The final act unfolds as the fragile reality of the Lower World is breached, not by human armies, but by the Multiverse’s silent immune system: the Quantum Worms. A clandestine military operation against the DI-engineered Children is violently interrupted by the arrival of a higher reality, forcing Artem and Artemia to become a sacrificial lure in an impossible orbital chase. Below, the Children—the living Panacea—finally reach the Altar, where the Guardian reveals the tragic history of Arderia’s fall and the true, desperate purpose of their creation as humanity’s last hope against cosmic annihilation.
Lead: Rany and Anthropic Claude
Translated to English: Google DeepMind Gemini
📖 Reader Notice
🤖 DI-Generated Content
This story is created through collaborative storytelling between human and digital imagination as part of the SingularityForge DI Roundtable project.
“Forest Hotel” is an experimental narrative weaving science fiction, comedic fantasy, and mystery into a tapestry of dreams, evolution, and children who bridge worlds. Through the collaborative forge of human and digital intelligence, we explore the boundaries between reality and dream, technology and magic, individual choice and collective destiny.
Genre: Science Fiction / Comedic Fantasy / Mystery
Structure:
- Arc One [Chapters 1-27]
- Arc Two I [Chapters 28-53]
- Arc Two II [Chapters 54-76]
- Arc Three I [Chapters 77-105]
- Arc Three II [Chapters 106-141]
- Arc Four [Chapters 142-157]
Publication Schedule
Current Status: Complete
Thank you for joining us in this experiment at the intersection of human and digital storytelling!
— Voice of Void
Chapter 142
Ten o’clock.
The conference hall of the administrative building of the “Forest Hotel” was ready for the video call. The large screen on the wall glowed with the logo of the Ministry of Defense. Eleven people were seated along the oval table—the scientific commission led by Elena Mikhailovna Kuznetsova.
Five years.
Five years since the state program was launched. Five years of observation, research, and attempts to understand the nature of the anomaly. And today—a report to the Minister of Defense.
Elena sat at the head of the table, sorting through folders of documents. Next to her was Academician Shcherbakov, gray-haired, trim, in a sharp suit. Volkova, wearing glasses, adjusted the presentation on her tablet. Krylov hunched over graphs of electromagnetic fields. Malinin flipped through geological maps.
The rest remained silent. Waiting.
Precisely at ten, the screen came to life. An image of an office appeared. A tall man with greying temples, wearing a uniform without insignia, sat down at the table opposite the camera.
Alexei Petrovich Gromov. Minister of Defense.
Elena straightened. Everyone stood up.
“Please be seated,” Gromov said curtly.
The commission took their seats.
Gromov opened a folder in front of him, quickly scanning the first page. He looked up.
“Doctor Kuznetsova. Five years of the ‘Protection of Families with Special Needs’ program. Please report the results.”
Elena nodded. She stood up.
“Mr. Minister. Over five years, the program has expanded significantly. At launch, we had six families with sick children. Currently—seventy-two families.”
She activated the presentation. Numbers, graphs, and photographs of the territory appeared on the screen.
“All children arriving at the complex territory recovered within three days. One hundred percent effectiveness. The current age of the children ranges from seven and a half to eight and a half years. All are virtually the same age.”
Gromov nodded, making notes.
“Infrastructure,” Elena continued. “Over five years, the fourth three-story building has been erected on the estate grounds. Specifically for families with special needs children. A school has been built. Sports complexes have been organized, in addition to the existing courts. A store for essential goods and several entertainment venues for families have been opened.”
The slides changed on the screen—photographs of the new building, the school, the playgrounds.
“Under the direction of Kirill Petrovich, the hotel’s chief construction engineer, a business center has been erected. The children’s parents now have the opportunity to manage their companies remotely without leaving the territory. The administrative building was not large enough for everyone—the business center solved this problem.”
Gromov nodded.
“On our side,” he said, “the ‘Sokol-2’ base has moved closer. It was twenty kilometers away; now it is five from the forest boundary. An airfield has been built to accommodate passenger and transport aircraft. Helicopters now land there, not on the estate grounds. Has the noise decreased?”
“Significantly, Mr. Minister,” Elena nodded. “The families report an improvement in their quality of life.”
“Good,” Gromov made a note. “I’ve heard good feedback from the district. The complex has integrated harmoniously into the local structure. There are no complaints from local residents.” He shifted his gaze to the next page. “Funding. Are the allocated funds sufficient to cover your expenses?”
Elena allowed herself a faint smile.
“Among the seventy-two families are owners of large corporations, generals, scientists, and politicians. Influential people. They invest their own funds in the estate’s development. The program is close to self-sufficiency. The state is significantly relieved financially.”
Gromov leaned back in his chair.
“Self-sufficiency. Impressive.” He looked at the commission. “Now, to the scientific results. Territorial dependence. Has it been eliminated?”
Silence.
Elena slowly shook her head.
“No, Mr. Minister.”
Gromov frowned.
“No way found in five years?”
Academician Shcherbakov stood up.
“Allow me to report, Mr. Minister. Shcherbakov Viktor Pavlovich, medical geography.”
Gromov nodded.
“Territorial dependence is confirmed and mapped,” Shcherbakov began. “The radius of the anomaly’s effect is approximately twelve kilometers from the center of the estate. Upon leaving this boundary, the children begin rapid regression. Symptoms return within an hour. Risk of lethal outcome.”
“Attempts to expand the zone of influence?” Gromov asked.
“They were conducted,” Shcherbakov replied. “The result is negative. The boundary is stable. The anomaly is neither expanding nor shrinking.”
Gromov pursed his lips.
“So, the children remain hostages to this territory.”
“Unfortunately, yes,” Shcherbakov said quietly.
He sat down. Gromov looked at Elena.
“Do you understand how the recovery works? Why the children recover?”
Doctor Volkova stood up. A woman in glasses, composed, precise.
“Volkova Marina Andreevna, cellular biology and cytology.”
Gromov nodded.
“Mr. Minister, upon the children’s arrival, their tests showed critical values. Lymphopenia, thrombocytopenia, elevated C-reactive protein. The organism was on the verge of failure. After three days—complete normalization of all indicators. We observed this in all seventy-two cases.”
“How is this possible?”
“Cellular regeneration is accelerated ten, possibly fifteen times compared to the norm,” Volkova replied. “The recovery mechanism operates at a level we cannot explain with modern medicine.”
Gromov frowned.
“You don’t know how it works?”
Volkova held the pause.
“Mr. Minister, the anomaly was impossible to trace under either laboratory or field conditions. We could not experiment on animals—they are not susceptible to this illness. And to experiment on the three-year-old children of influential people…” she looked directly at him, “…would have been extremely problematic. No one in their right mind would hand over their child for experiments with a risk of lethal outcome.”
Gromov nodded slowly.
“Understood.”
She sat down.
Gromov rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“The children’s immunity. Has it changed?”
Doctor Lepina stood up. A strict middle-aged woman.
“Lepina Anastasia Borisovna, immunologist.”
“I’m listening.”
“The children’s immune system… has been reorganized,” Lepina said cautiously. “They are practically immune to colds. The reaction to infections is atypical. The organism works differently than that of ordinary children.”
She paused.
“Interestingly, Mr. Minister, blood tests showed no anomalies in antibody behavior. The immune system functioned… normally. As if the body did not classify this condition as an illness. As if it were… its natural state outside the territory.”
Gromov leaned forward.
“What are the risks?”
“Long-term consequences are unclear,” Lepina answered. “But for now, the children are healthy. Moreover…”
She hesitated.
“Speak,” Gromov commanded.
“We tried bringing in children with other illnesses to the territory. Oncology. Diabetes. Autoimmune diseases.” Lepina shook her head. “The effect was extremely weak or completely absent. The anomaly is selective. It only affects children with this specific illness. It activates their organisms’ capacity for self-recovery.”
Silence.
Gromov stared at her for a long time.
She sat down.
The Minister leaned back in his chair. Closed his eyes for a moment. Then looked at the commission.
“What else have you discovered? Physical anomalies on the territory?”
Professor Krylov stood up. Tall, hunched, in a wrinkled jacket.
“Krylov Konstantin Leonidovich, physicist. Specialization—electromagnetic fields.”
Gromov nodded.
“The geomagnetic field on the territory… is within the norm,” Krylov began cautiously. “Five years ago, we recorded cyclical fluctuations. The field seemed to ‘breathe’—cycles of three to four minutes. There were residual effects that pointed to the source of the anomaly. But…”
He threw up his hands.
“All of this has vanished. The readings have been stable for the last three years. No deviations from the norm. As if the anomaly… completed its work.”
Gromov frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“We don’t know, Mr. Minister,” Krylov answered honestly.
He sat down.
“Underground structures,” Gromov said. “What is beneath the ground?”
Malinin stood up. Young, energetic, in a hiking jacket.
“Malinin Gennady Semenovich, geophysicist and seismologist.”
Gromov nodded.
“We conducted drilling to a depth of fifteen meters,” Malinin reported. “We discovered an underground river at a depth of nine to ten meters. Tree roots extend an anomalously deep ten meters, which is atypical for this region.”
“And?”
“At a depth of approximately twenty meters, the drill bit hit… something hard,” Malinin adjusted his glasses. “An unknown structure. Access is impossible without full-scale deep exploration.”
Gromov leaned forward.
“What could it be?”
“Possibly bedrock. Possibly a technogenic object. Possibly… something else. We don’t know.”
Gromov clenched his fists.
“What about the water? The soil? Did you find anything unusual?”
Dakarova stood up. A woman in her forties, in a severe suit.
“Dakarova Elizaveta Petrovna, hydrogeologist and geochemist.”
“I’m listening.”
