Mantas stared at the sign, knuckles flattening against the observation sill. Ruta Salna. The name scraped against the raw edges of his memory, a dull ache that never truly faded. She stood out there, beyond the blast doors, in a world that was an ash-choked inferno, promising salvation. The architect of his professional demise, the one who’d scoffed at his thermal anomaly models, now begging for entry, for life, holding a solution. He watched the exterior temperature readout. It still flickered around 200°C. The White Scald raged, relentless. His vindictive side wanted to leave her there, to let the searing winds strip away her emergency suit, to watch her writhe. A fitting end for the woman who had stripped him of his laboratory and left him with only this concrete vault. But a new display panel, a grim addition to his central console, now flashed a grim metric: *CORE DRAIN ACCELERATION: 1.3%.* It had been holding steady, even decreasing, after Oskars’s violent entry. Now, for reasons he couldn’t immediately fathom, the primary cryo-capacitor was bleeding energy faster than before. The heart-pump might have found its rhythm, but the core was not satisfied. He slammed his fist on the console. “Damn her,” he muttered, his breath fogging the small, reinforced window. He had a choice: satisfy his grudge and risk everyone in the bunker, or swallow his pride and let the viper in. He glanced at the live feed of the Cooling Wards. Tadas lay still, his face pale, barely breathing, tethered to the machine. Laima was still in the Safe Quarters, asleep on a cot. Oskars, in his separate cell, fidgeted against his restraints, mouth twisted even in unconsciousness. They were all dependent on the core. He activated the intercom, his voice a gravelly rasp. “Ruta. State your secret. Just the gist. Convince me.” The figure on the screen remained silent, its opaque visor reflecting the distorted, fiery landscape. After a long moment, a distorted voice crackled through the comms, barely audible over the roar of the Scald. “Mantas… please. Let me in. It’s too dangerous to explain out here. My suit won’t last.” The desperation was raw, but Mantas heard no genuine contrition, only fear. “The drain rate is increasing, Ruta,” Mantas growled, ignoring her plea. “The mechanism is demanding more. If your ‘permanent charge’ is another lie, everyone in here dies. Give me something real, now.” A pause, then a sigh, heavy with resignation. “It’s not just a charge, Mantas. It’s about the source. My research. I… I discovered a way to stabilize the thermal output, to negate the anomalies. But it was suppressed. By the board. By me. I have the schematics, the data. It’s a self-sustaining system. Perpetual energy for your core.” Mantas hesitated. It sounded… plausible. Too plausible. His own theories, suppressed by her, had led to this. This went beyond academic sabotage; it reached the ruined crust of Zemyna itself. The core drain rate ticked up to 1.4%. He couldn’t wait. “Approach the inner airlock, Ruta. You’ll be sealed in a tertiary Cooling Ward. Alone. The moment you are tethered, you will explain everything. Any deception, and the apparatus will make you regret it.” He watched her move, a ghost in the ash, entering the outer airlock. The heavy blast doors hissed shut behind her, muting the inferno. The decontamination cycle whirred, spraying her suit with a neutralising mist. Once cleared, the inner door slid open, revealing a cramped, brutalist cell, identical to Oskars’s. Mantas, his heavy-caliber laser rifle held at the ready, stood across the hall, watching through the reinforced observation window. He motioned with the barrel for her to enter. She complied, shedding her damaged suit, revealing a woman thinner than he remembered, her face smudged with soot and fear, but her eyes still held a calculating glint. “Take a seat, Ruta,” Mantas commanded, his voice devoid of warmth. “Strap yourself in.” The neural-tether clamps were obvious, gleaming chrome against the rough concrete. She looked at them, then at him, she offered a stiff, calculating nod. She knew what this place was. She settled onto the cold metal chair, her hands trembling slightly as she secured the wrist and ankle restraints. The headpiece clicked into place, delicate wires extending from the temples. “Now, Ruta. Apologize.” Mantas’s voice was low, laced with a triumphant vindictiveness. “For everything. For calling my work ‘unsubstantiated drivel.’ For orchestrating my public humiliation. For destroying my career.” Ruta’s eyes, fixed on his, softened artificially. “Mantas, I… I am truly sorry,” she began, her voice strained. “I was under pressure from the academy board. Your theories, while brilliant, were… disruptive. I had to make a choice. I regret my actions. I truly do.” The Kardiak Engine, which had been humming a low, steady tune, suddenly struck a harsh, brassy chime over the intercom. Immediately, the small ventilation grate in Ruta’s cell slammed shut. A red indicator light pulsed above it. The ambient temperature in her ward, displayed on Mantas’s console, began to climb, slowly at first: +16°C, then +17°C. Ruta coughed, a dry, rattling sound. Her gaze darted to the sealed louvers, then back to Mantas, sweat breaking along her hairline. She tugged at the restraints, her breath growing shallow. The air grew stagnant. Moisture streaked down her neck as she gasped. The machine had detected her deception. Her superficial apologies, crafted for public consumption, were worthless here. “You lie,” Mantas stated, his face impassive. “The system knows your truth. It demands more. It demands genuine remorse.” +22°C. Ruta’s face was slick, her lungs burning for fresh air. She thrashed against the tethers, her breath coming in ragged, desperate gulps. The heat was tightening its grip. She strained against the leather cuffs, staring fixedly at Mantas. The polite facade had cracked. She had to save herself. “No! Wait! It wasn’t just pressure!” she shrieked, her voice hoarse, desperate. “I covered it up! The geothermal anomalies! Your models were right, Mantas! I saw the data, the escalating pressure in the deep-earth conduits beneath the cryo-volcanoes! I buried it all, signed off on the ‘geothermal stability’ reports, all of them! I knew it would lead to this! I orchestrated the entire systemic cover-up that caused the White Scald!” At her confession, a piercing, metallic chime rang through the bunker, echoing off every conduit. The central apparatus had found its mark. The primary cryo-capacitor’s drain rate instantly plummeted to 0.1%, and the ambient temperature in Ruta’s cell plummeted as the ventilation grate hissed open, icy vapor pouring across her face. Mantas watched, a thin smirk settling on his mouth. But the thermal plunge was too sharp, too immediate. This wasn’t just a regular sin; this was a cataclysmic betrayal. A chilling question formed in his mind: if the architect of the White Scald was now tethered to his machine, what untold secrets did she still hold, and what would the primary core demand to extract them all?

Lies and Ventilation