“Mr. Julian Markov.”
The President’s voice echoed, snapping Markov to attention.
“How many Recycled Human Units can we deploy by the end of next month?”
So soon? Markov thought, his mind already running calculations.
“Currently, our facilities can hold Five Hundred Thousand specimens. Pristine bodies are difficult to procure. However, with the bill signed, my company can now supply them.”
A greedy grin spread across his face. Years ago, he founded a funerary service catering to wealthy, devout families, selling cryogenic pods to preserve their dead. Religious leaders, their pockets heavy with bribes, blessed the scheme. With the bill signed, those preserved corpses had become invaluable stock for insemination.
“Our current infrastructure can procure ten thousand to twenty thousand bodies daily. Multiple new facilities now replicate Dr. Aldric Harrow’s insemination process. Meeting the target of two hundred thousand recycled human units by the end of next month will be no problem. However...”
Markov paused, leaning toward the President, whose jaw tensed. He tried hard to suppress his discomfort as he spared a subtle glance toward Prima.
“This would mean the cessation of droid production completely.”
Indeed, Markov noted the President’s sour expression. The man folded his hand. A month without droids produced would severely weaken Westland's military power, especially if the Eastern Federation struck now. No, they would consolidate for months before pushing their advantage. After seizing two outposts, the Eastern Federation would press harder, emboldened by Westland’s weakness. The RHUs must begin production; otherwise, rigging those droids would have been for nothing. Come now, Voss. Which poison will you choose? Ruppert threatens civil war, and the Eastern Federation grates at your gate. Markov was close to seeing his gamble pay off, but droid production had to cease to redirect energy toward full-scale RHU insemination. In the end, the numerical advantage left the President with no choice. He finally spoke with resignation. The odds were against him no matter his choice. The RHUs was his least terrible option.
“It will do. We do not have better options.”
Julian Markov smiled in quiet triumph. The Aetherchasm... yes, soon it would be his. The President addressed the remaining Congress, thanking them for their presence and cooperation. Though fractured, the conference had achieved the goal Markov intended. Markov leaned back, savoring Minister Ruppert’s threat of a divided nation, lingering like a ghost in the empty hall. To him, it promised bodies ripe for harvest, another pawn unknowingly falling into his hand.
#
Ruppert strode from the presidential palace, followed by Congress members who shared his view. They exchanged silent glances and brief nods before heading to their respective entourages.
As Ruppert reached his waiting vehicle, his thoughts turned inward, focused on the task ahead. Settling into the backseat, he raked a hand through his hair, trying to untangle the knots in his mind and plot a course of action.
Matthew, his chief of staff, greeted him with calm professionalism, his crisp suit and stern posture reflecting his demeanor.
“Good evening, sir. I trust the Conference went well.”
Ruppert glared, trusting the expression was enough to convey that the Conference had not gone 'well.' His aide shifted uncomfortably in his seat, coughing lightly to clear the awkwardness before focusing on the remaining schedule.
Matthew traced his finger along the holographic screen in his hand, his voice steady as he announced, “You have two more appointments, sir: a dinner with the education board, followed by a late-night meeting with the economic council. And tomorrow…”
Ruppert waved his hand dismissively, cutting him off.
“Cancel everything for tonight.”
Matthew blinked, startled by the sudden shift in tone and the dismissal of the carefully organized schedule.
“Cancel, sir? All of it?”
Ruppert glared, his patience wearing thin. He leaned in slightly, intending to rattle Matthew, but stopped, drawing a deep breath to steady himself. He admonished himself silently for letting emotion take over.
“Yes. Direct us to the Church of the Eternal Creator. I need... to pray.”
Ruppert clicked his tongue. Praying had never been his habit. Was he too obvious? No matter. It was necessary.
“To pray, sir?”
Ruppert’s eyes narrowed, and a low growl escaped his throat. What had happened to his aide? Since when did he begin questioning orders?
“Now.”
Matthew was visibly shaken, his fingers furiously swiping through the holographic screen as he cleared the schedule and rearranged the route. Shaken though he was, Matthew remained efficient, a quality Ruppert silently appreciated.
