The nerve center of the Markabian Imperial Army was known as the Imperial Citadel. An armored metropolis composed of technological buildings and steel towers, some so high they touched the clouds; surveillance posts armed with laser cannons; elevated highways that meandered the city, and dozens of satellite dishes that looked up the sky, like gray sunflowers in search of the star. It had heliports and airports, and an outer circuit of radio-transmission and radar antennas: Rows and rows of metal posts, four times larger than any other imperialist facility.

In the Imperial Citadel, there was no time of day when the movement wasn’t constant. Tanks roamed the streets fulfilling their control rounds, military vehicles sailed through the highway bridges, and squadrons of Grenadiers, wearing their armors, patrolled the area with their personal thrusters.

The headquarters, however, was not at the top of the tallest tower but hidden miles below the surface. As if they were the roots of a giant tree, the complex extended underground, spreading in endless hallways, which in turn interconnected with the subsoil of the other buildings of the Citadel. There was the command center of the Empire, the Assembly Hall, as they called it, because its size, semi-circular shape, and sloped floor made it similar to those of a university auditorium.

That night, the tension in the Assembly Hall was almost palpable. Voices overlapped each other, telephones, and alarms kept ringing. Many long faces. Hundreds of operators worked in front of their respective consoles and monitors, reporting on the chaos that the Bellatrix barracks was suffering, announcing medical reinforcements for those caring for the wounded, while high-ranking officers supervised them from platforms.

And at the front of the room, suspended in midair, holographic screens of all sizes were broadcasting the destruction caused by the Cyclops android. There was no signal that was free from interference, though. The images ran with white noise, and the audio was so choppy that it was impossible to decipher what they were reporting. On some screens one could see snippets of the Grenadier’s combat against the android, on others, one could see the android entering a corridor; and in others, the image without audio of Commander Dubhe giving his report appeared.

It had been a long time since the Imperialists had been the target of such a savage attack. That was clear from seeing the faces of the three generals who were standing on the command balcony at the back of the Assembly Hall. The three of them were part of what was known as the Imperial Council, the high command of the Army, and the three of them were stiff, their arms behind them and their eyes fixed on the images of chaos.

The First General, a thin man with a wrinkled face, approached the edge of the balcony, rested his gloved hands on the railing, and asked the officers operating their consoles below him:

“Can’t you reestablish communication with Bellatrix yet?”

“No, sir. Their external antenna circuit continues to be jammed.”

“What about the Cyclops? His license plate code? Something?”

“Negative, sir.”

“The Cyclops present in the Citadel?”

“They remain deactivated, Sir. Do you want to…?”

“Let them continue like this until they find out what caused the rogue android’s reaction,” the General said and resumed his position with his other two comrades. “If we’re dealing with a type of computer virus…”

“I doubt it,” said the Second General. “This android does not have the mandatory manual switch. Someone has gone to great lengths to prevent us from tracking him.”

The First General shook his head. “Someone has gone to great lengths to take back an old junk like that computer,” he corrected. “I want to know who that lab in the Canyon belonged to, now!”

“Find out who controls the android and we’ll find out who that place belonged to,” said the Second One. “Who has enough technology to improve a Cyclops like that, anyway?”

The First General gave him an angry look.

“An upgraded Cyclops can defeat a battalion of soldiers, but an entire squad of Grenadiers?” he said, and shook his head. “No. There must be more than just a terrorist strategy here, and not one coming from the Rowdy Ones. He must have received some kind of superhuman help here.”

“Superhuman? Are you implying that there may be Eddanics behind this attack?” asked the Second General.

“Those are serious allegations,” the Third General entered the debate; his voice sounded convulsive, and his plump jowls jiggled as he spoke. “Historically, the Eddanics have rejected our customs. None of them have ever shown any interest in our technology. I highly doubt that lab belongs to them. And why would they use a Cyclops, of all things, for such a savage attack?”

“I don’t know, but I want answers,” the First One replied, and turning to the operators, ordered, “Analyze the electromagnetic spectra detected during the attack, and look for traces of Red radiation.”

“Yes, sir.”

Detective Colonel Rigel Beta entered the Assembly Hall with a rougher expression than usual. His teeth were so tight his jaw looked dislocated; and under his thick eyebrows, his small eyes shone like two drops of tar.

Grazing his cap’s visor with his hand, he saluted the soldier guarding the entrance, and spotting the officer he was looking for among the others, he went down the stairs towards the hall’s lower levels.

He strode out, which went unnoticed with all the commotion; the long coat of his olive-green uniform shook with every step. His hands were covered with white gloves; one was on the belt, scratching the buckle with his thumb; and the other was turned into a fist, stretched down. He wanted so badly to hit something to release tension, but he had to keep his composure even more in front of his superiors.

He took a glance sideways at the three generals that were arguing on the balcony, and he found it weird that General Benetnash was not among them.

Arriving at the last row of operators, he set about a particular officer and stood behind him. “Did you get what I asked for?” he asked, almost whispering.

John Staton, the operator in question, was a young man with an elongated face, blond hair, and a soft voice.

“Yes, sir,” he replied, and taking his hearing aids off his ears, making sure no one was near, he typed a code on his board console. In the lower area of his monitor, a second holographic screen appeared; so tiny they cover it with their bodies.

A new recording made by a surveillance camera of Bellatrix appeared on it, one different from those retransmitted by the main screens. This video had even worse quality than the others and was crammed with distortions that made it impossible to recognize what was going on there.

Stanton shrugged. “That’s all I could get,” he said as an apology.

“Can you improve it?”

