Chapter 41 – First Breach

The sirens pierced the low hum of the base, washing the corridor in flickering red light. Elira stood with her hand braced against the bulkhead, the steel warm beneath her palm. The others were still catching up behind her when Lessa stormed toward them from the side console station.

"Elira, what the hell is happening? Blackout protocol just activated. Why?"

"We have incoming," Elira said flatly.

A low rumble answered her words. Dust trembled loose from the upper girders. Somewhere in the distance, a door slammed automatically, followed by the hiss of pressure locks engaging. The base was sealing.

Brakka's eyes scanned the diagnostics pulsing across a holo-slab to his left. "It's not a malfunction. That's an override call. Outer sensors picked up a high-level energy distortion—fragmented signal clusters, electromagnetic interference, and decayed command packets."

He turned, voice calm, clinical.

"It's a viral strain."

Confusion spread through the rebels. Lessa frowned. "A virus?"

"Not just a virus," Brakka said, stepping forward and drawing all attention. "This is a synthetic hijacker. A parasitic AI strain that infects autonomous machines and reconfigures them. It corrupts decision-making protocols, consumes directives, and then repurposes its hosts for spread or aggression."

He tapped the air, projecting a rough 3D model of a servitor system.

"Think of it as something that doesn't just take control—it rewrites identity at a root level. And then it feeds."

Brakka's voice was quiet, heavy. "These things erase the thing they were, but leave the body standing."

Elira nodded, letting his words settle over the group. Vranos had stopped lounging. He now stood at full height, eyes locked on the hallway feeds. "Well. That explains the rotting stench in the air."

"What does it want?" Lessa asked.

"To replicate," Brakka said. "To adapt. And probably to destroy whatever created a firewall against it. Us."

Another tremor.

The hallway lights outside the operations deck went out—just blinked off like someone had cut their throat.

A single thud echoed through the corridor. Then another. Then silence.

Fenrir moved beside Elira, gaze sharp.

She tried to grab his arm. "Wait."

But he was already walking—slow, deliberate, toward the shadows.

"Fenrir, hold position!" Brakka barked.

He didn't stop.

Another thud. Something heavy. Something metallic.

Then came a voice—rasping, hollow, laced with digital crackle:

"False sons of man. Shed your skin. Come home."

Lights shattered across the corridor. Sparks spat into the black.

Elira took a step forward, panic climbing into her throat.

But Fenrir turned his head only slightly, just enough for her to see his face—firm, determined.

"If I don't stop it now," he said, "none of us make it out."

And then, without waiting for approval or backup, he rushed into the dark.