Apprentice
Part 1 — Bad First Impression
The road wasn’t marked on any map Jake Langston had ever seen—just a barely-there break in the dust-choked shoulder of State Route 652, southeast of Carlsbad, New Mexico. The sign was rusted metal, sand-blasted halfway to oblivion. It read:
C³ Facility — Private Property — No Trespassing
Authorized Personnel Only
Jake nearly missed it.
He stomped the brakes and twisted the wheel, his rental SUV skidding slightly before it righted itself and rolled over the cattle grate. Dust swirled in the fading light, painting the evening in smears of orange and gray.
A faint chime echoed in his skull—more sensation than sound.
00:17 LATE.
The digital timecode hovered in the lower-left of Jake’s vision, translucent and blue-white. He winced and pressed the accelerator.
“Thanks,” he muttered.
A soft haptic bump pulsed behind his eyes as the implant acknowledged him and returned to passivity.
Jake shifted in his seat. The Typhon implant was subtle, but always on—always… there.
He’d received it after passing Phase I of PHOENIX tech school. A reward, they said. A badge of progress. Proof he could handle the theory.
Since then, it had been mostly a glorified clock and personal assistant—basic diagnostics, internal metrics, limited overlay functions he rarely used. Nothing fancy. Nothing immersive.
The real features were still locked away.
The road curved into the desert like a scar, flanked by nothing but wind-carved stone and scrub. The sun was setting fast—dropping behind the distant mesas in a burnt-gold splash. Even with the AC on high, Jake’s shirt clung to his back.
This wasn’t what he expected when he signed on with PHOENIX. High-tech work, sure. Classified infrastructure, cutting-edge tech installs—that was the pitch. But this? This looked like a forgotten airstrip.
Then he crested a small rise and saw it.
A facility cut into the desert like a surgical incision. A squat cluster of buff-colored modular structures flanked by scaffolding, and cooling ducts. Everything had a temporary or hastily assembled appearance. There were no lights except for the faint amber glow from several gate sensors and perimeter motion detection rigs.
Dead center stood a gate with a familiar emblem:
The PHOENIX logo. A fire bird, half-risen from its own ashes. It was shiny and new, or made from more weather-resistant stuff than the previous sign.
Jake exhaled.
“Okay. Here we go.”
He slowed as he approached the gate. The metal boom arm stayed down. A ring of automated cameras swept toward his windshield, lenses glinting like insect eyes. One of them clicked as it locked onto his face.
Nothing happened.
Then a second camera repeated the scan.
Still nothing.
Jake rolled down his window and leaned out. “Uh… hello?”
No reply. No buzz. Not even a red light.
Then a shadow moved through the dust.
A desert-camo SUV emerged from a side road—silent, sudden. It parked directly in front of him, blocking his path. Two men stepped out. Both wore matte-gray body armor with digital desert overlays. Their faces were impassive behind mirrored glasses.
Jake froze.
One of them gestured. “Out of the vehicle.”
Jake fumbled for his badge. “Right. Sorry! I’m Jake Langston. A…new tech? I’m supposed to be on-site for a—”
The guard didn’t respond. He took the badge and held it up to a tablet. A moment passed. The other spoke softly into his mic: “Tower, confirm Langston, Jake. New recruit.”
There was a pause.
Then the voice of a woman crackled over the guard’s earpiece. “Let him through. Elena’s expecting him.”
The boom arm hissed and lifted.
As Jake got back into the SUV, one of the guards smirked and tapped the roof with his knuckles. “Try not to get yourself shot.”
Jake blinked. “Wait, what?”
But the guards were already walking away.
***
Jake followed the narrow drive through the gate. The terrain dipped, revealing more of the compound—a rough grid of prefab buildings, metal storage sheds, and shipping containers stacked like half-forgotten Tetris pieces. A communications tower loomed overhead, its top half still unpainted.
Signs pointed him toward Underground Personnel Parking.
The ramp sloped downward beneath a thick slab of reinforced concrete. As he descended, the desert heat peeled away like dead skin. Cool, conditioned air pressed against the windshield. Jake felt his shoulders drop for the first time in hours.
The subterranean lot was surprisingly sleek—industrial-polished floors, bright strip lighting overhead, and a few parked vehicles that looked more like armored shuttles than trucks. A discreet security camera swiveled toward him, its small green LED a small comfort. A wall screen displayed: LANGSTON, J. – PROCEED TO BAY 6.
Jake pulled into the assigned spot and shut off the engine. The sudden silence was eerie.
The underground parking garage was cool and dry. Lights buzzed overhead.
He popped the trunk, exited and took a deep breath.
“Typhon,” he said under his breath. “Navigation. Site schematic.”
A small green dot blinked at the center of his vision, then expanded into a faint overlay—an overhead wireframe of an empty rectangle.
ERROR: NO SITE MAP AVAILABLE.
The message pulsed three times, then faded out.
Jake sighed and tried to zoom and pan the map, hoping something might pop in.
Eyes left—zoom. Right—scroll. Blink and hold—confirm.
Tongue press to the roof of his mouth—menu back.
The interface stuttered slightly, and the whole thing was grainy around the edges.
Typical. Version 1.0 was always like this—usable, but barely.
He grabbed his bag and stood in the middle of the garage, orienting himself. On one wall, someone had tacked up a laminated hand-drawn map titled:
“Welcome to DESOLATION”
There were two comical cartoon cacti in the corner, one laying on the floor with x’s for eyes, the other giving a thumbs-up.
The map had colored arrows pointing to various site locations: Coordination Trailer, Utility Access Trunk, Connector Support Building, Don’t Go Here (with a skull drawn next to it), and ??? scrawled across one sector—intentionally redacted.
A brown coffee stain warped part of the legend.
Jake smiled despite himself. “Yeah. That tracks.”
He slung his bag over his shoulder and followed the arrow toward Coordination Trailer – Admin Hub. His boots echoed faintly in the wide, sterile corridor beyond the garage—white walls, concrete floor, humming electrical conduits.
He passed a water cooler. A sticky note on the tank read:
“Boil notice? LOL. Just drink it. If you start seeing colors, report to medical.”
Jake didn’t stop.
At the end of the corridor, a utilitarian steel door was propped open. The light inside was soft and even, like a medical bay or an architect’s office. He stepped through the threshold and cleared his throat.
“Uh, hi. Jake Langston. Reporting in for—”
He stopped.
A tall woman stood near a metal table strewn with what appeared to be schematics. Her jet-black hair was tied in a no-nonsense braid. She didn’t look up.
“You’re late,” she said evenly.
“Sorry. I missed the turn-off. The sign—”
“She looked up, and the weight of her gaze stopped him. Her expression was unreadable.
“Elena DuChamp,” she said. “Site coordinator. You’ll report to me for all project tasks, but I won’t hold your hand.”
Before Jake could respond, a voice from the corner mumbled, “He’ll be fine. Looks like he at least knows which end of a wrench to hold.”
Jake turned to see an older man—gray in the beard, crow’s feet around the eyes—leaning in a folding chair, chewing something unidentifiable.
He wore the same work coveralls Jake had been issued, though his were weathered, stained, and the sleeves were rolled to the elbow. The patch on his chest read: Goldberg.