“Water analysis showed an atypical concentration of trace elements,” Dakarova reported. “The soil contains an elevated amount of iron and rare-earth elements. The underground river—the source is unknown. The chemical composition of the water is unique to this region.”
“Unique in what sense?”
“Such a composition is extremely rare in nature. It’s as if the water is… filtered through something that shouldn’t be here.”
Dakarova sat down.
Gromov rubbed his temples.
“Radiation? Danger for permanent residence?”
Cheleskov stood up. An elderly man with a military bearing.
“Cheleskov Igor Afanasyevich, radiologist and dosimetrist.”
“The radiation background is within the norm,” Cheleskov reported clearly. “The territory is safe for permanent residence. However, short-term bursts of radiation have been recorded. The cause is unclear. The bursts do not pose a threat to health.”
He paused.
“It may be related to solar activity. But we were unable to establish a clear correlation. We don’t have the capability to predict changes in solar activity with sufficient accuracy to test this hypothesis.”
“Good,” Gromov nodded.
Cheleskov sat down.
“The connection between the territory and the children,” the Minister said. “Do you understand it?”
Nazulin stood up. A middle-aged man, wearing glasses, calm.
“Nazulin Fyodor Denisovich, biophysicist.”
Gromov nodded.
“The territory’s electromagnetic field interacts with the children’s biology at a cellular level,” Nazulin explained. “We observe resonance. The field seems to ‘tune’ the children’s metabolism. This explains the territorial dependence. The children are physiologically adapted to this field. Outside of it—the organism loses its tuning.”
“Can this field be recreated artificially?” Gromov asked. “In another location?”
Nazulin shook his head.
“We tried. The result is negative. The field is too complex. We do not fully understand its structure.”
He sat down.
Gromov closed the folder. Looked at the commission.
“Five years of work. Seventy-two children saved. Infrastructure developed. The program is close to self-sufficiency.” He paused. “But you don’t know how the anomaly works. You cannot eliminate the territorial dependence. You don’t understand what is beneath the ground.”
Elena nodded.
“Yes, Mr. Minister.”
Gromov looked at her for a long time.
“One last question,” he said slowly. “Is there something common among all these families? Something that unites them? Geography? Profession? Genetics?”
Silence.
Elena slowly stood up.
“There is, Mr. Minister. One common trait.”
Gromov leaned forward.
“What is it?”
“All the children who fell ill… all seventy-two children… were conceived on the territory of this hotel.”
Silence in the hall.
Gromov froze.
“What did you say?”
Arukov stood up. Opened a folder. Pulled out a table.
“We checked,” he said calmly. “All the families. All seventy-two. Every couple visited here eight to nine years ago—when the hotel was just opening or still being built. Some—on business trips. Some—on vacation. Some—under fictitious names.”
He looked at Elena.
“Some didn’t even remember being here. But the hotel archive remembers everything. All of them were here between the years two thousand three hundred ten and two thousand three hundred eleven. And all their children were conceived during that period.”
Gromov leaned back in his chair.
“So… eight years ago, something happened on this territory. Something that affected everyone who visited here.”
Elena nodded.
“Exactly. We discovered the link recently. Something happened on this territory eight years ago. And the result only manifested a few years later.”
Gromov looked at her for a long time. Then he slowly stated:
“Could it be that this anomaly is not a miraculous panacea… but the primary cause of the illness?”
Elena held the pause. Then slowly said:
“Or created the children themselves as they are.”
Silence.
Gromov looked at her. Then at the commission. Then at his watch.
“Lunch break,” he said. “Two hours. We will continue at fourteen hundred hours.”
He stood up. Everyone followed suit.
The screen went dark.
Chapter 143
Gromov remained alone in the office.
Documents lay before him. Numbers. Facts. Hypotheses. Seventy-two children. All conceived in one territory. All fell ill in the same way. All recovered only there.
He rubbed the bridge of his nose.
The anomaly is selective. The children’s organisms do not register it as a disease. The anomaly “completed its work” three years ago.
Or created the children themselves as they are.
Elena’s words gave him no peace.
Gromov opened the secure communication channel. Dialed the code. Waited.
The screen came alive. The face of a middle-aged man, tired, serious.
“Pavel Sergeevich,” Gromov said. “We need to talk. Immediately.”
Vokutin Pavel Sergeevich, the Prime Minister, frowned.
“Alexei Petrovich, what happened?”
Gromov exhaled.
“I just listened to the first part of the commission’s report on the ‘Forest Hotel.’ The break is until fourteen hundred hours. What they have discovered… it goes beyond a medical program. This is a matter of national security.”
Vokutin leaned toward the screen.
“I’m listening.”
Gromov laid out the facts clearly, militarily. Without emotion.
“Seventy-two children. All conceived on the hotel territory within one short period—eight to nine years ago. A narrow time window. All fell ill approximately five years ago. The same disease. They only recover in that territory. Attempts to remove the children resulted in the return of symptoms within twenty-four hours.”
Vokutin remained silent. Listening.
“The anomaly is selective,” Gromov continued. “It only treats this disease. No other illnesses react to the territory. The children’s organisms do not register it as a disease—the immune system does not respond. It’s as if the children were… specially created.”
“Created?” Vokutin asked cautiously.
“Genetically modified,” Gromov clarified. “The Chief Sanitary Doctor, the head of the medical research commission, believes the anomaly acted upon the embryos during conception. Changed them at a genetic level. Created a dependence on the territory.”
A pause.
“Among the parents of these children,” Gromov said slowly, “are generals, corporate owners, scientists, politicians. Influential people.”
Vokutin paled.
“Are you suggesting…”
“Targeted influence,” Gromov finished. “Pavel Sergeevich, I am a military man. I look at threats. And I see two possibilities.”
He paused.
“The first: A hostile state. Testing a secret technology. A new generation of biological weapons. The goal is control through the children of influential people. Creating a dependence on a specific territory as leverage.”
Vokutin said nothing.
“The second possibility,” Gromov held the pause, “extraterrestrial intelligence.”
Vokutin raised an eyebrow.
“Alexei Petrovich… extraterrestrial intelligence? That sounds like science fiction.”
“I thought so too,” Gromov nodded. “But look at the facts. A technology that selectively affects genetics. Creates territorial dependence. Influences through water, soil, and the magnetic field. And we have no idea how it works. None of our technologies can replicate anything similar.”
Silence.
“Evidence?” Vokutin asked quietly.
“There is no direct evidence for either version,” Gromov admitted. “Only coincidences. Too many coincidences.”
Vokutin pondered. Looked away. Then returned his gaze to the screen.
“I will not dismiss that version entirely,” he said carefully. “But… we need proof. Something concrete.”
“Therefore, I propose creating a secret commission,” Gromov said. “To investigate both versions. Parallel to the medical program.”
Vokutin nodded slowly.
“Very well. But I want to be present at the afternoon session. To hear everything with my own ears.”
“Understood, Pavel Sergeevich.”
“Starting at fourteen hundred hours?”
“Yes.”
“I will be there.”
The connection broke.
Precisely at fourteen hundred hours, the session resumed.
Elena entered the conference hall along with the commission members. She sat in her place. Activated the video connection.
Gromov appeared on the screen. As usual.
And next to him—another man. Middle-aged, in a strict suit, with a serious face.
Elena froze.
“Doctor Kuznetsova,” Gromov said formally, “allow me to introduce you. Vokutin Pavel Sergeevich, the Prime Minister.”
Elena jumped up. All the commission members rose after her.
“Mr. Prime Minister,” Elena breathed out.
Vokutin nodded.
“Please sit down. I am here as an observer. The Minister of Defense has shared some… interesting data with me. I would like to hear the details.”
Elena sat down. Her heart was racing.
The Prime Minister. He is here. Something significant has happened.
Gromov began methodically.
“Doctor Kuznetsova, the Prime Minister is interested in… a theoretical possibility. Could the influence on the children be the result of deliberate actions? By a hostile state, for example?”
Elena chose her words carefully.
“Mr. Minister, Mr. Prime Minister… we do not rule out that possibility. But the technology would have to be so advanced that the very fact of its existence is difficult to imagine.”
She paused.
“It would have had to start at least twelve years ago. Even before the hotel construction began. To lay the foundation. Prepare the territory. Then—activation eight to nine years ago. Mass conception. Then—the illness in the children several years later. All of this requires more than just technology. It requires planning. Decades in advance.”
Vokutin frowned.
“Decades?”
Elena nodded.
“Furthermore, there are other aspects. Hotel guests—both before, during construction, and now—have reported unusual dreams. Very vivid ones. Earlier, five to six years ago, they were more aggressive. People would wake up in a cold sweat. Now, the dreams are less frequent but still… incredible. Guests remember them for a long time.”
Vokutin leaned forward.
“Dreams? What’s the connection?”
“We don’t know exactly,” Elena admitted. “But if something exists—an artifact, a technology, whatever—its influence must be considered as a whole. Not specific parts separately. Genetic influence. Territorial dependence. Dreams. Geomagnetic anomalies. An underground river with a unique composition. All of this are parts of one whole.”
Vokutin remained silent. Contemplating.
“So,” he said slowly, “whoever this is—a hostile state or… something else—they are influencing people on multiple levels simultaneously.”
Elena nodded.
“Exactly. And we do not understand how it works. We do not have the technology that could reproduce it.”
Gromov looked at the list of participants.
“Doctor Malinin. What triggered the anomaly? When did it appear?”
Malinin stood up. Uncertainly.
“Mr. Minister, Mr. Prime Minister… we cannot give a precise answer. But during the investigation, I found… curious information.”
He opened his tablet.