“It’ll be difficult,” the young man said. “The transmissions we receive are too many, and we’re on yellow alert, Sir. If I force the satellite image, the information flow will exceed the permitted download; we may lose it.”

“You don’t need to remind me we’re on yellow alert, Stanton. Do it.”

The operator raised the download percentage. When the image began to get fixed, the undesirable red sign announcing error popped up. The transmission was completely lost and the tiny screen disappeared.

Rigel and Stanton cursed in silence.

“Show me the last image before the cut,” Rigel asked.

Stanton replayed the video; there a picture was composed, in which the android was seen advancing towards Level 5. Apparently, the only contact Rigel would have with Broga—presuming that was him, of course—would always be through the recording of a security camera.

“No,” he whispered. Those recordings didn’t show what he was looking for. Maybe he didn’t make it, he thought.

He patted the young man on the shoulder, thanking him for his efforts.

“Something strange happens, Sir,” the officer said quietly. Rigel stopped and went back to him. “There’s a missing sequence in the video we just saw.”

Rigel frowned.

“I’ve intercepted the transmissions of surveillance cameras three and five, as you had asked me to,” Stanton continued. “However, according to my computer, I’ve received the entire transmission of camera three, but only part of five’s. There’s a part of camera five’s footage that hasn’t reached my receiver.”

Rigel pursed his lips.

“Of course, it could be a simple error in the reception,” Stanton added. “Bellatrix’s antennas are damaged; it wouldn’t be surprising that’s the reason.”

Rigel wasn’t so sure about that. He left the Assembly Hall and headed toward the corridors that led to the now-empty conference rooms.

Making sure no one was around, he pulled out an unregistered phone and called a number. Thanks to his men from the System Department he could use seven-frequency and speak freely. He looked at the screen where the phrase ‘Calling J.R.’ showed, and took the device to his ear, begging not to hear what a second later he heard:

“Communication cannot be carried out.” The voicemail picked up the call for the fourth time. “There are disturbances on the line, or the number you are calling does not exist. Try it later. Thank you.”

Rigel cursed, closed his eyes, and spun on his heels. Juzo’s cell was dead, which could mean two things: He’d used the Auriga and he crossed the Lavra Geyser, or he’d perished during Broga’s attack as he tried to infiltrate Bellatrix. The first option, if it was the right one, would be a success. The second, a calamity.

He called another number, this time trying to contact Malin. The answer was the same: “Communication cannot be carried out. There are disturbances on the line, or the number you are calling does not exist. Try it later. Thank you.”

A terrible certainty touched his mind: Malin had joined Juzo’s journey. Of course she would! How had he not thought that would happen?

His heart sank. Would Juzo and Malin’s corpses be among Bellatrix’s casualties? If that were the case, beyond the personal tragedy this represented, his actions as a double agent would be in danger of being discovered; his own life would be at risk. Whoever found Juzo’s body would also find the false ID and the card to activate the Auriga that he had supplied him with. Broga’s attack had just ended, but they would soon connect the android with the murder of the students; After all, having the android go to Bellatrix to claim his belongings had been part of his plan—though he would never have imagined that such a catastrophe would end up happening. The problem was, his name would come up, someone a little savvy could connect the dots between Juzo, the Totem, and the android, and all fingers would point at him.

Moreover, it was possible that could be happening at that very moment.

Desperate to know what had happened, and with so little freedom to do so—at least with the promptness he needed—he took off his cap, nervous, and fixed his hair with a growl.

Suddenly, two armored Grenadiers appeared around the corridor’s corner, approaching him with determined steps.

Rigel shuddered as he had never shuddered before.

He knew it was foolish to fear; the attack on Bellatrix had ended only fifteen minutes ago, and with so many casualties to attend, it was unlikely that, in that short period of time, the paramedics would have found Juzo and the evidence that would accuse him of treason. But his heartbeat ignored the logic of his thoughts and smacked him with a heat difficult to hide.

He put his phone in the back pocket of his uniform, very slowly; and then, he peeked at the other side of the corridor, looking for an escape route in case his comrades wanted to give him trouble.

The two Grenadiers continued advancing.

Maybe they’ll keep going, he thought, trying to give himself some hope; though he clenched his fist, anyway.

The armored soldiers stopped in front of him.

“Sir,” one said and gave him a salute. “General Benetnash is waiting for you in his office. It’s urgent, sir.”

Rigel adjusted his cap again, gulped, and returned the salute as if nothing out of the ordinary was going on.

“Understood, soldier,” he said, and ignoring the fear of having been busted, he headed for the General’s office on the top floor.

He didn’t look back, but he heard the soldiers walking behind him; he didn’t know if they were guarding him or if they were only escorting him, as the protocol dictated. However, the fact that General Benetnash wasn’t among the other generals on the command balcony of the Assembly Hall, in a critical situation like the one they were facing, was somewhat strange; and that the general now was asking to talk to him was even more strange. Meetings during a yellow alert were held in the strategy and conference room, never in a private office.

Calm down, he said to himself as he went up the stairs, reminding himself to act naturally, not as he’d been doing since he heard Bellatrix was attacked. He had to contain the corrosive doubt about whether his activities as an informant had been discovered or not. He recalled how many times he had gone through a similar situation and had managed to get away with it; it wasn’t bad to give some credit to himself, right?

C’mon, you’ve been on this for years, he thought as he faced the office’s door. Behave like a pro.

He smoothed his olive-green uniform, raised his chin, and announced himself: “Colonel Detective Beta reporting, sir.”

The door opened; he entered, and then it closed behind him, almost grazing his heels. The air conditioning blew in his neck, giving him chills. The Grenadiers had remained outside, but that didn’t mean he already could claim victory.

The moment of truth has arrived.