. He switched to the exterior perimeter feed. The image was heavily distorted by ash and the shimmering heat of the still-raging White Scald, but a figure was undeniably there, standing near the outer blast doors. The figure was cloaked in a tattered, reflective emergency suit, its visor opaque. What truly caught Mantas’s attention was the object clutched in its gloved hands: a battered, reflective sign, crudely scrawled with charcoal. The message, though shaky, was legible: *I HAVE THE PERMANENT CHARGE. RUTA SALNA.*