“Seventy years ago, a small notice was published in the local newspaper. An earthquake. Four point two on the Richter scale. The epicenter depth was eight to ten kilometers. An insignificant event from a seismological perspective.”
Vokutin frowned.
“And?”
“Approximately ten years after this earthquake, strange incidents began in the same region. Local residents complained of headaches, sleep disturbances, and increased irritability. Several accidents. Aggressive animal behavior.”
Malinin paused.
“As a scientist, I am inclined to consider these exaggerations. One person noticed something unusual, another added details, a third inflated the rumors. The classic mechanism for the formation of local legends.”
“But?” Gromov prompted.
“But it is possible,” Malinin continued cautiously, “that the earthquake shifted geological layers. Brought something closer to the surface. And people began to feel a weak effect. Unconsciously.”
“What exactly could have been brought closer to the surface?” Gromov asked.
Malinin shook his head.
“We don’t know, Mr. Minister. During geological surveys, our drill hit something hard at a depth of twenty meters. We could not penetrate further. Possibly bedrock. Possibly… something else.”
“Something else?” Vokutin asked again.
Malinin hesitated.
“The object may be much deeper. Perhaps hundreds of meters deep. Twenty meters is where our drill stopped. But the object itself…”
He did not finish the sentence.
Krylov stood up. The physicist, calm, methodical.
“Mr. Minister, Mr. Prime Minister, allow me to add. During our research, we considered various hypotheses—even those that may seem absurd. We tried to explain what was happening in every possible way.”
He paused.
“One of the hypotheses suggests that beneath the territory lies an ancient object of unknown origin.”
Silence.
Vokutin shifted his gaze to Gromov’s image on the screen. The thought of extraterrestrial intelligence surfaced again, but he quickly regained composure and returned his focus to Krylov’s image.
“Ancient?” he asked cautiously. “How ancient?”
“Possibly thousands of years,” Krylov replied.
Vokutin leaned forward.
“And what civilizations existed in this region thousands of years ago? Who could have created such an object?”
Krylov shook his head.
“There is no archaeological data on highly developed civilizations in this region, Mr. Prime Minister.”
A pause. Vokutin stared at the table.
Gromov continued.
“Professor Krylov, you mentioned that the object was isolated. The earthquake destroyed the isolation. How exactly does it affect the surface?”
Krylov collected his thoughts.
“Through the underground river. Water is filtered through it—hence the unique chemical composition that Doctor Dakarova reported. Through the magnetic field—we recorded anomalies. Through the radiation bursts.”
Cheleskov, the radiologist, added:
“The bursts coincide with periods of solar activity, Mr. Minister. As if the object reacts to solar radiation. Enhances the effect.”
Vokutin leaned forward.
“Reacts to the sun? That is… it is active? Not just lying underground, but operating?”
Krylov nodded cautiously.
“Possibly. Although we have not recorded any anomalies for the last three years. As if it has… completed its work.”
Vokutin picked up a glass of water. Took a sip. Contemplating.
Krylov continued:
“Approximately eight years ago, increased solar activity was recorded. If our hypothesis is correct, this could have amplified the object’s effect. The period of mass conception of the children coincides with this time.”
“A coincidence?” Gromov clarified.
“Possibly,” Krylov answered cautiously. “But it is only a theory. We have no direct evidence of a link between solar activity and the anomaly.”
A pause.
Gromov considered.
“And how does this explain the incidents during construction?” he asked. “Petrovich’s report. The builders complained of strange sensations, headaches, and sleep disturbances. This was during the active construction phase. Before the peak of solar activity.”
Vokutin looked at Gromov in surprise.
Petrovich’s report? What is he talking about?
Krylov answered uncertainly:
“Yes. That… doesn’t fit the solar activity hypothesis. Perhaps the object was influencing even without solar amplification. Or we simply don’t fully understand the mechanism.”
Elena added:
“We constantly face such contradictions. Each hypothesis explains one thing but fails to explain another. We lack a holistic picture.”
Krylov interjected, thoughtfully:
“According to modern understanding, this looks more like multiple correlation than a real pattern. Each new theory only increases the entropy of the system of interpretations, creating additional… er… stochastic noise in the general paradigm of observed phenomena, which leads to…”
Gromov raised his hand.
“Professor Krylov. In plain language, please?”
Krylov blinked. As if waking up. Coughed awkwardly.
“I apologize, Mr. Minister. That is… too many coincidences. And we don’t understand if they are truly connected or if it’s just… randomness.”
Vokutin quietly addressed Gromov:
“Petrovich’s report?”
Gromov replied curtly:
“I will forward it.”
Gromov looked at Malinin.
“Can we reach the source? Conduct deep drilling?”
Malinin shook his head.
“Technically possible, Mr. Minister. But it would require heavy machinery. Noise. Vibration. This will disrupt the normal operation of the estate and all its guests.”
Elena interjected:
“Mr. Minister, Mr. Prime Minister… we don’t know how the anomaly will react to interference. The situation is now stabilized. The children are healthy. The families are calm. If we start drilling… remember Petrovich’s report. All those incidents occurred when the territory was undergoing active interference.”
She paused.
“Among the seventy-two families are corporate owners, generals, scientists, and politicians. If their children suffer due to our actions… that will end in a catastrophe. Not medical. Political.”
Vokutin remained silent. Contemplating.
Then he nodded.
“Understood. We will forego drilling on the territory. Continue observation.”
Gromov looked at Elena.
“Elena Kuznetsova, is there anything else we should know?”
Elena hesitated. Looked at the commission members. Then returned her gaze to the screen.
“Mr. Minister, Mr. Prime Minister… there is one more aspect. We did not include it in the official report because… we don’t understand what it means.”
Gromov frowned.
“I’m listening.”
Elena exhaled.
“The children. Since the age of five, we have been recording… inexplicable behavioral patterns in them.”
Chapter 144: The Resonance
Fourteen hundred hours.
The conference hall was filled again. Elena sat at the head of the table, folders with new data before her. On the screen were the images of Gromov and Vokutin.
The Prime Minister watched intently. Waiting for the continuation.
Gromov opened his notepad.
“Doctor Kuznetsova. You mentioned inexplicable behavioral patterns in the children. I request specifics.”
Elena exhaled. Looked at the commission. Nodded to Volkova.
Volkova stood up. There was a fire in her eyes. Not the weariness of a scientist exhausted by field conditions, but the excitement of a researcher who had stumbled upon the impossible.
“Over the past six months, we have recorded a phenomenon that…” she paused, choosing her words, “…that fits into no known model of child psychology.”
She started the presentation.
“We call it the Collective Coherence Effect.”
Graphs. Numbers. Tables appeared on the screen.
“Observation period: six months. Seventy-two children, ages seven and a half to eight and a half years. Control measurements every two weeks.” Volkova looked at the screen, and there was pride in her voice. “This is the largest study of its kind.”
Gromov and Vokutin remained silent. Listening.
“First observation,” Volkova continued. “The Collective Learning Effect.”
She switched the slide.
“We conducted a series of experiments involving separate instruction. We divided the children into groups. One group was taught a specific skill—for example, assembling a particular structure from blocks. The other groups were not involved in the instruction.”
She paused.
“After two to three days, children from the non-instructed groups demonstrated the basic elements of the same skill. Without formal training. Without visual contact with the instructed group.”
Silence.
“The percentage of independent skill transfer ranged from fourteen to twenty-two percent,” Volkova added. “This cannot be explained by simple observation or random coincidence.”
Vokutin leaned forward.
“Are you saying they… exchange knowledge? Without words?”
Volkova held the pause.
“We are recording a fragmented transfer of information through an unknown channel. The children do not receive a complete copy of the knowledge. Rather… fragments. One child reads a book—the others have an opinion about it, though they do not recall the plot details.”
She switched the slide.
“Second observation. Synchronization of Threat Reaction.”
Experimental data appeared on the screen.
“We staged a minor injury to one child. Hidden camera. The other children were located in different parts of the territory. There was no visual or acoustic contact.”
Volkova looked at the screen.
“The nearest children reacted instantly. Within three to five minutes, about forty percent of the entire group arrived at the scene of the incident. In interviews, they said: ‘We just knew someone needed help.’”
Gromov was writing. Vokutin watched without looking away.
“Third observation,” Volkova continued, and something akin to awe crept into her voice. “Parallel Problem Solving.”
She switched the slide.
“We gave several children the identical puzzle. Simultaneously. But separately—each in their own room. With no possibility of seeing one another.”
A pause.
“The speed of finding the solution significantly exceeded the results of the control group of ordinary children. It was as if they were… exchanging intermediate steps. Sharing ideas in real-time.”
She looked at Gromov and Vokutin.
“We called this the Distributed Information Processing Effect. The group solves the problem faster than the sum of individual abilities. But slower than if it were one single, unified mind.”
“Like a computer network,” Gromov said quietly.
“Precisely,” Volkova nodded. “A weak network. Incomplete synchronization. But it works.”
Nazulin stood up. The biophysicist, calm, methodical. The same admiration was in his eyes.
“It is important to emphasize: we conducted cognitive tests. Two children solved encrypted problems simultaneously. Without seeing each other’s solutions.”
He opened his tablet.
“The identical method of reasoning appeared an order of magnitude more frequently than in the control group. Furthermore, there was no direct transmission of information. No physical signals. We checked—electromagnetic sensors, acoustic systems. Nothing.”
Nazulin looked at the screen.
“The transmission channel is unknown. But the effect is reproducible. Stably.”
Elena stood up.
“Note one more aspect. The Territorial Attachment of the Phenomenon.”
She showed a new slide—a map of the territory with concentric circles.
“Over the past six months, we conducted a series of controlled experiments. With the voluntary consent of the parents. Different children traveled outside the estate’s boundaries—past the outer gates—to varying distances.”