“Very well, sir.”
Paying no more heed to his aide, Ruppert pulled out his communication device and dialed a familiar contact he hadn’t reached in years. He tapped his armrest impatiently, waiting for the call to connect.
After a few brief seconds, a deep, booming voice greeted him warmly on the other end.
“Ruppert! To what do I owe this pleasant surprise?”
The voice briefly steadied his erratic thoughts, stirring memories of their long friendship and momentarily banishing the haunting future the Conference had revealed. But Ruppert couldn’t afford solace in friendship now.
“There is nothing pleasant about tonight, CC.”
A pause followed as the voice on the other end digested his somber tone.
“What has gotten into you Minister?”
Ruppert caught the change in tone and the subtle reference to his title, his friend had likely picked up on the somberness in his voice and sensed the urgency.
“I need you to gather the others,”
His voice softened on the word ‘others,’ as if wary of eavesdroppers or hidden bugs. Instead, the night lights of Westland capital flashed in his eyes, mirroring the thought in his mind churning in preparation.
“It is of the utmost importance,”
He felt a flicker of apprehension as the pause on the other end stretched longer. The man on the line was Charles Cohen, Pope of the Church of the Eternal Creator, though to Ruppert, he was simply CC, his childhood friend who was no fool. His friend picked up the urgency, needing no further explanation. Although skepticism still laced the response.
“Does your concern truly warrant summoning the others?”
Does it indeed? He wondered. The car engine seemed to hum with a similar question. He dismissed it. The others would not be pleased about being summoned so suddenly, but Ruppert had no interest in pleasing them. A moral and ethical disaster loomed over Westland. What care did he have for their approval? His finger traced lines on his pants, a subconscious comforting gesture.
“Yes. I’ll arrive in an hour. Furthermore... I need you to prepare Level Zero.”
For the third time, hesitation filled the silence on the line. He straightened a fold on his pants as if the act could justify his reasoning for invoking such a sacred place.
Matthew’s soft murmurs of apology drew Ruppert from his thoughts, but his mind quickly returned to the conversation as Cohen spoke, his reservations evident.
“Level Zero? No, Ruppert, you must understand. Edward will not…”
The anxiety in Cohen’s tone told Ruppert that he was shaken. His words confirmed it.
“That place hasn’t been opened since...”
“I know,”
Ruppert interrupted his patience thinning. Level Zero was sacred, never intended for casual use. But his needs exceeded those boundaries. A resistance had to be formed.
“Nonetheless, I need you to open it. It’s important.”
A sharp, resigned sigh echoed through the line, carrying a hint of frustration Ruppert shared with his old friend. The need to stop the sacrilege looming over his nation had dragged Cohen into reluctant action.
“Very well. I will let Edward know.”
Ruppert nodded and ended the call. Leaning back in his seat, he caressed his neck, warming the shiver crawling up his spine. Beyond the city, light glared at him as if questioning his direction. Are you sure? They seemed to ask him. His resolve remained unshaken. Westland was a pious nation.
#
The Hill of the Creator loomed ahead, crowned by the Basilica towering over the city. A massive stone archway framed the hill, flanked by statues: a woman extending her hand in a gesture of life and a man gripping a staff symbolizing leadership and guidance.
The Basilica’s origins were unknown, but its magnificence always eased Ruppert’s heart, as if shielding him from sin with divine grace.
Ruppert’s gaze lingered on the statues, their serene faces granting him a temporary sense of peace. He exhaled slowly, the tension in his chest loosening.
The convoy slowed as it approached the Basilica’s opening gate, revealing the sprawling complex beyond. Ahead, the main entrance stood framed by towering statues and the imposing archway.
Ruppert’s car didn’t stop there. It veered toward a side door, tucked away from the public’s prying eyes. Though less grand than the front, the side entrance carried equal significance. Two apostles in long robes stood waiting silently.
As Ruppert stepped out, they bowed deeply, their curt, reverent greeting a quiet acknowledgment of his influence among the faithful.
“Minister Ruppert, sir, we have been expecting you. This way, please.”