Jake stuck out his hand. “Jake Langston.”
The man ignored the gesture. “You talk too much.”
Elena gave the faintest smile. “Jake, meet your field partner. Everyone just calls him Gramps.”
“I’m old,” Goldberg muttered.
“You’re older than dirt and twice as salty,” she replied.
Jake finally lowered his hand and glanced at the table. A massive set of technical blueprints stretched across its surface—power conduits, water feeds, something that looked like dimensional geometry overlaid with PHOENIX code tags.
“Wow,” he said. “Are these real?”
Elena and Gramps exchanged a look.
Then both burst out laughing.
Gramps slapped the table. “Kid thinks we’d leave real plans lying around.”
Elena turned and stared at Jake. “Let’s see what we have to work with. Wait…Typhon implant version 1?”
“It’s what they gave us at the school,” said Jake.
“No, no, no,” said Elena. “This won’t do. You can’t do anything with that. I’m pushing you to Version 5. You’ll never finish my installs with that antique.”
“Wait, you can just—?” Jake winced and took a step back. “Ok that’s—“
“Hold still,” she said, cutting him off. “Give it a minute to reboot into the new version.”
A sudden burst of light flared bright across his vision, then reshaped itself in layers—geometric scaffolding folding in from the corners of his sight, soft blue arcs drawing data from the environment, tagging objects, mapping the trailer in real time. His vitals ticked into the upper corner. A subtle ripple of environmental diagnostics unfolded across the bottom edge. The interface was crisp, reactive—alive.
Jake staggered slightly. “Holy—” He blinked hard. “This is amazing.”
He blinked, watching as the HUD tagged her as DuCHAMP, ELENA – COORDINATION LEAD in faint text just above her head.
“It’s adequate,” she said flatly, still focused on her screen.
Gramps smirked. “This ain’t tech school any more. Welcome to the real job.”
***
Elena raised a hand to her temple. With a slight twitch of her eye and a faint whisper of sound, the air above the table shimmered.
Suddenly, an augmented reality projection flickered into being—a complex lattice of three-dimensional nodes, Veil access points, and calibration readouts. The AR floated like a ghost above the fake blueprints.
Jake’s jaw dropped. The hovering schematic was an elegant tangle of light and code, shifting and updating in real time. It was like watching a symphony of math and architecture unfold in midair.
Jake instinctively grabbed the edge of the table. “Uhhh… Uh oh. Suddenly I don’t feel so well.” He put his hand over his mouth.
Gramps rolled his eyes and chewed another bite of jerky. “There’s gonna be some disorientation at first. Just muscle through it.”
“I think I’m gonna be sick.”
“Waste can’s over there,” said Elena. “Just don’t hurl on the floor, please.”
Jake kept breathing, blinking past the strange visual layering until the lines sharpened and settled. The world felt thinner somehow, like a skin had been peeled back to reveal some glowing infrastructure beneath. His stomach was beginning to settle.
He let out a shaky breath. “Okay… wow. This is… actually kind of amazing!”
Gramps nodded. “Welcome to Phoenix, Langston. The Typhon implant is one of the fringe benefits.”
Elena finally stepped away from the schematics and walked toward a wall display. “You’ve been assigned to install infrastructure for a forward Connector site—water, power, and network.”
“Is this part of Eremos?” Jake asked.
She gave him a cool look. “Where did you hear that name? Your tasks will not be underground, they’ll be on the surface. Make sure you keep your head there.”
Jake glanced at Gramps, who offered no help—just a grunt and a shrug.
Elena continued. “Your deployment must be completed by week’s end. The schedule’s aggressive, but it’s because I’m on a strict deadline. Centcom brass is chomping at the bit to get this site up and running.
Gramps will guide your work and keep you on-time. Your access has been restricted to designated project zones. Do not deviate. If you wander, your implant will let you know. Linger too long, and you’ll make fast friends with security. Understood?”
“Yes ma’am.” Jake was trying hard not to look as intimidated as he felt.
She tapped a wall panel and brought up a list of tasks. “Your initial objective is to set-up four Veil utility access points. That includes control and flow equipment. I’ve cleared you for your initial tool and diagnostic equipment allocation. I’m sure you know this already, but Veiltech equipment is rare and expensive, even in PHOENIX-land. Handle it with extreme care. Break anything, see the quartermaster for a replacement…and me for an ass-kicking.”
Jake nodded seriously, then switched his attention back to the floating symbols, trying to keep up.
“Also,” she added, “this facility is currently operating under a security-by-obscurity posture. That means minimum fences and guards. There will be no incident response beyond the two patrolmen you met at the gate and one in the tower. The Directors believe incomplete compounds are less attractive targets.”
Gramps snorted and shook his head. “Idiots.”
Elena ignored him. “Your job is to get this facility online. Don’t get curious, and don’t do anything stupid. If something feels off, call it in. If something tries to kill you…” She gave a dry smile. “Run faster than Gramps.”
Jake forced a laugh.
Gramps didn’t.
Elena stepped forward, her voice cool and commanding. “You’ll both report to me at the beginning of each day until your tasks are complete. Again, see the quartermaster for any needed materials.”
She looked down at her pad and started poking at it with a finger.
Jake cleared his throat. “I don’t know how to thank you, ma’am. This Version 5 Typhon—“
Gramps snorted, stopping him mid-sentence.
Elena didn’t look up. “You can thank me by getting my installs done. And maybe don’t trip over your own feet while you’re at it.”
She added, “You’re dismissed.” Then she glanced at Jake and gave him a quick wink and nod.
There was something in that wink—something knowing. Like she’d seen rookies come and go, and Jake had just passed some kind of invisible test.
It wasn’t exactly the welcome he was hoping for, but at least he knew she wasn’t mad at him. It instantly relieved a lot of his stress.
Gramps offered a sloppy salute and grabbed Jake by the shoulder.
“C’mon, Patch Adams. Time to earn your stripes.”
***
The stars were bright overhead, and the dry desert wind had finally started to cool. It rustled across the hard-packed sand and whispering through the chain-link fences around the compound.
Jake and Gramps had a roof above them, but the building they were working in had no walls. The ceiling was held up by thin, metal beams with circular holes cut in them for wiring and pipes.
They moved with purpose between flickering work lights and humming equipment, staging equipment and running wire harnesses through conduits like cybernetic gardeners planting something alien in the earth.
Jake was on one knee, fitting a stabilization collar around a conduit post. He double-checked the torque spec in his HUD and reached for a small torque wrench.
Gramps watched from a distance, arms folded. “Torque that collar like a dentist on nitrous, Langston. Give it some guts.”
Jake rolled his eyes but tightened it with a snap. “Shouldn’t we be grounding that conduit? Sorry, I guess I’m just not used to doing this without a trainer or OSHA breathing down my neck.”
Gramps snorted. “OSHA ain’t been within fifty miles of a PHOENIX site since Nixon was in office.”
He spat off to the side. “And if they showed up now, they’d vanish faster than a witness in Vegas.”
They moved on. When all of the control boxes, flow control systems and associated wires and pipes were in place and connected, Gramps gave a low grunt. It was either his version of praise or gas.
“I hate all this preamble,” he said. “It’s boring. Now comes the fun part.”
“Finally,” said Jake.