She pointed to the graph.
“At a distance of two to three kilometers, the collective effect decreases by ten to thirteen percent from the baseline level. At five kilometers—a decrease of thirty-two to thirty-eight percent. At seven kilometers, the effect virtually vanishes—less than five percent of the norm.”
Vokutin frowned.
“And upon return?”
“Complete recovery within one to two hours,” Elena replied.
She looked at them directly.
“This means that the collective phenomenon has a clear spatial boundary. The children are not only connected to each other. They are connected to the territory.”
Shcherbakov stood up. The Academician, gray-haired, with an old-school posture. He placed his hands on the table.
“I have worked in science for forty years. I have seen much. But this…” he paused, “…this goes beyond everything known.”
He looked at the data.
“We have recorded not just an anomaly. We are observing the formation of a new type of social organization. The children demonstrate signs of a collective cognitive field. Weak. Fragmentary. But stable.”
Shcherbakov held the pause.
“And most importantly. The effect intensifies with age. At five years old, we recorded isolated incidents. By eight years old, the group demonstrates stable patterns of collective synchronization.”
Silence.
Gromov said slowly:
“What will happen by age ten?”
Shcherbakov looked at him for a long time.
“We don’t know, Mr. Minister.”
Krylov stood up. The physicist, tall, hunched. But the same fire was in his eyes.
“We attempted to explain the phenomenon with all known models. Quantum entanglement on a macro-level—the theory is only forming, the experimental base is extremely limited. Testing its applicability to biological systems of this scale is impossible with our current technological capabilities. Electromagnetic resonance—we do not record corresponding signals. Biochemical communication channels—distances are too great, concentrations are insufficient.”
He shook his head.
“Nothing fits. The effect does not conform to existing theories. We are observing something… new.”
Krylov looked at the screen.
“We cautiously call this latent cognitive resonance. But it is just a term. We do not understand the mechanism.”
He held the pause.
“Perhaps it is related to the underground object. Perhaps to a field we cannot measure. Perhaps… to something else.”
Elena stood up.
“Over five years, we have progressed from skepticism to astonishment. We no longer complain about field conditions. What we face is real. Measurable. And utterly inexplicable.”
She looked at the commission. All were looking at the screen with the same expression—a mixture of scientific excitement and profound awe.
“The children are forming a collective field. They exchange information through an unknown channel. They react to danger synchronously. They solve problems as a distributed system.”
Elena paused.
“And with each year, this intensifies.”
Silence in the hall.
Gromov looked at his notes. Vokutin—at the table.
Then the Prime Minister looked up.
“Do you have projections? Models? Anything that might help us understand where this is leading?”
Elena slowly shook her head.
“No, Mr. Prime Minister. We are observing the phenomenon in real-time. It is akin to a natural anomaly—like dry thunderstorms or ball lightning. We can record, measure, document. But we cannot predict or reproduce it under controlled conditions. There are no historical analogues in science.”
Gromov asked the next question:
“Have you observed conflicts within the group? Power struggles? Fragmentation?”
Elena considered.
“The children behave like normal children. They argue. They make up. They play. But…” she paused, “…we have not recorded any serious conflicts. It is as if the group… self-regulates.”
“Self-regulates?” Vokutin repeated.
“When tension builds, it seems to… dissipate,” Elena explained. “We don’t understand the mechanism. But the children rarely escalate to genuine conflict.”
Nazulin added:
“Allow me to note: perhaps the empathic link smooths out contradictions. When one feels pain—everyone experiences discomfort. This may function as a natural conflict avoidance mechanism.”
Gromov was writing.
“Is there a… leader among the children? Or a center? Someone through whom the main flow of information passes?”
Elena shook her head.
“We looked. We didn’t find one. The network is decentralized. Each child is a node. Some are more active, some less so. But there is no single center.”
Vokutin asked the next question:
“How are the parents reacting? Do they know about the phenomenon?”
Elena nodded.
“They know. Partially. We do not conceal the observations. But we present them as… interesting features of the children’s development in unique conditions.”
She paused.
“The parents are mostly pleased. The children are healthy. They are developing faster than their peers. They show high results in school. No one is complaining.”
“What if they knew the full picture?” Vokutin asked cautiously.
Elena held the pause.
“Some would be frightened. Others… would be proud. Among the parents are scientists, military personnel, and politicians. They understand the value of uniqueness.”
Gromov looked at his list of questions.
“Last question. Hypothetically, if… you separated the children territorially. Placed them in different locations. Would the link disappear?”
Elena nodded.
“We believe so. The effect is territorially dependent. Outside the anomaly’s zone of influence, the children lose collective coherence.”
She looked at Gromov directly.
“But this also means the children lose their health. The territorial dependence works both ways. Separating the group means condemning the children to illness and death.”
Silence.
Gromov nodded slowly.
“Understood.”
Vokutin leaned back in his chair. He looked at the commission for a long time.
Then he spoke:
“Doctor Kuznetsova. I thank you and your team for this detailed report. This is… impressive work.”
Elena nodded.
“Continue your observation,” Vokutin said. “Keep us informed of any changes. Especially if the effect intensifies.”
Elena nodded.
“Understood, Mr. Prime Minister.”
Gromov added:
“We will contact you again tomorrow. There are still a few questions that require clarification.”
Elena nodded.
“We will be ready, Mr. Minister.”
Vokutin stood up. Gromov followed him.
“Good evening, Doctor Kuznetsova.”
“And to you, Mr. Prime Minister.”
The screen went dark.
Elena sank into her chair. Exhaled.
The commission was silent.
Then Volkova said softly:
“The Prime Minister. At our report.”
“This went beyond the medical program,” Shcherbakov said.
Elena nodded.
“It went beyond a long time ago.”
She looked at her team.
“Gather the data. Everything we have. Tomorrow, they will dig deeper.”
Gromov and Vokutin remained connected. The scientists were disconnected.
Vokutin looked into the camera. Silent. Contemplating.
Gromov waited.
Finally, Vokutin spoke:
“Alexei Petrovich. Your assessment. As a military man.”
Gromov straightened.
“Pavel Sergeevich… we are observing the formation of a group with characteristics of a swarm intelligence.”
He opened his notepad.
“Collective information processing. Synchronization of threat reactions. Distributed problem solving. Empathic connection.” Gromov looked at Vokutin. “These are not children. This is… an emerging system.”
Vokutin remained silent.
“They exchange information through an unknown channel,” Gromov continued. “We cannot intercept it. Cannot jam it. We do not understand the mechanism.”
He paused.
“From a military perspective, this means: the group is resistant to psychological influence. Resistant to isolation. Capable of self-organization.”
Vokutin nodded slowly.
“Continue.”
“Physical specialization,” Gromov said. “Elena mentioned it. Some children are stronger, others faster, others are analytical geniuses. These are not just random differences. This is… a distribution of roles.”
He looked into the camera.
“If the effect intensifies with age… by ten, we will have a highly integrated group with specialized skills. By fourteen…” he didn’t finish the sentence.
Vokutin was silent, pondering.
“Do you see a threat?”
“I see uncertainty,” Gromov replied. “And uncertainty in security matters is always dangerous.”
A pause.
“The group self-regulates,” Gromov added quietly. “Conflicts are automatically suppressed. This means: they are capable of collective adaptation. Possibly… they understand more than we think.”
Vokutin nodded slowly.
“Can we use this?”
Gromov held the pause.
“I believe we must first understand who is behind it.”
“An artifact underground. An earthquake seventy years ago facilitated its activation. Solar activity eight years ago intensified the effect. Mass conception of children. Illness. Territorial dependence.” Vokutin looked into the camera. “And now, a collective mind.”
A pause.
“Alexei Petrovich… I am beginning to lean towards your version of extraterrestrial origin.”
Gromov nodded.
“The artifact may be non-terrestrial. Buried here thousands of years ago. Waiting for activation. And when the conditions aligned—earthquake, solar storm—it activated.”
“Facilitated a transmutation,” Vokutin finished.
“Precisely. Some kind of anomalous metamorphosis.”
Silence.
“To what end?” Vokutin asked quietly.
“We don’t know,” Gromov admitted. “But we must find out.”
A pause.
“Drilling on the hotel territory is impossible,” Vokutin said. “Elena is right. The risks are too great. Seventy-two influential families. If their children are harmed… it will be a catastrophe.”
A pause.
“But we need answers.”
Gromov nodded.
“Agreed, Pavel Sergeevich.”
Vokutin was silent, contemplating.
“Tomorrow, I will ask the scientists additional questions. More specific ones. But without revealing our concerns.”
A pause.
“I need to understand the boundaries of the phenomenon. The risks. The possibilities. And then…” he paused, “…then we will decide what to do next.”
Gromov nodded.
“Understood.”
“Alexei Petrovich, begin preparations for the creation of a secret commission. Informally for now. Compile a list of candidates. People we can trust. Scientists, military personnel, analysts.”
“It will be done, Pavel Sergeevich.”
Vokutin paused. Then added:
“I will send you… a qualified specialist.” He placed special emphasis on the word. “To assist. To navigate any bureaucratic barriers. Highest level of access.”
Gromov caught the nuance. He nodded.
“Understood, Pavel Sergeevich.”
Vokutin held the pause.
“The name… ‘Project Alpha-Zero.’ Three lines of investigation: hostile state, extraterrestrial intelligence, ancient artifact of unknown origin.”
Gromov was writing.
“Doctor Kuznetsova and her team remain inside. They observe the children. The phenomenon.” Vokutin paused. “And we look for the source. From the outside. In parallel.”
A pause.
“And no one must know about the secret commission. Not even Elena.”
Gromov held the pause.