Ruppert gave a curt nod to the two apostles, their shadowed faces emphasizing his need for veiled secrecy.
“Lead the way.”
Without a word, the apostles turned and guided him through the side door into the dimly lit corridors of the Basilica.
Ruppert followed in silence, their footsteps echoing off the stone walls, fortifying his resolve with each step. The path twisted toward Charles Cohen’s private quarters, buried within the Basilica’s heart. Incense hung in the air, candlelight casting shadows that mirrored Ruppert’s restless thoughts.
At the door, the apostles bowed before opening it. Inside, Ruppert saw his old friend Charles Cohen seated by a crackling fire.
“Ruppert, you are here,” Cohen said, gesturing to the chair before him.
Cohen’s smile was forced and undeserved. It wasn’t that Ruppert didn’t want to reach out to his friend, but taking the role of a Minister left him no spare time.
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“Is the room clean?”
Ruppert’s eyes darted past Cohen, scanning the room’s corners. The smile on his friend's face faltered, replaced by annoyance. Without a word, he turned to the two apostles standing guard at the entrance and nodded. Silently, they slipped out, leaving him alone with Ruppert.
“Now it is,”
Cohen nodded. Ruppert sighed, walking to the seat and lowering himself into it, his face tightening into a grimace of concern.
“The government has lost it,”
He said, his voice straining to sound calm. The urgency in his tone, however, betrayed the attempt.
He began recounting the Recycled Human Project approved earlier that day, detailing Harrow’s presentation, Prima’s creation, and the implications for Westland. Cohen, who had been sinking into his chair under the weight of the tension, suddenly sprang up, laughing loudly. Shaking his head in disbelief, he said,
“You’ve got to be joking, Ruppert. Reanimating corpses with AI? I’ve heard some ridiculous stories in my life, but this...”
Ruppert glared at his friend, waiting for the laughter to fade. When it did, he saw Cohen’s expression shift. The grimness on Ruppert’s face had pierced through, and the weight of the claim began to sink in. Cohen leaned back in his chair, his brow furrowing as the color drained from his face.
“No... they can’t be serious,”
he murmured.
“I saw one with my own eyes,”
Ruppert said, his gaze dropping to the floor. His voice carried raw sincerity as he looked back at Cohen.
“This isn’t just another military project, Cohen. It’s sacrilege. They’re crossing a line that must never be crossed. The dead must remain at rest!”
Cohen rubbed his temple, visibly shaken, his brow furrowed pinched by the magnitude of the revelation.
“If what you’re saying is true... we are on the brink of... They’re playing with powers beyond their control. They don’t understand!”
“They’re not just playing with them,” Ruppert muttered, frustration sharpening his tone. Prima’s monotone voice echoed in his mind, the memory of the soulless creature sent a shiver down his spine.
“They’re preparing to unleash them. I’m certain steps are already underway to launch the project.
He paused, his hands clenching into fists, silently vowing to stop this decadence.
“Now, we have to explain this to the others. You know how delicate they can be. Their shock and fury will be the least of our concerns. Yet we must make them see the importance of staying united.”
Unnoticed tension eased from Ruppert’s shoulders as Cohen’s resolute nod mirrored his urgency, confirming an ally in the coming struggles.
“They won’t take this lightly,”
Cohen said.
“Arguing over doctrine is one thing, Ruppert, but this... this is an affront to the natural order. It’s not their lack of action or support we must fear, but their reaction. Containing them may prove difficult.”
“Yes,”
Ruppert said, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow, the moisture a warning he couldn’t ignore.
“There is an unstable wild horse among them we must be particularly careful with.”
He exhaled slowly, his tone lowering.
“We need them to understand. And that’s what I’m afraid of, that they won’t see the bigger picture, only the terror in front of them.”
A soft knock drew Ruppert’s attention to the door as it creaked open. An apostle entered, bowing low. Ruppert noticed the twitch in Cohen’s posture, caught off guard at the sudden sound. The apostle’s whisper ended their discussion.
“Level Zero is ready. The others are arriving.”