“Not so fast,” said Gramps. “You know some theory, you’ve done some basic setups in class, but this is the real deal. Veiltech is powerful, but dangerous.”
“Yes, I know,” said Jake. “I’ve been fully briefed.”
Gramps looked at him seriously. “When you work with me, you do it by the book. I’ve…well, let’s put it this way. You won’t last long if you’re sloppy. Not with me. Understand?”
“Yes,“ said Jake. “Yes, sir.”
“And don’t call me sir. I work for a living.”
Jake smiled and nodded.
Gramps took a deep breath. “Ok, everything we just setup starts with these. ”He pointed to several pipes emerging from the concrete slab they were standing on. “Know what these are?”
“Uh,” Jake thought about it for a moment. “They just look like standard feed pipes for water, electric—“
“Wrong,” said Gramps. “These are total bullshit. Fakes. They don’t go to anything. We call ‘em Façades.”
Jake looked confused. “Why install fake pipes and wire conduits? Seems like a huge waste of effort.”
“It’s not,” said Gramps. “Think about it. Ninety-nine-percent of the people you’re gonna meet in life have no idea what Veiltech is…or how it works! They think power comes from wires and water comes from pipes. And that’s just the way of it.
These fake pipes are for them. If they knew water, power, and network came straight out of that little box—no wires, no source—it’d drive them mad.”
Jake chuckled. “They’d seriously start questioning their world-view.”
“Yes. And sure, you could try to explain it to them. Tell them that the source could be anywhere; Pluto, or on the other side of the damned Universe. Distance doesn’t matter when you make a non-local connections.”
“The bridge,” said Jake, trying to sound helpful.
“Exactly. They might get it, given enough time. Think about how carefully they revealed it to you at your tech school.”
“It was a whole year of theory and build-up before they showed us the working tech,” said Jake.
“Yup. Sounds right,” said Gramps. He looked deep in thought for a moment, then added:
“Most are smart enough to get it, but some people don’t wanna know. They think they have a pretty good handle on things in their life. And what we do—connecting things non-locally—it would just upset them. So a lot of our surface jobs are going to be this: Making people who don’t know about Veiltech think their world of purely “physical connections” is just fine and dandy!”
“I see,” said Jake. “I guess that makes sense. But that makes me think…how many other things am I going to see working for PHOENIX…that are also fake.”
Gramps grinned wide. “That is the right question, Patch Adams.”
***
A while later, Gramps took a smoke break. Jake was careful to avoid the smoke. He stared up at the stars. “This place… feels like the ass-end of nowhere. Like it fell out of time.”
Gramps didn’t look up. “That’s why they picked it. Quiet. Remote. Forgettable. Perfect place to build a lie.”
Jake glanced over. “You ever gonna tell me what this place is for?”
Gramps was silent for a long moment, then exhaled a long plume of smoke. “Nope.”
“C’mon. Give me something.”
“They collect things,” said Gramps. “Alright? From the nearby caverns.”
Jake frowned. “What…Carlsbad? The National Park? What kind of things?”
Gramps kept his eyes averted. “The kind you shouldn’t worry about. Let’s leave it at that.”
Jake let it drop. For now.
They finished the last of the setup together in uncomfortable silence. The hum of the Veiltech equipment settled around them, like a low, distant choir.
As they walked back toward the coordination trailer, Jake wiped his brow. “So… how’d I do?”
Gramps pretended to mull it over. “You didn’t fry yourself, or open a rift in spacetime. That’s a solid B-minus.”
Jake grinned, then caught himself. “I’ll take it.”
Gramps gave him a sideways glance—just a hint of something softer behind the sarcasm. “Truth is, kid… you picked it up faster than most.”
Jake smiled.
“We’re doing important work here,” said Gramps. “I think you can sense that. This surface site, and the connector facility just below us…they’re not just utility hubs, Patch. They part of a bigger whole.”
They reached the trailer steps. Gramps paused before heading in. “But don’t get cocky. This job’s not about brilliance. It’s about keeping your hands steady…keeping your wits about you when the stress is high and world’s coming apart.”
Jake nodded, solemn now. “Understood.”
Gramps grunted again, then looked up at the stars for a moment.
“You’re not half bad, Patch Adams.”
The old man disappeared inside.
Jake lingered outside a moment longer, breathing in the dry desert air.
Above, the stars blinked in silence.
Part 2 — BLACK STAR
The desert had gone still. Gramps’s utility truck cruised along a winding dirt road on the east side of the compound, its soft electric hum barely disturbing the silence. Above, the stars looked sharp enough to cut, and the air had cooled to something almost tolerable. The moon was rising now, casting skeletal shadows from the creosote brush.
Jake yawned into his gloved fist, the motion creaking with dried sweat and fatigue.
“We could’ve waited till morning,” he muttered.
Gramps didn’t look away from the trail. “Wind’s supposed to kick up soon. Could bring a dust storm with it. We set up now, or we waste a day to the weather.”
Jake sighed. “Okay then. I’m good to go.”
They crested a ridge and rolled into a shallow basin. Another prefab slab awaited them—a concrete pad with temporary lighting rigs and a Veil-compatible distribution cabinet already craned into place.
Jake stepped out, joints cracking, and looked up at the stars. “Can’t believe this is how I’m using my degree. I racked up a quarter-million in student loans just to be a desert plumber.”
Gramps opened the tailgate and handed him a heavy crate of gear. “MIT, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I figured. Only MIT grads bitch like that when asked to do real work.”
Jake raised an eyebrow. “You got something against MIT?”
“Nah. Got my degree from Caltech,” Gramps said, shouldering a coil of cable. “Have to give you East-coast boys some shit. That’s just how it is.”
They moved efficiently, side by side, sliding into the rhythm of seasoned fieldwork.
Jake tapped at his Typhon HUD, flipping through PHOENIX overlays. “You get a lot of these install requests at weird, middle-of-nowhere locations?”
“All the time. Super-remote’s PHOENIX bread and butter. You don’t test exotic tech where civilians might see it.”
“What’s the craziest install you ever did?”
“I don’t know about craziest,” said Gramps, “but the scariest was up in North Dakota…”
“Yeah?”
“It’s all Air Force missile silos and ghosts. You can drive for hours and see nothing at all—maybe a partially collapsed church on the side of the road. And at night? Super creepy. Odd moving shadows, and you always feel like you’re being watched. ”
Jake shivered. “Uhh! No thank you. What else?”
“Old facility down near El Paso. Near the border. Feels like you’re in the Wild West.”
“Jesus,” Jake muttered. “Plumbing the Veil through Texas?”
“Texas, and a lot of other remote areas you can’t easily get resources. Wait ‘til you hear about Antarctica.”
“You’re shitting me!” Jake chuckled under his breath, then focused. He finished tightening a clamp, rechecked the collar ring spacing, and nodded. “Everything’s secure. Ready to prime.”
Gramps gave a short nod. “Let’s do it. Actually, you do the activation this time.”
Jake ran through the start-up sequence by reading the technical documentation in his HUD—another great use for it, as he didn’t have to keep bulky manuals on his lap while he worked.
The anchor began to hum—a deep, harmonic tone that resonated in his chest cavity. The overlay shimmered with diagnostic text as the node aligned.