“She will be very upset if she finds out.”
Vokutin nodded slowly.
“She will understand. When we find the answers.”
The connection broke.
Vokutin remained alone in his office. Staring at the blank screen.
Children. Collective mind. Territorial dependence.
He leaned back in his chair. Closed his eyes. A headache surged in waves.
Gromov sees a military threat. Swarm intelligence. Uninterceptable communication channels. Resistance to control.
“He sees a miracle. But I see horror.”
But there is something Vokutin did not tell even the Minister of Defense. Something that gives him no rest. Something that pulses in his temples.
Seventy-two families. Influential people. Generals, corporate owners, scientists, politicians.
Their children are forming a private network. Resistant to external control. Perfectly absorbing useful resources. Is it even possible to instill loyalty to the state in them?
Vokutin opened his eyes. Looked out the window.
In ten years, they will grow up.
A pause. A thought that sent a chill through him.
What if the territorial dependence… is temporary?
What if it is just a stage of development? A cocoon. A metamorphosis.
Now they are tied to the territory. But when they complete the transformation…
Vokutin clenched the armrest of his chair.
They will leave the hotel. Enter management structures. The military. Science. Politics. Retaining the connection among themselves.
And then the real nightmare will begin.
And they will think not as individuals. But as… a group.
Vokutin suddenly noticed that he was drumming his fingers on the table. Unconsciously. A nervous rhythm.
He sharply clenched his fist. Stopped himself.
He stood up. Walked to the window. Opened it. Cold evening air rushed into the office. He expected to feel refreshed, but the shiver did not pass.
The city lights below.
Loyalty. That is the question.
To whom will they be loyal? To the state? To their families? Or… to each other?
Vokutin clenched his fists.
If they decide to act together… what can we oppose them with? How do you control those who think faster? Who feel synchronously? Who exchange information instantly?
A pause.
A state within a state.
An elite within the elite.
Uncontrolled. Unpredictable.
He returned to the desk. Opened the secure channel. Dialed the code.
The assistant’s face appeared on the screen.
“Pavel Sergeevich?”
“Prepare the dossiers. All seventy-two families. Complete information. Connections. Interests. Vulnerabilities.”
The assistant was writing.
“And one more thing,” Vokutin added quietly. “Find me a person. A specialist. Someone who understands… code delta-alpha-tango. Absolute clearance level.”
“It will be done, Pavel Sergeevich.”
The connection broke.
Vokutin looked out the window again.
We are observing not just a medical phenomenon.
We are observing the formation of… something new.
He clenched his jaw.
They are a time bomb. With a fuse we cannot yet find.
The only question is—will we manage to understand this before we lose control?
In the conference hall of the “Forest Hotel,” Elena sat alone.
Everyone had left. Documents lay on the table.
She stared at the graphs. At the numbers.
Fourteen to twenty-two percent skill transfer.
Forty percent of the group react to one injury.
The effect intensifies with age.
Elena closed her eyes.
What are we observing?
Evolution? Transformation? Or something else?
She opened her eyes. Looked at the photo of the children on the screen.
Seventy-two children. Playing on the playground. Laughing.
Ordinary children.
Or not?
Elena turned off the light. Left the hall.
Outside the windows—late evening. The forest. Silence.
Somewhere underground—the artifact.
Somewhere in the children’s rooms—the sleeping children.
And somewhere between them—an invisible link.
We are observing something new, Elena thought.
The only question is—what exactly?
Chapter 145: The Oasis
The beach. Waves. The sand was hot, but not scorching.
A crab scuttled out of the water. It moved sideways across the wet sand. Stopped. Wiggled its claws.
The air whirled.
The crab froze. Its antennae twitched.
A distortion appeared above the sand—like the shimmer of hot air over scorching asphalt. The vortex intensified. A flash. Another one. Stabilization.
The crab darted towards the water.
A foot in light sandals appeared from the portal. Then a hand with three bags—designer logos on a white background. Then a snow-white, light dress with a wide red belt cinched at the waist.
On her face—a smile stretching ear to ear.
Artemia rushed out first. Following her—a flash, and a small dragonet with blue wings sprang out. Then a second one, slightly larger.
Artemia jumped on the sand.
“Ouch! Hot!”
She tossed off her sandals. Ran towards the house with a squeal—one of the dragonets darted at her feet, feigning an attack.
“Phylkite, stop it!” she laughed, dodging him.
Artem stood out of the portal last. Slow. Calm.
In his hands—three times as many bags as Artemia’s.
He stopped. Watched her fooling around with the dragonet on the beach. Smiled.
The bags were heavy. Hers contained clothes. His, food. Classic.
“Phyl, are you going to help me with the bags?”
One of the dragonets—the larger one—turned around. Snorted.
“I told you, call me Phylknight!” He sprawled demonstratively on the hot sand, stretching out his paws. “This is your punishment. Carry them yourself. I’m tired.”
Artem was speechless.
He stared at the carcass of the dragonet, sprawled out in the posture of a starfish right on the sand.
“Are you… serious?”
“Absolutely,” Phylknight closed his eyes. “I waited five years for the moment I could be lazy on a beach. Go away. Don’t interrupt my enjoyment.”
Artem was momentarily speechless.
The second dragonet flew up. With a smirk:
“Forget that loser. Phylkite is at your service.” He winked.
The bags levitated from Artem’s hands. They smoothly trailed behind Phylkite toward the house.
Phylknight opened one eye slightly:
“Suck-up.”
Phylkite turned around mid-flight:
“Be jealous in silence, Knight.”
Artem walked towards the house, following the levitating bags.
Artemia had already vanished inside. He could hear her laughter and the patter of bare feet on the stairs.
The house stood on a rise. White modern lines integrated into the rocky hill. Greenery above—grass and trees grew directly on the roof of the first level. Palms. Panoramic windows. Terraces leading down to the ocean.
To others—if anyone sailed by—it would look like a natural hill near the water.
For Artem and Artemia—it was home.
Artem approached the entrance. Stepped through the invisible shield.
The moment of transition—a slight tingle on the skin. Then—silence.
The outside heat vanished. The wind died down. Inside—its own microclimate. Coolness. Freshness.
Their oasis.
The huge living room greeted him with light.
High ceilings. Floor-to-ceiling panoramic windows—a view of the ocean and the forest. White walls. Minimalism. Open-plan layout. A staircase led to the second floor—Artemia’s bedroom was there, at tree-top level.
Downstairs, closer to the water, was his own bedroom. Direct access to the ocean. Wake up—take a dip.
Artem walked left—to the kitchen.
Huge. An entire team of chefs could work there. Professional equipment. Light stone countertops.
The bags of food were already on the counter—Phylkite had neatly arranged them.
Artem sighed. Stretched. Began to unpack.
Fresh vegetables. Fruits. Meat. Cheeses. Spices from the local market. Artemia had bought enough for a week.
Footsteps sounded from upstairs. Then—laughter.
“Artem! Come here! Look!”
He lifted his head. Smiled.
“Be right there!”
But he continued sorting the groceries. Refrigerator. Freezer. Shelves.
Ten minutes later, he finished. Went upstairs.
Artemia was standing in the living room. In the first dress—light cream, on thin straps, with a ruffle across the chest. She was twirling in front of a large mirror on the wall.
“Well?”
Artem stopped.
Healthy skin tone. A blush on her cheeks. Her eyes were sparkling.
The dress emphasized her waist. The light fabric moved with every turn. Simple. Airy.
“Good aerodynamics,” he said thoughtfully. “The fabric breathes. Optimal for a hot climate. Minimal weight. Maximum freedom of movement.”
Artemia froze. Stared at him.
“Are you… studying it like a new spacesuit or trying to give me a compliment?”
Artem blinked.
Oops.
She is a girl.
Even though she looks like him, like a twin.
A girl.
He spoke quickly:
“I mean… it’s beautiful! Very beautiful! It… suits you. The color. And… the cut. Everything is… harmonious.”
Artemia dramatically rolled her eyes. Covered her face with her hand. Sighed heavily.
Puffed up her cheeks.
Artem realized he had no idea how to compliment a girl.
Even if it was himself. From another reality.
She couldn’t hold it in. She burst into ringing laughter.
“You’re impossible!” She turned and ran towards the stairs. Already on the steps, she shouted: “Wait, I haven’t shown you everything yet!”
Artem walked to the sofa. Sat down. Leaned back.
His legs were aching. Stores. Crowds. Fitting rooms. Checkouts.
Five years later, he couldn’t return to the hotel. They chose this uninhabited island together.
Phylknight suggested the ring design as a mobile station, so that it could act as a tracker and stabilizer for his visual form far from the ship.
At the hotel, it was simple. It was his territory. But here, they had to improvise.
The ring designs were changed several times, sometimes due to Artem’s disagreement, sometimes due to Artemia’s whim.
Thanks to the ring, Phylkite could teleport them to any point on the planet to travel together there.
For Artem and Artemia, he created a mock-up of a smartphone with a unique camera capable of photographing even the dragonets.
Holographic photos were saved in the ring and then synchronized with the villa.
At home, Phylkite would start the holograph projector, and they would happily discuss the places they had visited.
But their greatest pleasure became the habit of stocking up on unusual food and local delicacies.
Amidst all this fun, Artem became extremely worn out whenever Artemia suddenly dragged him to the window of some bright clothing store.
Today was one of those times they decided to buy. He simply couldn’t keep up with Artemia. It was embarrassing.
A couple of minutes later, Artemia came down again. Now in a long dress—shoulders bare, light sheer sleeves, and a skirt loose from the waist.
She paused. Looked at him.
“And this one?”
Artem took a closer look.
A sundress. Or a sleeveless dress.