Ruppert stood, his face set with a stern resolution, though unease crossed his mind at the mixed reactions he was bound to face. Steeling himself, Ruppert glanced at Cohen, who nodded in silent understanding. He vowed to keep his composure as the crisis unfolded.
“Then it’s time, Let’s go.”
#
The duo soon found themselves descending the winding lower passages of the Basilica. The pristine, modern architecture gave way to rough, primitive stone, its cracks and erosion betraying the passage of centuries, perhaps millennia. Torches lined the walls, their flickering flames casting restless shadows over ancient carvings, symbols from a time long before Westland existed. The air grew thick with the scent of damp stone and ancient dust.
“Is Westland so desperate as to warrant this heresy, Ruppert?”
Cohen’s abrupt question pulled Ruppert from his thoughts, who barely noticed the stones beneath his feet. The doubt lingered, but Ruppert had no answer for his friend. His heart, however, remained firm in opposing the project.
“I don’t think we’re in a comfortable position,” he admitted, “but to justify the moral perversion about to be unleashed? No. I don’t believe we’re that desperate.”
The deeper they journeyed, the more the halls seemed to pull them into an ancient world. After a time, the architecture shifted again, old stone giving way to crystal-like granite, eerily similar to Quarkon, the mineral mined in the Aetherchasm.
“Cohen, has it ever bothered you?”
Ruppert asked aloud, pausing as he gazed at the granite, its surface seeming to hum, enticing him closer. Ruppert heard his friend’s steps halt ahead, his deep breath echoing through the passageway. For a moment, the marble seemed to pulse in rhythm with it.
“What has?”
Cohen’s tone held a touch of mock curiosity, though Ruppert couldn’t blame him. Both were prisoners of their minds, consumed by the problem of the RHU project. Yet, despite it all, the blue hue of the crystal tugged at Ruppert.
“These walls… don’t they bear a striking resemblance to Quarkon crystals?”
Cohen coughed, the stale air of their descent taking its toll.
“I never gave it much thought. The ancients built this place, who knows what technology they had? Perhaps it is Quarkon, or maybe just a stone that resembles it. But why does it matter now?”
Ruppert sighed. It didn’t matter what the material was. This was where the heart of the basilica began, a sacred ground, its mythical power described only in the oldest texts. Yet his mind couldn't shake off the tug the walls had on his soul. At the tunnel’s end, the space opened into a vast cave. A massive archway welcomed them, its peak nearly touching the ceiling. Beyond it, a structure, an exact mirror of the basilica above, stood at the cave’s center, made entirely of Quarkon crystals. Flanking the doorway, two towering statues of a man and a woman stood as eternal guardians of the sacred space. A bridge-like path stretched from the archway to the temple’s entrance. Here, modern technology ceased to function, making it the perfect place for Ruppert to speak with the figures he had summoned, shielded by the Quarkon-like structure.
With each step, the burden of his revelation grew heavier, the insanity, the sacrilege, and the bleak reality of the RHU project. Silence would not keep the world from knowing. A terrifying premonition of a burning Westland flashed before his eyes. The weight of preparing the world for this threat settled in his heart. His usual political maneuvers paled in the face of the danger the project’s revelation could unleash. As they neared the gate, a figure awaited them, an aged man of imposing stature and dignified air. His silver hair caught the blue hue radiating from the cavern. Edward Tayt, Lord of the Codex and leader of the secret Order of the Weave, stood glaring at Ruppert, his expression sour as if chewing on bitter leaves.
“Ruppert, I can’t say I’m pleased to see you here. To what end do you need the sacred room? This is not your private meeting chamber! Haven’t you desecrated this space enough with your machinations over the past decade?”
Edward’s sharp remark struck deep. For the past decade, Ruppert had used the chamber for political maneuvering, safeguarding Westland’s peace while War raged in the front line. He lowered his head in a curt nod, though the gesture felt hollow. The others saw through it easily; his urgency betrayed his intentions.
“I understand your position, Edward,”
he said. Edward’s nose rose higher as he regarded Ruppert, his uncertainty plain. But Ruppert no longer cared about Edward’s 'position', not now. The pressing urgency of the RHU project demanded his full attention.