“Bring the taps online,” Gramps said, pointing toward the connections.
“I’m trying,” said Jake, “but I’m not getting power to the panel.”
“Check the breakers.”
“I did. They’re all in.”
“Can’t be,” said Gramps. “Here, let me…yup. Here’s your problem.”
“What?” said Jake. Then he looked at what Gramps was pointing to.
“Oh my god!” He slapped himself on the forehead, then turned the big green switch that said “Main Power”.
The lights on the distribution panel blinked green.
“Ha,” said Gramps. “Happens to us all, kid.”
Jake flipped the last feed switch, watching the LEDs climb green across the board:
120VAC — ACTIVE
240VAC 3-PHASE — ACTIVE
480VAC 3-PHASE — ACTIVE
Water followed—hot and cold, steady pressure. PHOENIX-NET pinged online at a clean 1.0 Gbps. Jake finished the automated test with a satisfied grin.
“That’s two down. Should we head back in? Give Elena the good news?”
Gramps shook his head. “Before we pack up, I’m gonna give you a little free training. One of those lessons they don’t put in the manuals.”
Jake straightened. “What kind of training?”
“The kind that keeps you from blowing a hole in your foot… or God forbid, killing someone.”
He reached into the truck bed and came back with a length of dull aluminum pipe about three inches wide. Wedging it between two cinder blocks, he held out a hand.
“Here. Hand me your Veil Control Unit.”
Jake hesitated but passed it over. Gramps tapped through the interface with the easy precision of long habit, bringing up the metadata pane. He scrolled until one entry lit up in warning amber:
pressure: 15,504 psi
He saved it to a memory slot, tagging it: Demo – High-Pressure. Do Not Use.
“You ever see that number in the wild, you’d better damn well know what you’re connecting to.”
“Fifteen thousand PSI? Where are you getting water pressure that high? That’s—”
“Enough to cut steel,” Gramps said flatly. “Your flesh won’t even slow it down.”
He primed the connection, aligned a small nozzle at the pipe, then stepped back.
“Ready? Watch.”
A white, howling jet erupted for exactly one second, the sound halfway between a shriek and a roar. It sheared through the aluminum like warm butter, spraying fine mist into the work lights. The pipe clanged to the ground in two clean halves.
Jake’s jaw dropped. “Holy hell…”
Gramps killed the feed and pulled up the metadata again. “Now, you see why you triple-check before you hand a site over to Elena’s crew. Pressure, voltage, current—anything outside tolerance can maim or kill. You don’t want her chewing your ass for doing something stupid. But you definitely don’t want her burying someone because you got sloppy.”
Jake nodded quickly. “Got it. Check the metadata. Always.”
“Good.” Gramps handed the unit back.
Jake glanced at the saved slot. “Challenger Deep?”
“Yup. Bottom of the Pacific Ocean. Marianas Trench.”
Jake smirked faintly, but the image of the pipe splitting clean in two burned itself into his mind.
“Alright,” Gramps said, heading for the cab. “Now we can pack up.”
***
Jake kept glancing at the Challenger Deep entry in his Typhon HUD as they bumped along the dirt road.
15,504 PSI. Enough to cut steel. Enough to cut him in half.
Hard to believe that kind of power could flow through something as unassuming as a Veil Access Point.
He flexed his fingers around the Veil Control Unit in his lap, still feeling the phantom vibration from when Gramps had tagged the setting. The image of the pipe shearing like butter haunted him. No simulation in tech school had prepared him for that.
Gramps drove in silence, one hand on the wheel, the other drumming against his thigh. The truck’s electric motor hummed softly over the crunch of gravel. Above them, the moon climbed higher, sharpening every shadow.
Jake finally spoke. “That was… intense.”
Gramps didn’t look over. “Good. You’ll remember it. Triple-check your metadata before you hand anything over to Elena’s crew, or you’ll be remembering it in your exit briefing.”
They crested a ridge, and the compound came into view again—faint spotlights casting long, angular shadows across the yard. The prefabs and storage stacks looked almost peaceful under the moonlight.
“How ya doin’?” Jake asked.
Gramps didn’t answer right away. “Thinking.”
“About?”
“People I’ve worked with.”
Jake blinked. “Field techs? Like me?”
A slow nod. “Some made it. Some didn’t.”
Jake straightened in his seat. “What happened?”
Gramps didn’t answer. He pulled the truck out of gear, letting it coast the rest of the way in.
They pulled up near the equipment container. One of the guards nodded at them from beside the coordination trailer—a professional, impassive flick of the chin. Jake returned it without thinking, mentally cataloging the man’s face. Another note for the growing roster of names and roles in this strange, isolated place.
As Gramps hopped out to give the gear a quick inspection, Jake found himself looking up at the sky. The stars here were knife-sharp, undimmed by city light.
“So,” he said, “what’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever seen working for PHOENIX?”
Gramps latched his Veiltech toolkit—always the last thing he touched. “Nevada job. Ten years back. Groom Range.”
Jake froze halfway through stowing a coil of cable. “Like… Groom Lake? Area 51?”
Gramps gave him a side-eye. “I thought you were ‘fully briefed.’ We overlap with the military. Provide goods, services. But we don’t take orders from them. More often, they take ours.”
He pulled a flask from his chest pocket and took a sip. “Had a new guy with us—bright, eager. A lot like you. We’re mid-calibration when he stops talking mid-sentence. Just… gone.”
Jake frowned. “Gone?”
“Not a sound. Not a flash. Boots still there, laced up. Everything else? Vanished.”
Jake stared.
“One frame on the footage, he’s there. Next frame—air.”
“What the hell?”
“Report said ‘Veil field microdrift.’ Subspace shear, they called it. But we all knew it was crap. Something on the other side reached out and got him.”
Jake shivered. “You’re messing with me. This is like a ghost story you tell the new guys.”
“I wish it was.” Gramps’ voice was flat. “Veiltech’s not ours. We just use it. Whatever’s behind it… it’s older, stranger, and you don’t want to meet it.”
The wind shifted. Up in the watchtower, a lone silhouette moved—scanning the perimeter with a pair of heavy binoculars.
Below, a guard passed near the truck, then paused. “You hear that?”
Jake listened. The cicadas had stopped. So had the wind. The night was holding its breath.
Then—thrum.
A low, resonant pulse rolled over them. Not sound so much as pressure. It made Jake’s teeth ache.
Gramps turned sharply. “Pack it up.”
Jake hesitated. “What is that?”
The watchtower guard froze, head turning toward the western sky.
A shape passed overhead—black on black, angular and silent. A hole in the sky.
It banked slightly, then stopped. Four shadows dropped from its belly before it vanished toward the far side of the compound.
Gramps reached into the truck and pulled out a hardcase. Inside—two disruptor batons.
He tossed one to Jake without looking. “We’re not alone.”
In the distance—click.
Then the sound of metal feet striking concrete. Smooth. Precise. Not human.
And then—gunfire.
***
The first scream tore through the compound like a steam whistle.
Jake froze, eyes wide. A second later came a short burst of gunfire—sharp, deliberate. Then a crunch. Something wet. Then silence.
Gramps was already moving.
“Grab your Veil Control Unit,” he hissed, crouching behind the truck. “We can’t let them fall into enemy hands. Grab it and keep it safe.”
