THE POST SHIFT WORLD

The grand chamber of the United Front Assembly Hall hummed with subdued tension. Diplomat Arjun Mehta, India's senior representative to the UF, adjusted his earpiece, tuning into the ongoing deliberations. Once a symbol of unity, the vast hall now bore the weight of desperation, compromise, and fragile alliances.

It has been a whole year since the Shift, and the world was still struggling to redefine itself. Earth, now adrift in the unfamiliar Novam System, had become a planet in flux. The catastrophic event had not only displaced humanity across a new cosmic frontier but had also forced nations into a reluctant yet necessary coalition—the United Front (UF), a governing body of 34 surviving major nations.

As Mehta listened, his gaze swept over the projections mapping Earth's new climate zones. The predictable order of geopolitics was gone, replaced by a reshaped world defined by violent weather shifts, radiation zones, and food insecurity.

Russia, its northern lands warmed by planetary repositioning, had become an agricultural giant, the new global breadbasket. South and Southeast Asia, devastated by rising sea levels and monsoonal shifts, had pivoted to labor-intensive industries and provided the bulk of peacekeeping forces across war-torn regions. The Americans, Chinese, and the European Union had focused on technological advancement, pouring resources into terraforming, space exploration, and resource extraction.

The world had changed, and so had its priorities.

Seated around the massive oval table, diplomats from each major nation braced for what promised to be a contentious session.

The topic at hand: The Novam Orbital Research Initiative (NORI) 

The establishment of a centralized space research division under UF control, merging the fragmented remnants of past space agencies—the decaying modules of the International Space Station (ISS), India's Gaganyaan, and China's Tiangong—into a single, unified orbital research facility.

A voice cut through the murmurs.

"This is a matter of global survival," said Ambassador Wei Zhang of China, his tone firm but controlled. "Earth cannot remain isolated in Novam. We need a permanent presence in space, and this initiative is the first step toward re-establishing our place in this new world."

"And who will control this station?" came the sharp response from Representative Helena Kovács of the European Union. "We will not agree to a system dominated by any one faction. If this facility is to exist, it must be neutral."

Mehta watched the exchange closely. Trust among nations was still fragile, fractured by the Two-Month War that had erupted four months after the Shift. The wreckage of destroyed warships still lay scattered across irradiated ocean graveyards—silent reminders of how easily cooperation could crumble. 

He still remembered the panicked days leading up to the war, when desperation had outweighed reason. Nations had scrambled to secure dwindling resources, their leaders making frantic declarations on emergency broadcasts. Food supplies were vanishing, energy grids were failing, and the sudden gravitational anomalies had thrown entire ecosystems into chaos. Borders that once seemed permanent were reduced to blurred, shifting battle lines. 

Mehta had been in New Delhi when the first shots were fired. An American carrier group, operating on outdated satellite data, had mistakenly fired on a convoy near the South Pacific, believing it to be a Chinese military transport hoarding water reserves. China retaliated instantly, and within hours, diplomatic channels had collapsed. 

He had stood in the UF's emergency command room when the reports came in—missile strikes in the Indian Ocean, aerial skirmishes over the Arctic, riots in collapsed states. The worst was the Battle of Madagascar, where a nuclear-powered Russian submarine had detonated deep underwater, poisoning vast swaths of the ocean and turning it into an irradiated wasteland. To this day, that region remained uninhabitable, a dead zone filled with the skeletal remains of ships that had never made it home. 

The war had ended not because of diplomacy, but because of exhaustion. The truth was, no nation had the resources to sustain prolonged conflict. Supply lines had crumbled too fast, and every faction had underestimated just how fragile humanity had become. It had taken two months of bloodshed for world leaders to realize what should have been obvious from the start—survival was impossible without cooperation. 

But cooperation was not trust. It was necessity, dressed in the thin veil of diplomacy. And now, as he sat in this chamber, listening to the same nations that had once stood at the brink of annihilation argue over control yet again,

he wondered: Had they truly learned? 