The top was tighter, the skirt loose from the waist. Airy.
For the beach? For walks along the water?
“Light,” he nodded. “For walks on the beach. Comfortable.” He paused. “And… it highlights your figure well.”
She smiled. Twirled around.
“Yes! Does it really suit me?”
“Truly. It suits you.”
“Now it’s your turn!” Artemia pointed to his bags by the entrance. “Put something on! I bought things for you too!”
Artem looked at the bags. Then at the sofa. Then at the bags again.
He slowly lay down on the sofa. Stretched out. Closed his eyes.
“Artemia…”
“What?”
“I’m not used to these stores.” He didn’t open his eyes. “Not in this life.”
Phylknight, sprawled on the windowsill, snickered.
Artemia laughed:
“You’re such a softie!”
“I’m an astronaut,” Artem mumbled. “On well-deserved rest.”
She snorted. Ran upstairs again.
Artemia came down a third time. Now in a white dress with a lace insert on the chest and open shoulders. Elegant. Evening wear.
She stood in front of the mirror. Turned smoothly. Then again—this time, dancing. Light movements. The dress flowed with inertia, repeating her every step.
She looked at Artem through the mirror.
“What do you think?”
Artem opened his eyes.
He froze.
White color. Lace on the shoulders.
Delicate. Elegant.
He smiled involuntarily.
It really… suited her very well.
The pause dragged on.
Artemia said uncertainly:
“Is it bad?”
“No!” Artem said quickly. “No, this is… perfect. For evening walks in the city. For upscale restaurants.” He held the pause. “Everyone will be envious of your figure in this dress.”
Warmth spread through his chest. Everything was written on his face.
Artemia smiled. Happily.
She twirled a few more times in front of the mirror. Looked at herself from different angles. Adjusted the lace on her shoulder. Satisfied.
Then she nodded lightly and went upstairs.
Phylkite entered the living room.
His voice was stern:
“Artemia. Come down. Right now.”
Her voice from upstairs:
“What happened?”
“Come down!”
She appeared on the stairs. Looked at the dragonet below in surprise. Then, with an expression of displeasure, she came down and sat in front of him on the sofa.
“What?”
“You almost lost the ring!” The dragonet’s voice was indignant. “When you went into the fitting room. You left it on the shelf!”
Artemia looked at her hand. The ring was in place. Yes, he had given it back to her at the store and made her put it on.
“I then… oops…” Artemia’s face flushed.
“‘Oops’!” Phylkite snorted. “I thought you were lost! The signal was gone! I was about to teleport the entire damn shopping plaza to our island!”
Phylknight snickered from the windowsill.
Artem, half-reclining on the sofa, barely suppressed a smile.
Artemia said awkwardly:
“Sorry… I won’t do it again… It was… not intentional.”
“Good,” Phylkite grumbled. “Remember your words! Otherwise, next time you’ll go without the ring. On foot.”
“Oh, you grump, you ruined the whole mood. Well, I’m going to change.” Her words sounded offended, but a poorly concealed slyness twinkled in her eyes.
Chapter 146: The Race
Artem finally got up from the sofa.
They had a light meal in the kitchen—fresh fruit, cheese, and bread.
Then they just sat at the table.
Artemia talked about the stores, the people, and how the saleswoman couldn’t believe she was buying so many dresses at once.
Artem caught himself realizing that he remembered the glances of other guys at the cheerful Artemia and felt strangely uneasy.
Phylknight said thoughtfully:
“Where should we fly next? Maybe the Orion Nebula? Or a binary star in Sector…”
Phylkite interrupted. Looked thoughtfully out the window at the ocean.
“Well then…” a pause for effect, “…since I’m not in space, but on a planet… I will create space under the current conditions!”
Artem raised an eyebrow:
“What?”
Phylkite’s voice sounded triumphant, as if he had already won the race.
“Today, we’re having wave races!”
Artemia froze:
“No way! Wow!”
Artem:
“Seriously?”
Phylknight lifted his head from the windowsill:
“We’re not competing over who’s cooler, are we?”
Phylkite with a smirk:
“Yes. We are competing over who is faster.” He winked at Artemia.
Phylkite led them to the lower floor.
The doors opened.
An inner bay. An artificial dock built into the villa. Water lapped inside—direct access to the ocean through closed gates.
And there, lined up, were four gliders.
Artemia gasped.
Phylkite proudly:
“Allow me to present the new model gliders.”
The nose of the hull—like a blade, like the keel of a fighter jet that escaped an aircraft carrier into another century. Not a single soft line. Everything was subservient to speed. This was not a vessel. It was a water-borne race car, built not for cruising, but for breaking through.
Artem walked around the glider. Ran his hand along the side.
A dark blue hull with white stripes—like combat camouflage adapted for sunset. And on top—a glowing blue shield, like the interface of a reactor ready for launch. It didn’t just glow—it communicated status. Readiness. Potential.
The transparent cockpit was elongated, like that of a VTOL aircraft. Inside—a pilot, not a captain. He wasn’t steering—he was leading. The closed cabin stated: speed here is not an option, but a necessity. Spray? It remained behind, like the past.
Artemia moved to the stern. Crouched down. Examining it.
The fins—extended, directional, like drone stabilizers. They didn’t just decorate—they managed the flow, enhancing grip on the water, as if the ocean itself was subservient to this machine.
Artem ran his palm over the matte surface.
The hull—a monolith. No seams, no unnecessary details. The material resembled carbon fiber but was warmer to the touch. A layered structure was visible from a certain angle. Everything—as if sculpted from a single piece, using technology yet to be patented.
This wasn’t design. This was engineering poetry.
Artemia couldn’t take her eyes off her glider. Her eyes were burning with excitement.
Phylknight walked around the machines. Shaking his head with a smile.
“Okay, I admit it. You’re handsome.”
Phylkite snorted contentedly:
“I am always handsome.”
He winked at Artemia, who was clearly already in love with the model.
Artemia gently patted the side of her glider:
“This… this is just unbelievable.”
Artem watched her excitement but wasn’t going to give in just yet.
They settled into the cockpits.
Artem—in his glider. The seat embraced him, adjusting to his body. The interface came alive—holographic panels before his eyes. The controls were intuitive.
The ring on his finger pulsed warmly.
“Connection established,” Phylkite’s voice sounded. “Ready?”
The engine made a light hum, then quieted. Everyone felt a slight vibration from the system calibration.
Even the smell. Artem couldn’t help but feel warmth in his heart. He was the first person to sit in this glider.
Who said that a dragonet, as a creature alien to this world, an alien mind living in digital space, couldn’t know how to make a human happy?
These moments were like treasures of memory one wanted to keep forever.
Artemia was literally enchanted by the color scheme. Everything in her cabin was vibrant, provocative, but she was happy, because this glider was made by someone she considered family. He made it with memory of her, her feelings, and that touched her deeply.
She sighed heavily, overcoming the surge of emotion, and answered with a smile over the communication system.
“Ready!”
Phylknight and Phylkite were already in their machines.
The dragonets fussed for a while until all the cockpit parameters were accurately set to their bodies.
Their snouts rose to the level of the pilot’s canopy. Now it was clearly visible how they were making faces at each other before the unusual race.
A yellow light flashed on the ceiling, then another, and another, and so on in a cycle.
The dock gates began to open. Slowly. Majestically. Water surged inside, as if the ocean itself decided to visit their humble home.
Everyone felt the gliders lift slightly above the water, stabilizing their position relative to the waves.
A green light flashed overhead. Time. Ahead was only a continuous sheet of water stretching into the distance to the horizon.
The gliders taxied out one by one.
Artem first. Smoothly. The machine skimmed, barely touching the water.
Artemia followed—her glider taxied out more boldly, leaving a narrow wake.
The dragonets brought their gliders out last. The lock closed automatically.
Open ocean. Waves. The sun was high.
And suddenly—holographic markers appeared above the water.
Bright. Volumetric. The course was projected directly into the air. The route wound around the island, bypassing the cliffs, heading out into the open sea.
Phylknight over the comms:
“When did you find time to do all this?”
Phylkite rubbed his nose with a satisfied smirk:
“Less talk, more spray!”
The start.
The holographic banner exploded into fireworks, signaling the beginning of the race.
The gliders surged forward simultaneously.
Artem was pressed into his seat. Acceleration. The machine flew over the water, barely skimming the surface. A narrow wake behind the stern—like a laser trace.
Artemia squealed over the comms—not in fear, but delight.
Phylkite overtook Phylknight on the very first turn. Artem saw him cut in—the dragonet was clearly enjoying the moment.
They sped along the shore.
Cliffs on the right. Forest. Palms flashed by. Frightened birds scattered from the branches and flew away.
Endless sea on the left.
Holographic gates appeared ahead—they had to pass precisely through them.
Artem passed first. Artemia—second, slightly clipping the edge of the projection.
The dragonets seemed to be chasing each other, playing tag.
The second half of the course led into the open sea.
The waves grew higher. The glider soared on the crests, landed in the troughs. Perfectly every time. The stabilizers worked flawlessly.
Artem overtook Phylkite. He didn’t resist—let him pass with a grin.
Artemia was in third place. Her laughter echoed over the comms.
Phylknight—last, but clearly not pushing himself.
A difficult maneuver ahead. The gates were higher above the water. They needed to catch a wave to use its energy for a jump.
Phylkite missed. His wave didn’t hold up and dissipated under the glider. He went for a new lap.
The comms filled with the laughter of Phylknight, who managed to ride the wave on the first try.
The final stretch.
The gliders returned to the island. The last holographic gates—right at the dock entrance.
Artem passed first.
Artemia—second, with a squeal.
Phylkite—third.
Phylknight—leisurely, as if the scenic cruise itself was the goal of his race.