Jake scrambled for the case and his terminal. He stuffed both into his day pack, slung it over his shoulder, and dropped beside Gramps. “What the hell was that?!”
“That,” Gramps said grimly, “is what happens when Directors underfund surface security.”
From the far side of the coordination trailer, another burst of gunfire flared—muzzle flashes strobing against the prefab walls. More screams followed.
This time, they didn’t stop.
Jake peeked around the container, heart pounding.
Two PHOENIX guards had taken cover behind a sandbagged generator. One was firing a compact flechette rifle—tight bursts stitching through the dark. The other launched a pair of recon drones—blue nav-lights flaring on as they climbed.
Then—movement.
A sleek, inhuman shape darted between prefab shadows. Impossibly fast. Low to the ground. Lower limbs a blur of motion.
CRACK-CRACK-CRACK!
The flechettes struck something metal. Sparks showered behind a shipping crate. A hiss followed—steam-like—and a strange whirring sound, not quite mechanical, not quite animal.
The drones dropped, smashed from the air by something unseen. They hit the ground and coughed out thin clouds of smoke.
Jake ducked just in time. A long, bladed appendage sliced through the air above him—missing by inches. It caught the drone operator mid-chest, carving through armor, flesh, and bone as if they offered no resistance.
A spray of blood.
Then the silhouette shot past—and the man’s head was gone. His body dropped to its knees, then flopped sideways into stillness.
The remaining guard screamed. He emptied his clip, reached for his sidearm—
The creature stepped into the light.
Seven feet of matte-black alloy and predatory grace, its frame was lean and raptor-like. A long, angular head jutted forward, crowned in overlapping mechanical feathers that flexed and twitched with a mind of their own. A matching tail swept behind it, armored plumage rippling subtly as it moved—every motion precise, economical, and utterly alien.
Its eyes glowed red—flickering, twitching, scanning in rapid bursts.
The guard fired.
The Crow twisted under the barrage with uncanny precision, then surged forward.
A metallic screech tore through the air—animalistic and wrong.
The guard vanished beneath a blur of limbs. Sparks. Screaming. Gunfire.
Jake couldn’t watch. He turned away, gagging.
“They’re not just killing,” he whispered. “They’re scanning. Gathering data.”
Gramps checked his HUD, jaw tight. “I’ve seen these before. BLACK STAR drones. Infiltration units—built to steal intel. We’re being catalogued… but they’re not transmitting. Not yet. Looks like they’re hunting for a way to punch the data out.”
“BLACK STAR?” Jake’s voice shook. “Never heard of it.”
“Private Military Company,” said Gramps. “Been harassing PHOENIX since the mid-’90s. Mercs with deep pockets—and a rumor says some of ’em used to wear our badge.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Jake caught movement—something clinging to the side of the watchtower, where no human had any right to be. Its silhouette shifted in the moonlight, sleek and angular, the sheen of matte-black alloy rippling as it moved.
The guard at the top—a dark-skinned woman with tight braids pulled back beneath a comms headset—stood her ground. She raised her sidearm and fired straight down the ladder at the thing climbing toward her.
CRACK-CRACK-CRACK. Sparks flew as rounds glanced off the climbing shape.
Then—BOOM.
The ladder erupted as a shaped charge went off, the blast shearing one of the Crow’s arms clean off. Metal shrieked against metal as the thing fell away into the shadows below.
The guard leaned hard against the railing, breathing fast. She flipped open a small panel on the wall, revealing a red button under cracked plastic. No hesitation—
SLAM.
A low chime echoed from the tower, followed by a faint, distant relay tone somewhere deeper in the compound.
She keyed her mic. “Redline signal sent. Hope that damn button’s connected.”
No response. Just static.
She scanned the dark below. Her voice carried down to Jake and Gramps: “Y’all stay hidden if you can. Don’t try to be heroes.”
Jake looked up, meeting her eyes. For a heartbeat, they shared an understanding—then a shadow dropped onto the platform behind her.
Another Crow. Intact. Undamaged. It closed the gap with insect speed, silent but for the faint rasp of talons on metal.
Jake’s mouth opened to shout, but Gramps yanked him back and clamped a hand over his mouth.
Two gunshots rang out. A scream—cut short.
Silence.
Gramps let out a slow, measured breath. Without a word, he crouched and carefully laid his baton on the ground, setting it down so quietly it barely touched with a tap.
Jake swallowed hard and did the same.
Gramps met his eyes. “From here on out… we move like ghosts.”
***
The compound had gone deathly still.
Behind a shipping container, Jake heard only wind, idle machinery… and the thrum of blood in his ears.
Gramps crouched low and gestured—follow me.
They moved fast, hugging shadows between prefab walls and scorched machinery. Debris crunched beneath their boots. Smoke twisted through broken light fixtures and ragged bullet holes in the siding.
One Crow lay collapsed near the wrecked SUV—its twisted limbs twitching inside a scorched and smoking impact crater.
Jake stared. “That one…?”
“Dead,” Gramps muttered, nudging it with his boot. “Those two guards made sure of it.”
He gave a quiet nod. “Rest in peace, gents.”
Ahead: scrape. Drag. A faint metallic screech.
They froze.
Around the corner, a second Crow crawled slowly across cracked concrete. It was missing a leg, and one arm dangled by threads of carbon wire. But it was still moving—pulling itself forward with claws that gouged deep furrows in the ground. Its feathered head scanned, twitching, pausing every few feet.
Jake swallowed. “My god… those things are relentless.”
Gramps followed its gaze—toward the coordination trailer’s rear, where a flat, white satellite dish angled skyward. He checked his HUD and confirmed the Crow was trying to brute-force its way into the comm system network.
“It’s trying to beam their intel out,” he growled, then pointed. “Good news is that’s the only active dish on-site.”
Jake tapped into his HUD. “If it gets a signal through—”
“It won’t.”
Gramps darted across the open lane, low and fast. He reached the uplink housing and yanked the access panel open.
“Don’t try this at home!” he said through the implant to Jake.
Sparks flew as he twisted a large cannon plug loose, severing the dish’s main power feed. Several blinking lights on the panel went dark.
“Hardline severed. No power for you.”
He quickly cycled through the communication system menus using his Typhon implant, and set a strong encrypted password on the power feed controls.
“That’ll stop the bastards…or at least, slow them down.”
Gramps looked over at Jake. “Speaking of the others… where’d the other two go?”
Jake brought up his overlay. Two silhouettes moved through the lower half of the compound—silent, methodical.
“They found the blast doors to The Connector,” Jake muttered. “They just went inside.”
Gramps sighed. “Of course they did.”
They turned back to the damaged Crow. It was still dragging itself—one glinting talon raised toward the sky like a broken signal tower. Still scanning. Still trying.
Gramps glanced at several other nearby junction boxes, muttering to himself.
“If we open a Veil Access Point over it and send a high-current arc across its carapace, we might be able to overload its—”
CRUNCH.
Gramps looked up.
Jake stood over the twitching Crow, breathing hard, gripping a large cinder block. The drone’s skull was cratered. Its twitching slowed. Then stopped.
Gramps blinked. “…Or that.”
Jake dropped the block. “Thought I’d try the low-tech solution.”