“I wouldn’t summon this meeting unless it was necessary.”
Ruppert sighed, lacking the energy to indulge Edward Tayt.
“Once you hear what I’m about to share, I suspect your tune will change.”
Edward’s glare, as his nose lowered, pierced Ruppert with a flare of sharpened suspicion.
“You prance about with words, Ruppert. The Tayt family has never welcomed government officials into these walls for political agendas. My ancestors would turn in their graves. And yet, you persist in inviting heretics into our sacred ground. How much more blasphemy must I bear?”
Edward’s attempt to invoke his ancestors’ judgment fell flat. Ruppert’s needs far outweighed Edward’s petty concerns. From the corner of his eye, Ruppert saw Cohen shift uncomfortably, both he and Edward were his close friends, and seeing the disagreement among them must not be easy.
“I know you hold no affection for me, Edward, but we studied under the same master. Everything I’ve done serves his vision.”
Ruppert raised a hand, bracing himself against the sharper jabs he expected to follow. To Ruppert’s surprise, Edward recoiled at the mention of their past. Memories of their time studying together had likely stirred something else, unpleasant memories, perhaps of his son. The man had lost him thirty years ago, and since then, a hint of madness had lived in his mind. Edward finally sighed in exasperation deciding to let the matter rest.
“Fine. It’s not like my ancestors will smite me any less after all I’ve done. What’s a little more heresy, eh?”
Though Edward’s words sounded malicious, the intent wasn’t there. Ruppert noticed the man’s shoulders sag in resignation.
Ruppert wouldn’t summon a gathering in Edward’s sacred sanctuary unless the situation was dire, and dire was a soft word for the implications of the project. Cohen’s sigh of relief reverberated through Ruppert, a silent warning. After tonight’s meeting, Westland might never be the same again. Soft footsteps echoed from the cave’s entrance, growing nearer. The trio recognized the sound. It was the others.
#
Ruppert observed the first figure’s arrival, his white robe billowing with each measured step. He walked as if he owned the place, his white keffiyeh embroidered with gold thread, radiating arrogance. Yet, it was the finely trimmed mustache and the insolent grin barely concealed beneath grated on his nerves. As their gazes locked, Yusuf’s dark, irritated eyes conveyed his contempt, questioning the absurdity of this summons.
Yusuf Al-Hakim, the Holy One of the Bayt al-Mutawakkilin, was visibly displeased. Ruppert, however, didn’t care. What mattered was the man’s authority and capability to sway Westland’s citizen's opinion as the leader of its second-largest faith. The real challenge was taming this wildfire of a man, whose sharp tongue he could already picture lashing out in fervent arguments.
His gaze shifted to the man trailing behind Yusuf, who radiated an ethereal wisdom. However, his quick pace betrayed the impatience. His sun-kissed skin and desert attire marked him as a resident of the Great Oasis, yet the cavern’s chill, which seeped into Ruppert's bones, left him unfazed. If anything, the cold glare he cast toward Ruppert only sharpened the tension in the air.
Amir Bharat, the Watcher of Flow from the Kala Bakti, looked as though assaulted by a foul stench, his expression crumpling as his gaze shifted disdainfully between Ruppert and Yusuf. Yet another displeased guest, he thought bitterly. He had expected no less. Amir shared little common ground with either of them. But his presence was crucial; his clan’s pull over Westland was immense in their sway over public opinion.
The true challenge with Amir was his impassiveness toward the grand scheme of things. Convincing him to take a stand felt as futile as urging a stone to move. A headache pulsed behind Ruppert’s temples.
As far as Ruppert could recall, Amir Bharat had no enemies. That was his policy and how they had built the relationship. Yet, he had few friends either save perhaps for the woman walking a few paces behind him.
Ruppert caught sight of the strikingly beautiful, ageless woman and managed a bitter smile. Her presence was a deliberate choice, for she allowed herself to be seen, a rarity in itself. She moved with serene grace, her robes undisturbed by the blowing breeze, an oddity that always unsettled him. Yet, it was her silence that truly commanded the atmosphere around her.