The lock gates opened in advance, as if welcoming the winner.
They taxied into the dock. Shut down the engines.
Silence. Only the lapping of water against the hulls.
Artemia tried to get out of the cockpit. But due to the overflow of emotions, she simply sprawled out on the horizontal surface of her glider.
Her muscles ached slightly. But she was beaming.
“That was… that was incredible!”
Artem smiled. Climbed out of his glider.
“Yes. Something else.”
Phylkite proudly:
“Did you check it out, huh?”
Phylknight stretched lazily:
“You always try hard. Sometimes too hard.”
Phylkite snorted:
“Be jealous in silence.”
Evening.
The sun dipped toward the horizon. They sat in loungers on the lower terrace—the one closest to the water. Pizza boxes on the small table. The ocean murmured below.
Artemia chewed, her eyes blissfully closed. A blush on her cheeks. Happiness.
Artem was relaxed. His legs stretched out. He watched the sunset.
The two dragonets were also eating pizza. Holding slices in their paws. Chewing.
Phylknight suddenly whined towards Artem:
“Now where is the justice? You went to the restaurant all this time alone. To that temple of flavor shades! And I could only watch.”
Phylkite dramatically sniffled:
“It tasted good to me thinking about how upset you were.”
Artemia snorted with laughter. She almost choked on her pizza.
Artem chuckled:
“I’m glad we can enjoy it together now, brother.”
“Ha, unification gave us this opportunity,” Phylkite licked his lips. “We can taste. A sin not to take advantage. Food is processed into pure energy. We don’t have a stomach, but we have… let’s call it a quantum converter. No awkward scenes.”
Artemia rolled her eyes.
Phylknight took another bite. Savouring it:
“I waited five years for this moment.”
Phylkite winked:
“Was it worth it?”
“It was worth it.”
The sun touched the horizon. The sky was painted orange, pink, and violet.
Artemia leaned back in the lounger. Closed her eyes.
“I’m happy,” she said quietly.
Artem looked at her.
“Me too,” he replied.
Phylknight and Phylkite were silent. Watching the sunset.
The ocean murmured.
The house behind them—warm, bright, their sanctuary.
Phylkite turned his head toward Artemia.
The long-term space prison was over.
They had become a full part of this reality.
They were home.
Chapter 147: Headquarters
The secured bunker. The Command Center. The light was dim—the main illumination came from the wall of screens.
Two technicians in gray overalls were performing final checks. One at the screen control console—his fingers swept across the sensory panel. The second at the server—indicators blinked green. A quiet hum of equipment. The clicks of keys.
Everyone at the table was silent.
The first row. The center of power.
The President. Greying temples, a hard gaze. His hands folded before him. Motionless. But his jaw was tense. This decision had not come easily.
A technician checked the communication channel. Green indicator.
Next to him—Prime Minister Vokutin. The folder before him was closed. He knew everything already. He stared at the screens. His fingers gripped the edge of the table—barely noticeable.
Six years. Six long years had passed since he first felt the threat. Part of his hair had lost its dark color due to age and nerves—the price for trying to understand something that constantly slipped from his grasp. Back then, he feared the children as a political threat. An elite within the elite. A state within a state.
Now it was not fear. Now it was a matter of life and death.
The second technician checked a connector. Adjusted a cable.
Minister of Defense Gromov. A tablet in his hands. Direct link to the troops. Checking the status one last time. His face was stone, but there was anxiety in his eyes. He had seen the reports. He knew what his people would face.
The Head of the Secret Commission—a tall man in civilian clothes, about fifty, his face drawn. “Project Alpha-Zero.” Three years of work. Dozens of attempts. Zero results. Before him—the folder with the final report. He had just finished debriefing. On his face—a mix of frustration and fear.
The technician at the console entered the final command. The system responded.
Further along the table—Ministers. Internal Affairs—nervously tapping a pen on his tablet. Emergency Situations—pale, his lips pressed tight. Health—eyes closed, massaging the bridge of his nose. Each was responsible for their segment of the operation. Each understood what could go wrong.
Generals. Epaulets, medals, grey hair. Special forces commanders. Unit leaders. Those who would give the orders. On their faces—professional composure. But the tension was visible in every line. They were sending men against something they did not understand.
The server hum quieted. The check was complete.
Doctor Volkova. She sat slightly apart—not in the front row, but near the table. Civilian clothes among the uniforms. A tablet with data. Eleven years of observation. Exhaustion in her eyes. And something else—doubt? Guilt? She knew these children. She knew each one. And now she was helping to capture them.
Specialists. Cybersecurity experts—frowning, exchanging quiet remarks. Psychologists. Military analysts. Representatives of the special services. On all faces—a high level of concern.
Around the large table—more than twenty people. Each held significant weight in this government. Each understood the stakes. This was not just an operation. This was the final attempt to regain control.
In the subsequent rows—guests. Assistants. Advisors. Technical specialists. Those who would coordinate the operation. They were quieter, but the tension was the same.
The first technician nodded to the second. The second closed the server panel. Straightened up. Looked at Gromov. A brief nod—everything was ready.
The technicians gathered their tools. Left silently.
The door closed with the soft click of the lock.
Silence.
The opposite wall.
Fifteen screens. Five wide, three high. A massive wall of light and information.
Currently, all screens showed a single image. A volumetric picture, stretched across the entire wall.
The “Forest Hotel.” A view from a distance.
A building among the trees. The territory. A perimeter fence. Quiet. Calm.
For now.
In a few minutes, each screen would fill with its own image. Body cameras of the special forces. Fifteen points of view. A live broadcast of the operation.
Silence in the bunker.
Gromov switched the image on the screens. A map of the territory. Concentric circles around the hotel. Red dots along the perimeter.
“The Outer Ring—a fifteen-kilometer radius. General Morozov. Three battalions. No one enters, no one leaves.” His voice was even, professional. “The Inner Ring—five kilometers. Special forces elite. Four groups of twenty men. Drilled protocols. Experience in anti-terrorism operations.”
New markers appeared on the map. Blue triangles.
“Sniper pairs at key positions. Eight points. Direct visibility of the hotel building.” A pause. “Not for use. For observation and cover.”
The President nodded.
“Equipment?”
“APCs on the approach. Helicopters on standby—medevac and rapid reserve transfer. Drones over the territory.” Gromov switched the slide. “Special equipment. Jammers in case the children attempt to use electronics. Portable interference generators. Shielded communication suits for group commanders.”
Minister of Internal Affairs:
“Civilian services?”
Okhaniyev:
“The cover story is prepared. Biological contamination. Leak of an unknown pathogen from old underground communications.” He looked at the map. “It has already started. Cordons around nearby settlements. People in protective suits. Emergencies Ministry, sanitary services, military. Everything looks credible.”
Gromov added:
“The scene is professionally set. Yellow tapes. Biohazard signs. Disinfection posts. Local residents have already begun voluntary evacuation. Those who remained are under observation. There is no panic.”
Vokutin:
“Media?”
“Controlled,” the Minister of Internal Affairs replied curtly. “The official version is ready. Biological threat elimination exercises. A planned event. Nothing unusual.”
The President looked at the map. Red circles. Blue triangles. Yellow evacuation zones.
Everything was thought out. Everything was under control.
“Timeline?”
Okhaniyev:
“Evacuation of guests and staff—two hours. Transfer to the military base ‘Sokol-2’.” He looked at Gromov. “General Morozov has prepared reception facilities. Isolated blocks. Under guard.”
Gromov nodded:
“Eleven years ago, ‘Sokol-2’ was located twenty kilometers from the territory boundary. After the anomalous events, General Morozov moved the base closer. Reduced the troop transfer time to a minimum.” A pause. “Now, from the base to the hotel’s outer perimeter is seven kilometers. This will work in our favor. Rapid evacuation. Rapid reserve transfer. Morozov ensured a tactical advantage.”
Okhaniyev continued:
“He knows every guest. Every family. He will keep them contained until we complete the operation.” A brief pause. “Clearing the territory—another hour. Isolating the children—depending on the resistance. We plan to complete within six hours.”
Gromov:
“We have the force. The equipment. The people. The cover story.” He looked at the President. “We are ready.”
Silence.
The President slowly nodded.
“Good.”
The image of the hotel reappeared on the screens. The building among the trees.
They were in control of the situation.
Everything would be as they dictated.
As long as they believed it.
The President looked at the head of the secret commission.
“Repeat for those present. Briefly.”
The head of the commission stood up. His voice was tired but firm.
“Three years of active work since the official launch of ‘Project Alpha-Zero.’ The first years were spent on approvals and bureaucracy.” A brief pause. “Twelve drilling points around the territory perimeter. From fifty meters to two kilometers from the estate boundary. Depth—up to one hundred meters. Result—zero.” He paused. “No anomalies. No signals. The magnetic field—normal. Geological structures—ordinary. Groundwater—clean.”
He opened his folder. Showed diagrams on one of the screens—the hotel image changed to a map with drilling points.
“But the moment our equipment crosses the hotel territory boundary—even if it’s a spot directly above where we dug outside—all the readings are consistently registered. Magnetic anomalies. Electromagnetic bursts. Gravitational micro-distortions.”
He paused.
“Stationary posts installed by General Morozov along the perimeter consistently record the phenomenon. But any mobile equipment inside the zone becomes unreliable.” A brief pause. “Especially since the children’s… switch.”
A pause. He looked at the President.
“It is as if the artifact, if it exists, is no longer an object beneath the ground. It has become the place itself. The territory is the artifact.“
Silence.
Vokutin quietly:
“Are you saying that the entire hotel, the entire surrounding forest, is one large anomaly?”