Gramps gave a low whistle. “Gotta go with what works. I’ll make sure they add ‘throw brick at robot’ to the field guide.”
Jake checked his HUD again. “The other two are below… looks like Sub-level One. The Connector.”
Gramps walked back over to Jake, eyes narrowing.
Jake looked up. “So… what now?”
Gramps didn’t miss a beat.
“We go down after them.”
Part 3 — CERBERUS
The blast doors hung open like a wound in the desert.
Jake followed Gramps down the sloped corridor beyond, dark reinforced concrete descending into the gloom. The passage was wide and tall enough to drive a tank through. Overhead, two dim strip lights followed the seam of wall and ceiling—motion sensors tripped, faintly lighting a narrow section as they passed.
“How deep does this go?” Jake whispered.
“A hundred meters to the sub-surface Connector,” Gramps muttered, checking his HUD. “At least.”
At the bottom, the slope flattened. Another pair of blast doors stood ahead, deformed and barely hanging on their hinges. Beyond lay scattered dark shapes Jake thought looked like bodies.
They moved in, boots quiet on grated flooring.
A soft mechanical chirp echoed ahead. Gramps raised a fist, crouching. Jake mirrored him.
Around the corner: two Black Star Crows. One jacked into a wall port, data spiraling on a ghostly overlay in Jake’s HUD. The other swept its gaze along the walls, pausing at a crate of stabilized cryo-pods. Its talons traced the PHOENIX logo, recording every detail.
“They’re stealing everything,” Jake whispered.
“Not much for them in the Connector,” Gramps replied, “but if they get down into Eremos…”
Jake’s pulse jumped. “So the rumors are true.”
Gramps didn’t answer.
They moved on, the air turning colder. The walls shifted from raw concrete to smooth composite.
That’s when they passed it—a sealed door, stenciled in stark black:
ASPHODEL
HARVEST PREP
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
A low, pulsing hum came from behind it. Jake slowed, reading the words twice.
“Harvest?”
“No time,” Gramps said. “Keep moving.”
“What is this place, really?”
Gramps glanced back. “Ever wonder where the ones who vanish in parks and caves go? The ones no one ever finds?” His eyes held Jake’s for a moment. “Yeah. So do I. Now hush.”
Jake looked back at the door. The hum seemed to resonate in his chest—alive, breathing.
Ahead, the Crows disappeared around a bend in the hallway.
Gramps used his implant to view a local map. “They’re close to the main lift.”
Jake’s HUD flashed red—NETWORK WARNING.
“I’m no security tech, but it looks like they’re trying to hack into PHOENIX-NET.”
***
Gramps’ tone went flat. “That’s exactly what they’re doing. And if they discover the lift, they can get down to Eremos, and we can’t let that happen.”
“Got it,” said Jake.
They crept closer until they had a clear line of sight. The Crow at the wall jack pulled free, retracting its cable like a snake. The other produced a thin whip antenna from its shoulder and began broadcasting in short encrypted bursts.
“Wireless attempt,” Gramps murmured. “Shouldn’t last long. Network’ll lock ‘em out after a few tries.”
Jake’s HUD pinged again—INTRUSION ATTEMPT BLOCKED—and the antenna snapped back into its housing. Without hesitation, the Crows moved to a recessed fiber port near the lift doors. One crouched low, plugging in. The second turned, popped its chest plate, and a small panel extended outward—bundles of glassy cables glimmered inside.
The first Crow snaked a second line from its shoulder, jacking it directly into the other’s open chassis. Their optical sensors shifted to the same pulsing frequency.
Jake frowned. “What’s that?”
“Processor-bridging,” Gramps said. “Doubling their computing power for a brute-force attack.”
“So… what do we do?”
“Split ‘em up. Break the bridge, cut their speed in half.”
Jake’s mind raced. “If we can’t kill them outright, we could at least slow them down.”
Gramps slipped a small, palm-sized charge from a thigh pouch. “This won’t scrap one, but it should disrupt its systems. Weapons, too, if we’re lucky.”
Jake took it, nodding. “I’ll draw one off.”
Gramps’ mouth twitched—approval or warning, Jake couldn’t tell. “Don’t get dead.”
Jake ducked low, circling wide through a parallel maintenance corridor. At the junction, he tossed the charge across the hall toward the Crows. It clattered on the floor and went off with a chest-thumping crack.
Sparks flashed across the nearest Crow’s chassis; its right arm twitched violently, servos grinding. Its weapon pods cycled and jammed with a metallic whine. The other Crow hissed out a synthetic chirp—then they split. One loped after Jake, the other pivoted toward Gramps.
Jake turned and ran.
***
The Crow was hunting him. It was patient and relentless.
Jake had damaged its visual sensors in the explosion, so it had trouble tracking him by sight—but it still had sharp hearing. He could evade it, as long as he stayed quiet.
The hallways in the Connector were dark and pulsed red with emergency lighting. Shadows stretched long across the smooth concrete walls.
Jake stayed low, stepping around a forklift-sized bundle of bundled conduit. His heart pounded. His mouth was dry. He crept forward, every muscle tight with adrenaline. The air here was cooler—refrigerated, sterile—but it did nothing to calm his nerves.
Where’s Gramps? Please be okay, old man.
His Typhon HUD cast a soft, transparent glow over his vision: outlines of walls, power cables, and flickering Veil interference—the usual ghosting that signaled nearby tech. But the true advantage was tactical: he could track the last known position of the Black Star Crow, flickering red on his map like a predator looming just out of sight.
Then—he saw it.
A hospital gurney stood abandoned in the middle of a side corridor. It was stained with blood, and had deep gouges where someone or something had fought to get free.
A datapad rested in a side holster. Jake picked it up with trembling fingers.
Subject ID 40213-A
Status: Stabilized – violent, but constrained.
Method: Chemical & physical restraints.
Source: Cavern Collection Site 14 (CCS14)
Status: Viable.
Forward to EREMOS for Processing.
Jake blinked. “Collection site? Processing…?”
He looked back at the gurney. The restraints. The congealed blood.
His stomach turned.
Suddenly—a clang rang out as a loose metal tray slipped from the side and struck the concrete floor. The sound echoed down the corridor like a gunshot.
“Shit.”
From behind him came a burst of clicking—synthetic and sharp, like metal teeth snapping into place.
Jake bolted.
The Crow shrieked behind him—an inhuman click-screech—and gave chase. Its talons skittered on the floor as it moved in terrifying bursts, loping after him with unnatural grace.
Jake rounded a corner, heart hammering, and dove into the Connector’s main processing chamber.
The room was massive—industrial. The walls were lined with reinforced vertical cylinders—each the size of a small car, transparent and slightly iridescent.
He ducked behind one and caught his breath.
These are nano-diamond tanks, he realized, tapping one lightly with his knuckles. It rang like crystal. Same ones they showed us in Veiltech school.
His Typhon overlay blinked a quiet suggestion: Integrity Grade: NDH-3. High Pressure-tested.
Jake stared into the polished surface of the tank, catching his own reflection in the dim light.
Then he looked up.
A narrow metal staircase curved around the outer wall, climbing to a grated catwalk that looped above the cylinder array. The catwalk was sturdy, industrial—probably for maintenance techs—and ran along the tops of each tank. Automated hatches were built into the upper rims, all currently open, with matching outflow hatches below. Most of the tanks were empty.