His thoughts drifted to today's agenda.

The Novam Orbital Research Initiative (NORI)

an ambitious plan to consolidate humanity's remaining space programs. In theory, it was a necessary step toward adapting to their new reality. In practice, it was another battlefield, one where diplomacy replaced missiles and words carried the weight of old rivalries.

The plan was simple: dock together the surviving modules of the ISS, Gaganyaan, and Tiangong stations, forming a single operational research hub in orbit. If completed, NORI would be Earth's first unified space station—a beacon of cooperation, or control, depending on who held authority over it.

The room crackled with tension.

"This initiative is non-negotiable," Zhang declared, his voice clipped and precise. "The longer we wait, the more we fall behind in understanding this new system. We need a permanent orbital presence to ensure long-term survival. This is a matter of necessity, not debate."

He was right. Humanity had barely begun to scratch the surface of the Novam System's mysteries, and without a dedicated station, efforts remained disjointed. But power was never freely given—it was seized, bartered, or leveraged.

"And who will control this station?" Kovács countered. Her words carried a warning beneath their formal veneer. "The European Union will not support a project dominated by a single faction. NORI must remain under neutral administration."

Murmurs of approval rippled through the chamber, though others exchanged skeptical glances. Neutrality was a fragile concept in a world still nursing fresh wounds.

Across the table, Secretary James Adler, the American representative, let out a dry scoff. "Neutral? And who exactly do you trust to be neutral?" He leaned back, hands clasped. "This station will require funding, manpower, and security—none of which come free. Those who invest the most will have the most say. That's only fair."

The implication was clear. Money equaled control.

Mehta observed the exchange, fingers steepled, expression unreadable. India had its own concerns, particularly regarding resource allocation. The Two-Month War had proven how quickly alliances could crumble, and now, the very same nations that had barely refrained from annihilating each other were expected to cooperate?

It was laughable. But necessary.

He chose his words carefully. "What about the labor force?" Mehta interjected, his voice calm but firm. The room shifted toward him. "South and Southeast Asian nations have been the backbone of physical reconstruction. If NORI is to be a truly global effort, then our contribution in manpower should be reflected in decision-making."

A ripple of discomfort spread through the assembly.

It was an undeniable truth. Over the past year, while the so-called "great powers" hoarded what remained of their resources, it was the developing nations that had carried the weight of rebuilding civilization. They had laid the foundations, cleared ruins, and kept supply chains from collapsing—yet when it came to global decision-making, they were often expected to fall in line behind their wealthier counterparts.

Kovács cleared her throat. "A fair point, Ambassador Mehta," she conceded, though her expression remained guarded. "However, decision-making should be based on strategic merit, not just labor contributions."

Mehta's jaw tensed slightly. "And yet, strategic merit does not exist without execution," he countered. "The nations providing the most direct human effort cannot be reduced to mere footnotes in history. If NORI is to function, it will need more than just financiers and scientists. It will need the hands that build and maintain it."

Silence.

Even Zhang looked contemplative, weighing his response.

Adler glanced at his colleagues, as if calculating the optics of dismissing Mehta's argument.

For the first time in this debate, the power dynamics shifted—not in favor of the wealthiest or the most technologically advanced, but toward those who had sacrificed the most to keep humanity afloat.

And in that silence, an unspoken reality settled over the chamber:

If humanity was to survive in Novam, then the age of old-world hierarchies was coming to an end.

MEANWHILE SOMEWHERE IN RUSSIA

The wind howled softly through the dense Russian taiga, its chill seeping into the bones of those who toiled under the shadow of towering pines. Snowflakes drifted lazily, mixing with the damp earth as a small group of workers moved discreetly among the trees. Their coats were worn, their boots caked in mud, and their hands—scarred from labor—now reached for something softer.