“Yuan Rinpoche.”
Ruppert’s eyes widened in disbelief as her name slipped from his lips, spellbound. The Silent One of the Nyepa Tsangma always inspired such a reaction. Her faction was small, but their unique skills made them invaluable. Though Ruppert had hoped to enlist her, her presence here was unexpected, of all the leaders, she was the least likely to answer his calls. The reclusive monks of her order rarely engaged with the outside world.
Ruppert was so captivated by Yuan Rinpoche, her beauty, presence, and the quiet power of her faction, that he nearly missed the unassuming man trailing behind her.
Seeing the man, Ruppert’s expression soured as though he had bitten into a bitter leaf. While he disliked Yusuf, at least the man’s predictability could be trusted. But this new arrival? Ruppert wouldn’t confide in him. The man’s unremarkable appearance might fool the unaware, but Ruppert knew better. Still, he had no choice but to extend a welcome.
Wei Chen’s faction was smaller than Yuan Rinpoche’s, yet its dominion stretched across Westland and the Eastern Federation. The Peacekeeper of the Zhanlüe Xuezhai thrived on conflict. His order studied, perpetuated, and wielded as their purpose. Ordinarily, Ruppert would never have summoned him, but desperation had forced his hand. Stopping the RHU project and dismantling Prima would inevitably spark conflict, and where conflict arose, Wei Chen would undoubtedly be at its center.
Still, the man’s nonchalant smile put Ruppert on edge, reigniting doubts about his decision. Wei Chen was self-serving and thrived on chaos, relying on him was out of the question.
Behind Wei Chen, Ruppert noticed the final figure, a woman with such understated humility that her presence was overlooked. Yet, beneath her modest exterior, she was anything but timid. Memories of past arguments with the diminutive woman resurfaced in Ruppert’s mind. Her name was Yun Lee, Speaker of the Cohesive State.
Her presence posed a dilemma for Ruppert. On one hand, she was a brilliant orator. Her underground faction had amassed a growing following, providing a rare voice of unity in Westland’s fiercely individualistic society. On the other hand, Ruppert saw her as a plague, a remnant of a spiritual movement that had fled the Eastern Federation’s tyranny when it was still a coalition of smaller nations. Her ancestors had sought refuge in Westland, bringing with them an ideology that, to Ruppert, mirrored the oppressive roots of the Federation’s current regime.
To Ruppert, Yun Lee represented a pure, uncorrupted version of the tyranny now ruling the Eastern Federation, a thought that only aggravated his growing headache. Could he trust an ideology that had corrupted nations? Yet what choice did he have? To stop the RHUs, Ruppert needed these leaders to sway public opinion. He had to convince them, for Westland's sake.
Ruppert watched in silence as Cohen and Edward exchanged hollow pleasantries with the newly arrived group, their words devoid of warmth. The air bristled with suspicion and scorn, like a pressure cooker ready to burst.
The cavern’s blue hue seemed to hum in rhythm with his breath. He sighed, rubbing his temples to ease his headache before finally speaking.
“Thank you for your swift assembly.”
Ruppert noted their subtle recoil at his words, their loathing unmistakable.
To them, his summons always served his political ends. A rueful smile spread across his lips. This time was different. Nothing could prepare them for what he was about to reveal.
Yusuf leaned back; skepticism etched in his posture. Amir glared, his hand resting on his chin, as though weighing the cost of being here. Yuan fluttered briefly, her form shifting as if testing the edges of her will to remain visible. Wei Chen’s infuriating smile lingered, like a wolf sensing prey, a conflict Ruppert was about to unleash. Yun Lee’s unblinking stare pierced him, laden with unspoken accusations, as if silently asking how else he planned to undermine her pursuit of unity.
Unable to endure the tension any longer, Ruppert steeled himself. He was not here to make friends; he needed their voice to sway the public. Whether they liked him or not was irrelevant. He turned to Edward Tayt and announced,
“The assembly is gathered. Westland faces a calamity and we are running out of time.”
#