Perfect.
Behind him, the Crow shrieked again—closer now.
Jake’s breathing slowed. His hands steadied.
“Okay. I can work with this.”
***
He moved fast.
Jake crept toward the stairs, trying to keep his boots light, but every step on the steel rang out like a bell. The Crow heard him instantly. Its head snapped toward the sound, and it broke into motion—talons clanging, limbs unfurling.
Jake hit the top of the staircase just as the Crow reached the base.
It gave another shriek and began climbing after him—fast.
Jake crossed the catwalk in a sprint, boots slamming metal, the HUD shimmer lighting his path. He skidded to a stop over an open cylinder and dove in feet-first.
His back struck the interior wall hard, legs tangling as he dropped. He caught himself, barely, and scrambled forward onto the slick nano-diamond floor.
Then he heard it—clang, clang, clang.
The Crow dropped in behind him.
Jake lunged for the bottom hatch but slipped, his knee slamming the floor. He turned, crab-walking backward, eyes locked on the machine. The Crow was already unfolding its limbs, head low, sensing the enclosure.
Jake kicked backward, hands slapping the floor—and fell out of the lower hatch just in time. He hit the concrete hard, rolled, and spun toward the control interface.
The Crow advanced.
Jake slammed his palm on the external hatch control.
Seal Engaged.
With a hydraulic chuff, the hatch slammed closed beneath the Crow. A heartbeat later, the top hatch snapped shut as well, locking the machine inside.
The Crow tilted its head in confusion. For one strange moment, it stood still—almost uncertain.
Then it turned and deployed a drill from its right forearm. The bit spun up with a shrill whine and began carving into the nano-diamond from inside.
Jake didn’t hesitate.
He crouched beside the reinforced cylinder, fingers flying across his Veil Control Unit as he created the virtual node inside the tank.
A window snapped into view—coordinates, fluid type, flow controls:
- Veil Access Point – Available
- Destination: Challenger Deep / Veil Tag 101C-D
- *Pressure Warning: >15,000 PSI
- Status: Isolated, Contained, Stable
He confirmed the settings:
- Confirm: Open Veilpoint
- Diameter: 1 meter
- Direction: Vertical (local down)
- Duration: 3.00 sec
- Warning: High-Pressure Hazard
Jake looked up.
His HUD displayed the path—an ethereal outline marking where the Veil Access Point would manifest, just inside the top of the tank. A simple arrow icon extended downward.
The Crow’s drill was starting to bite into the cylinder wall. Small fracture lines spread along the inner surface like an expanding spiderweb.
He gritted his teeth.
“Showtime.”
He slammed his palm on the activation control.
A deep hum built from within the tank. The air shimmered. A moment later, space buckled—and the Veilpoint tore open.
The chamber filled with a howling sound—not of wind, but pressure. A violent column of seawater, black as oil and cold as death, erupted down through the tank.
The impact hit like the voice of a god.
THOOOM!
The entire cylinder rang like a struck bell. The Crow was crushed instantly. Its chassis slammed against the base of the tank, twisted and buckled. The limbs sheared apart like snapped branches. The rotary drill exploded in a starburst of fractured metal.
A single mechanical screech tore through the water—then silence.
Three seconds passed.
The Veilpoint collapsed with a crackling sigh. The shimmer faded.
But the water didn’t.
Jake blinked through the dark green brine pooling around the base. Inside the tank, the Crow lay in a heap of imploded plating and ruined servo-sinew.
Scrap.
He tapped the emergency pressure release valve, grinning.
But in his haste, he forgot one detail:
The tank was still pressurized.
FOOMP!
A geyser of seawater blasted out of the lower hatch and caught him square in the chest. Jake was launched off his feet and landed flat on his back in a soaked sprawl.
He lay there, stunned, staring at the ceiling. His Typhon HUD flickered like it had been slapped.
“Holy shit,” he croaked. “That actually worked.”
He sat up slowly, coughing, then tapped his comm.
“Gramps… please tell me you’re still alive.”
No answer.
Jake got to his feet, shaking off water like a dog, and turned toward the nearest corridor.
His smile faded.
“Hang on, old man.”
He ran.
***
Jake moved fast, wet boots squeaking on concrete as he rounded corridor after corridor.
A strange light flickered ahead—orange, distorted.
And then came the sound: groaning metal. A crash. Something… struggling.
Then he smelled it.
Smoke.
Jake pushed through a swinging metal door—and froze.
It was a cafeteria. Or had been once. Stainless counters. Round composite tables. Banners of melted insulation hung from the ceiling like jungle vines. Part of the far wall was aflame—something chemical burning hot and blue at its base. Smoke licked the rafters. The firelight cast long, violent shadows across the room.
Gramps was pinned.
A table lay sideways over his legs, warped and smoking at the edges. His hands gripped the lip, straining to keep it between himself and the horror bearing down on him.
The Crow.
It stalked forward, twisted and furious, moving on its legs alone. Both arms were missing—severed above the elbow. Fluids leaked from the sockets in steady pulses. Sparks danced along its shoulder nodes, dripping into the pool of firelight.
And without arms, it was somehow even more terrifying.
Its beaked head swiveled in sharp, robotic jerks, scanning Gramps for a killing angle.
Gramps kicked out with one leg and nearly lost his grip. “Jake!” he shouted, wild-eyed. “Get out of here! It’s—”
Jake didn’t wait.
He grabbed the nearest object with weight—a metal food cart tipped on its side—and held it tight in front of him. With a shout, he charged, hurling himself forward like a human battering ram.
CLANG!
The cart smashed into the Crow’s side with a teeth-rattling crash, Jake’s full weight driving it home. The machine staggered, lost its footing, and crashed to the floor in a tangle of limbs and sparks. It skidded across the cafeteria, colliding with a row of overturned chairs.
Jake dropped the cart and vaulted the table to reach Gramps. “Can you move?”
“Define move,” Gramps grunted.
Together, they shoved the warped table just enough. Jake hooked his arms under Gramps’ and dragged him clear—both of them half-stumbling, half-limping toward the exit.
Behind them, the Crow shrieked—a horrible, glitching screech that echoed through the firelit room. Servos whined. Something sparked.
It was getting back up.
Jake and Gramps burst through the door.
***
They waddled around a corner, leaning on one another, into a wide, empty storage bay—cold, dark, and silent.
Too silent.
Jake’s eyes swept the space. No doors. No cover. No exits.
“Shit,” Gramps muttered.
They slid down against the far wall. Jake was soaked, bruised, borderline concussed. Gramps was bleeding from one arm, and his breath rattled like something broken.
“No way out,” Jake panted. “We’re dead.”
Gramps coughed, wiped blood from his nose. “Where’s the other one?”
Jake flashed a sheepish grin. “Smashed flat. I’ll tell you about it later.”
Gramps gave him a look—then broke into a wheezing, pained laugh. “Remind me never to doubt MIT kids again.”
Jake smirked. “Me? What did you do back there? Place looked like hell on Earth.”
Gramps shrugged. “Couple of propane tanks. Overclocked plasma cutter. Improvised.”
They both chuckled—until they heard it.
Click-scrape.