A man plucked a handful of frost-kissed berries from a low-hanging branch, quickly stuffing them into his pocket. Another worker reached for a small apple-like fruit, biting into it cautiously before nodding in satisfaction.

"Careful," one of them muttered, glancing over his shoulder. "They say some of these have turned bad since the Shift."

The others ignored him. Hunger made men reckless.

A rustling came from deeper in the woods. From the gloom, three figures emerged, their movements deliberate and precise. Unlike the workers—who wore the dull grays and browns of forced labor—these men carried themselves with purpose. Their coats were heavier, darker, lined with fur that had clearly not been issued from any government warehouse. Their belts were tight with supplies, their boots fresh.

They were not workers. They were suppliers.

The workers stiffened, some subtly stepping back. Not out of fear, but out of caution. Deals like these were always delicate affairs—even when dealing with supposed 'allies.'

One of the figures, a tall man with hollow cheeks and sharp, calculating eyes, stepped forward. He exuded a quiet menace, the kind that came not from brute strength, but from absolute certainty in his purpose.

"We have what you asked for," he said simply, pulling a worn sack from his shoulder and tossing it to the nearest worker. It hit the ground with a dull thud, heavier than expected.

The worker, a man in his late thirties, bent down and unfastened the bag's drawstrings, peering inside. Food. Medicine. Fuel canisters. The essentials.

But at the very bottom, glinting under the faint light of the moon—a gun barrel.

He exhaled sharply.

"This… wasn't part of the request." His voice was wary.

The cultist smiled—a thin, knowing thing.

"Times are changing," he said, voice smooth as silk. "Soon, your 'United Front' will crumble under its own weight. When that happens, you'll want to be on the right side."

The worker exchanged uneasy glances with the others. He had no illusions about the UF. He had heard about the summit, about the infighting. They weren't as unified as they claimed. But to actively side with… them?

One of the younger workers, his eyes burning with frustration, stepped forward. "And what if we don't?" he asked. "What if we don't want another war?"

The cultist tilted his head, his expression amused—like an adult humoring a child's naive question.

"Then you're already lost," he said softly. "The old world thrived on conflict, on struggle. That's what made men great. That's what built civilizations. The UF wants order, control—but control is an illusion."

He gestured around them, at the trees, the open sky, the untouched wilds. "Out here, the laws of man mean nothing. This is true freedom."

Silence. The wind howled again.

The worker with the sack finally tied it shut, jaw tightening.

"We'll take the supplies." His voice was measured. "Nothing more."

The cultist chuckled, stepping back. "For now."

Filled with quiet rebellion, one of the workers stepped forward. "And what exactly is the 'right side'?" he asked, voice low but edged with defiance.

The cultist tilted his head, as if amused by the question. "The side that doesn't shackle itself to the illusion of order," he replied. "The world before the Shift—before the UF—was broken, yes, but it was free. The strong thrived, the weak adapted. And now?"

He gestured vaguely towards the distant industrial lights of a UF-controlled outpost.

"Now they build new cages and call it unity."

The worker who had opened the sack tightened his grip on the fabric. He had lost people in the early days of the Shift. He had seen the UF's soldiers put down riots, seen desperate men and woman shot for stealing food. But he had also seen chaos, seen entire towns burn because no one was there to stop the strong from preying on the weak.

One of the other cultists, a woman with piercing blue eyes, leaned against a tree, watching them carefully.

"We don't expect an answer now," she said, her voice softer than her companion's. "We only ask that you think about it. When the time comes, you'll know where to find us."

She reached into her coat and pulled out a small, engraved token—nothing more than a crude metal disc with an unfamiliar symbol etched into it. She flicked it towards the worker, who caught it instinctively.

"A storm is coming," she murmured. "Be ready to choose."

With that, the cultists turned and disappeared into the trees, leaving the workers standing in the snow, the sack of supplies between them like an unspoken question.

No one said a word.

But in the silence, doubt took root.