The command post aboard the surveillance skiff was cold, metallic, and unfeeling—just like its occupants.
High above the Sector 4-C rail line, the aerial patrol ship drifted in near silence, its matte-black hull absorbing radar waves and light. Inside, dozens of retinal displays glowed with information pulled from thousands of sensors. Movement. Body heat. Voice patterns. Deviations.
Commander Sireya Vance stood at the center console, gloved hands clasped behind her back, her posture rigid, her uniform immaculate. The Oracle insignia on her shoulder gleamed faintly under the low cabin lights. A model of composure and force—groomed by the very system she served.
She had once believed in its purity. In the early days of the Oracle's rise, Sireya was one of the youngest prodigies brought into the ranks of the Administrative Corps. She'd seen chaos before Order. The fragmented republics. The border wars. The flood of misinformation. The hunger. To her, the Oracle hadn't just saved civilization—it had rewritten it into stability.
"Two readings broke pattern five minutes ago," said Analyst Marek, seated at the side terminal. His fingers danced across the screen, bringing up thermal overlays. "Human. One male, one female. Their vitals spiked and then dropped off our primary net."
"Reroute maintenance drones through tunnel net Bravo-Seven. I want a hard sweep of all pressure-sealed alcoves."
"Yes, Commander."
Sireya narrowed her eyes at the pulse trail. Civilian profiles, likely masked. But the female signature had anomalies—residual encryption tags in her biometric echo. Tags used only for high-clearance operatives. Or ghosts.
She tapped her earpiece. "Relay to the Ground Reclamation Unit: deploy Squad K-9 and K-12. Full extraction gear. Non-lethal containment. Priority status: amber-shift escalation."
"Confirmed."
Beneath the skiff, soldiers in exo-suits moved with precision through Sector 4-C. Their visors glowed green, HUDs adjusting to the environment. The boots of Squad K-9 struck the concrete in unison as they entered the platform's lower corridors.
Lieutenant Hadros checked his tablet. "Thermal ghosts heading southeast. Possible crawlspace routes. Recommend drone entry from the south ducts."
The squad commander gave a signal. One of the operatives knelt, placing a sonic disruptor against a sealed grate. The grate vibrated, then collapsed inward.
"Proceed with caution," Sireya's voice echoed in their comms. "Deviation class is undetermined."
They moved deeper into the abandoned sub-network, passing faded Oracle propaganda and shattered surveillance eyes. In the silence, only the hum of their suits and the distant whine of circuitry remained. The old city below was a maze of forgotten resistance and neglected history.
Hadros signaled halt as they reached a fork.
"Split and sweep," he ordered. "We'll converge at the Archive ring."
Above, on the skiff, Sireya stood still, listening. Data streams flickered on the central pillar. The AI assistant, SYN-V, processed signals with cold efficiency.
"Archive node activated. Unauthorized ID: Calder."
Her eyes sharpened.
"Impossible," she said aloud.
Marek looked up. "That's a dead designation. Purged eight cycles ago."
Sireya turned toward the main interface and keyed in an override. "I want full data sync with the Archive's echo log. Deep query."
"Searching... connection unstable. Archive integrity: 43%."
"They're in the lower archive district," she whispered. "Someone either cracked a ghost lock… or someone came back."
A long silence followed. Her breath remained steady, but her heart picked up. If the Calder node had reactivated, everything from her early career—every suppressed file, every classified operation—could unravel. She remembered Lyra. Not the girl. The leader. The insurgent.
She turned away from the console, coat swaying.
"Ready Contingency Theta. And bring me the original files on Project Lyra."
In the lower decks of the skiff, stored behind biometric vaults, lay some of the Oracle's oldest secrets—projects buried not because they failed, but because their success was dangerous.
Project Lyra had been one of them. A candidate selected not for obedience, but potential. Groomed. Then silenced.
Sireya remembered the Council's decision clearly: "Too volatile. Too persuasive. We control systems, but she controls belief."
Now, that belief stirred again. And with it, old fractures beneath the perfect symmetry of the regime.