That awful, metallic raking sound. Claws on concrete.
They turned.
The Crow stepped into view, dragging one ruined foot behind it. Its matte-black armor was scorched and soot-streaked. One eye flickered. Hydraulic fluid oozed from the stumps of its missing arms. Its beaked head jerked back and forth, as though disoriented… then locked onto their position.
It took a step.
Then another.
Gramps straightened beside Jake. “At least we took one with us.”
The Crow tensed—
BLAM-BLAM-BLAM-BLAM-BLAM.
A thunderous burst of 7.62 tore through the hallway.
The Crow convulsed. Armor shattered like ceramic under fire. The impact flipped it backward, scattering pieces across the floor. Sparks danced across the concrete as the wreckage slid to a halt.
From the smoke, six armored figures swept into the room, weapons raised, fanning out with surgical precision. Their suits were matte black, angular, bristling with integrated optics and reactive shielding. Their helmets resembled snarling wolves—jaws bared, eyes glowing faint crimson.
CERBERUS.
The REACT team from Eremos.
The tower guard’s emergency call had worked after all.
“Sector secure,” a voice barked over helmet comms. “You two look like hell.”
The lead soldier raised a gloved hand, and the others froze in place. His helmet folded back with a quiet hissssss, revealing a scarred, chiseled face and storm-gray eyes.
Jake squinted through the haze and caught the rank on his shoulder: Captain.
Name tape on the chestplate: Kernhauer.
Gramps collapsed to one knee, exhaling. “Took your damn time.”
Kernhauer stepped forward and helped him up. “Had to let you kids have some fun.”
“Gramps?” Jake asked.
Gramps gave a thumb up. “I’m good. Ish.”
Another CERBERUS operator rounded the corner, hauling a fire extinguisher. He glanced between Jake and Gramps.
“Fire’s out in the cafeteria,” he said. “You two sure know how to rack up a repair bill.”
“Debrief topside,” Kernhauer ordered, signaling the rest of the squad. “Let’s move.”
As the fireteam swept the bay for hostiles, Jake and Gramps were guided toward the lift—leaving behind the burned-out corridors of the Connector like a fever dream best forgotten.
***
Outside, dawn was breaking across the New Mexico desert, bleeding soft orange light over rust-colored rock.
The dust had settled.
The Crows were scrap.
The black site—Desolation—was secure once again.
CERBERUS operatives moved like phantoms across the yard, sealing entry points, launching recon drones, and running threat diagnostics on every surface—like the war wasn’t quite over.
Jake and Gramps sat in two folding chairs in front of the coordination trailer, both dazed and dead on their feet.
Captain Kernhauer stood nearby, datapad in hand. He preferred his briefings vertical, but the two men looked like they might pass out at any second. He flicked through pages of damage reports, bot telemetry, and live-captured combat footage.
His expression didn’t change—until he reached the end.
“That Veil-stunt you pulled with the pressure tank?” he said, not looking up. “Cleanest bot kill I’ve seen outside a sim.”
He smirked.
“Remind me to make you an honorary member of my team.”
Jake blinked.
Kernhauer turned to his second-in-command—a towering soldier with deep brown skin and regulation-sharp posture. Master Sergeant Doakes.
“Patch him.”
Doakes stepped forward, peeled the Cerberus insignia from his own sleeve, and slapped it onto Jake’s chest with a firm clap.
“Don’t let it go to your head, nerd.”
Jake stared at him, wide-eyed.
Doakes leaned in, grinning. “Used to sling Veiltech myself. Hated it. Too quiet. Not enough action.”
Jake’s eyes welled—just a little. He looked down at the patch.
His fingers closed around it like it was the Medal of Honor.
“You two held the line,” Doakes said simply. “PHOENIX won’t forget that.”
Then he turned, walking back to the formation—helmet under one arm, jaw set like a man who didn’t give out compliments often.
Kernhauer finally looked up.
“You did good,” he said, voice flat but sincere. “Eremos is secure because of your work. Minimal infrastructure loss. We lost some people—not your fault. But no data exfiltration. That’s key.”
He turned his gaze on Gramps.
“You still got it, old man.”
Gramps smirked. “We were just finishing up. Hope we didn’t void any warranties.”
Doakes let out a rare chuckle.
Then, the coordination trailer’s side door opened—and Elena DuChamp stepped out.
Calm. Poised. Impeccable, even amid the wreckage. She took in the chaos with clinical detachment, arms crossed.
Jake raised a tentative hand. “Hey…”
She didn’t wave.
But she gave him a single nod—and a slow, deliberate thumbs-up.
Jake turned to Gramps. “Was that… approval?”
Gramps squinted. “From DuChamp? That’s practically a hug.”
Kernhauer resealed his helmet. The snarling wolf-face snapped into place with a quiet hiss.
“We’re sweeping the lower levels,” he said. “You’re off the hook.”
He gestured for his team to fan out.
“Try to stay out of trouble.”
CERBERUS disappeared into the Connector facility, weapons up. One by one, the wolves descended into the dark.
Gramps clapped Jake on the shoulder. “Come on, kid.”
“Where?”
Gramps nodded toward the battered SUV parked near the gate.
“Breakfast,” he said. “My treat.”
***
The coffee was black enough to strip paint. Early light slatted through blinds, turning the Formica gold. Jake sat in a corner booth, still in his dust-streaked coveralls, the Cerberus patch on the table before him. He turned it in his fingers, mind elsewhere.
He couldn’t stop seeing that ASPHODEL door. The hum. And the gurney in the Connector with its blood-crusted restraints. Harvest prep. The words itched under his skin.
“Something on your mind, kid?” Gramps asked, pouring a splash from his dented flask into his coffee.
Jake hesitated. “What’s really going on down there? In Eremos?”
Gramps took a slow sip. “A lot more than you can imagine. My advice? Don’t dwell on it. Don’t let it get to you.”
“And you’re okay with that? With what we saw down there?”
“I’m okay with doing my job and going home alive.” Gramps’s tone softened. “Look, I’ve been with Phoenix for decades. Got clearances most people don’t know exist, and I’ve still barely scratched the surface of their secrets. But one thing I’ve learned—everything’s done for a reason. Carefully considered.”
Jake studied him. “Yeah?”
“Yes. I know this was your first day, and it was a hell of a one. You saw things that upset you—I get it. You could walk away right now, and I wouldn’t stop you. But I think that’d be a shame.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I like you, and you’ve got a knack for the work. That’s rare these days.”
Jake’s Typhon pinged—an incoming message from Elena DuChamp:
CERBERUS posted a glowing after-action report. Commended both of you by name. A $1,000,000 performance bonus has been deposited to your accounts.
Jake blinked at the zeroes. “Gramps… are you seeing this?”
Gramps checked his own HUD and smiled. “See? This is what happens when we work hard and keep our mouths shut.”
Jake looked down at the patch in his hand, then at the laminated menu under his elbow. The corners were curled, the surface faintly sticky, and in tiny print at the bottom it read: 810 W. Pierce St. – Carlsbad, NM. Outside the window, beyond the city, the desert rolled on forever. Somewhere under that endless sand and stone, the hum of ASPHODEL was still there, patient and strange.
He forced a smile at Gramps’s next joke, but it didn’t reach his eyes.