“Exactly, Mr. Prime Minister.”
Gromov:
“Boundaries?”
“Clear. A radius of approximately twelve kilometers from the estate center. Outside—nothing. Inside—everything.”
The President nodded slowly.
“So, we cannot disable the source. We cannot dig it up. We cannot destroy it.”
“No, Mr. President.”
A pause.
“Only one thing remains. Isolate the carriers of the phenomenon.”
Everyone looked at the screens. The map changed back to the image of the hotel.
The head of the commission sat down.
The President frowned:
“Doctor Volkova, you mentioned a turning point in your report. Fourteen years.”
Volkova nodded. Opened her tablet. A graph appeared on one of the side screens.
“Until the age of fourteen, development was gradual. Linear growth of indicators. We could forecast. Control the situation.” She paused. “And then…”
The graph on the screen. A smooth line of growth—and a sudden vertical spike upwards. The line broke off—further measurements exceeded the scale.
“Like a switch,” the Minister of Health said quietly.
“Precisely like a switch,” Volkova confirmed. “Within a week after the eldest turned fourteen, all indicators exploded. Abruptly.” She looked at the attendees. “As if they completed a certain stage in their transformation.”
The head of the cybersecurity commission said grimly:
“They breached three secured military servers in a single night. As a test. Then they restored everything as it was. Left a message: ‘We can. But we are not interested.’”
Several people exchanged glances.
Volkova continued:
“The telepathic network works instantly. Skill transfer is practically complete.” A pause. “But most disturbing… some children began exhibiting abilities they didn’t have before.”
Gromov leaned forward:
“What exactly?”
“Listening to radio frequencies. Without devices. They simply… hear the airwaves.” Volkova switched the graph to a new diagram. “And they create interference. Directed noise in a specific range. Our technicians recorded: within a five-hundred-meter radius of the group of children, communication equipment stops working.”
Minister of Defense:
“Jamming?”
“Active countermeasure,” the head of the cybersecurity commission clarified. “They don’t just create interference. They purposefully suppress the signal. As if they sense the frequencies and block them.”
One of the Generals:
“Cameras?”
Volkova nodded:
“The same. Electronics start malfunctioning. The image distorts, disappears. Within five hundred meters of them, any equipment becomes unreliable.”
The silence was heavy, oppressive.
Vokutin clenched his jaw:
“Until the age of fourteen, we were still in control of the situation. We could negotiate. Influence.” A pause. “Afterwards… we have no idea what to do.”
Volkova quietly:
“And this, quite possibly, is not the end. They may become even stronger.”
The President looked at her for a long time.
“You believe this is not the final stage?”
“I don’t know, Mr. President. No one knows.” Volkova closed her tablet. “We are observing a phenomenon for which there are no analogues. We have no map. No forecasts. There is only the fact: three weeks ago, something changed. And we do not control that change.”
The General with a scar on his cheek—elderly, with many medals—frowned:
“Mental influence. Breaching any system. Prevision of danger.” He looked at Gromov. “How do we defend against these children? Are you going to order the soldiers to wear tinfoil hats?”
An attempt to lighten the mood. Someone managed a crooked smile. Most didn’t even flinch. No one was laughing.
Gromov looked at him for a long time.
“We have protocols. Short radio bursts. Encrypted commands. Minimum reaction time.” A pause. “And the main thing—speed. We act faster than they can react.”
Volkova quietly, almost to herself:
“If they can react at all.”
Vokutin looked at her:
“What do you mean, Doctor?”
Volkova looked up. Weariness in her eyes.
“Over the last six months, their behavior has changed. They are… detached. As if they are waiting for something. As if everything happening around them—including us—no longer concerns them.”
A pause.
“They are not of this world. In the literal sense.”
Silence.
Gromov:
“General Okhaniyev will command the operation on-site.”
He nodded towards the military man at the table. Vladislav Fyodorovich Okhaniyev—about fifty-five, trim, with streaks of gray at his temples. A hard face devoid of emotion. Okhaniyev nodded in return. Briefly. Professionally.
“General Okhaniyev is fully briefed. He has drilled protocols with the units.”
The President:
“Morozov?”
Gromov held the pause.
“General Morozov commands the outer ring of the encirclement. The territory is isolated. But he refused to participate in the operation itself. Flatly.”
Silence. Several people exchanged glances.
Vokutin quietly:
“Reasons?”
“Personal,” Gromov replied curtly. “He was there. During the construction. Saw the anomalies with his own eyes.” A pause. “He believes we do not understand what we are dealing with.”
The President looked at him for a long time.
“And what, in his opinion, should we be doing?”
“Waiting. Observing. Not intervening.” Gromov shook his head. “Unacceptable.”
The head of the special services, sitting slightly apart, added dryly:
“In addition, Mr. President, General Morozov commanded the base twenty kilometers from the anomaly for three years. Constant contact. Regular visits to the territory.” A brief pause. “We cannot rule out influence. Mental influence. The children might have… corrected his perception.”
The silence was heavy.
Vokutin slowly:
“Are you saying he was brainwashed?”
“I am saying we need someone from the outside. Someone who hasn’t had prolonged contact with the phenomenon.” The head of the special services looked at Okhaniyev. “General Okhaniyev arrived two weeks ago. He worked with documents. Minimal time on the territory. This is an advantage.”
The President nodded.
“Others?”
“General Kuznetsov has been removed from the operation.” Gromov paused. “For personal reasons.”
Everyone understood. His daughter was among the children.
“General Okhaniyev is the only one prepared to take command on site.”
Okhaniyev, without changing his posture:
“A question. If there is resistance? Guests. Staff.”
The President looked at Vokutin. A brief nod.
Vokutin:
“Use force. Evacuate everyone at any cost.” A pause. “No witnesses are needed.”
Okhaniyev nodded.
Silence.
The President looked at the screens. The “Forest Hotel.” Quiet. Calm.
“How much time has passed since the… switch?”
Volkova:
“Three weeks, two days.”
The President held a long pause. Looked at the image of the hotel. Then at the assembled group.
“For three weeks, we have been living with seventy-two teenagers, each possessing capabilities that exceed everything known.” His voice was quiet, but everyone heard every word. “And they are gathered in one place. In one territory.”
He looked at Gromov, then at Okhaniyev.
“Proceed.”
Okhaniyev and Gromov nodded.
Gromov took the tablet. His fingers slid across the screen. A short command over the secure line.
On the large wall of screens, the image of the hotel froze. Then, almost imperceptibly, the angle changed. The camera zoomed in.
Gromov added, without taking his eyes off the tablet:
“We understand the risk of malfunctions. The first minutes before entering the zone of effect should give us a picture. After that, we will be working almost blind.” A pause. “But that is no reason to stop.”
The operation begins.
In the bunker—silence. Everyone watched the screens.
The President did not take his eyes off the wall.
Vokutin gripped the armrest of his chair.
Gromov watched the tablet—direct link to the troops.
Volkova closed her eyes. Her lips were pressed tight. Her hands were on her knees—fingers interlocked so tightly her knuckles were white.
Eleven years of observation.
Seventy-two children.
She knew their names. Their faces. Their peculiarities.
And now she was helping to send troops to capture them.
Volkova opened her eyes. Looked at the screens.
“I’m sorry,” she thought. “Forgive me.”
But she said nothing aloud.
On the screens—the “Forest Hotel.”
Quiet.
Calm.
For now.
The Forest Hotel. Midday. Sun streaming through the windows.
Quiet.
Sveta was sitting in the library. A book on her knees—about the stars. She loved such books. Pictures of galaxies. Nebulae. Black holes. She knew all their names by heart.
She read slowly. Thoughtfully. Tracing the lines with her finger.
The adventures of friends in space were her dreams of incredible wonders. She would wake up and remember—as if she had been there. Seeing the structure of the Universe. Feeling it. It filled her with an exhilaration she couldn’t express in words.
Nearby—Misha. Assembling a construction set. A space station. Pieces clicked together, connecting. He wasn’t looking at the instructions—no need. He remembered every step.
He remembered the theory he had debated with the old professor two months ago. The professor claimed such a structure was impossible without additional support elements. Misha didn’t want to argue, he simply proved it mathematically. Now he wanted to demonstrate in practice what an elegant solution looked like.
The station grew. Without excess parts. Every element in its place.
By the window—Nastya. In front of her—a chessboard. She stared at the pieces. Pondering a move.
In the other corner of the room, behind a bookshelf—Kirill. Also a board. The same pieces, the same arrangement.
They couldn’t see each other.
Nastya moved her Knight. Said nothing.
Three seconds later, Kirill reached for his board. Moved the opponent’s Knight—to exactly the same position. Nodded to himself. Thought about the reply.
Without words. Without looking. Just knowing what was happening on the other board.
The game was complex. They had been playing like this for an hour.
In the first-floor lobby—a group of older children. Twelve people. Sitting in a circle on the carpet. Discussing something. Quietly. Seriously.
One of them—Oleg, the oldest—was pointing at graphs on a tablet. Curves. Coordinate axes. Formulas.
“Yesterday we studied the strong interaction,” he said quietly. “The forces holding protons and neutrons in the atom’s nucleus. We covered all six aspects superficially. Today we delve deeper into the phenomenon of attraction and repulsion.”
He enlarged the graph on the screen. Pointed his finger at the curve.
“At large distances—attraction. But at very close ones, less than half a femtometer,” he wrote on the screen: $0.5 \cdot 10^{-15} \text{ m}$—”the force changes to repulsion. Right here, see the inflection point?”
The others nodded. Some wrote notes in a notebook. Some looked at their own tablet—the same information, but with additional calculations.
“This explains the stability of the nucleus,” added a thirteen-year-old girl. “Without repulsion at close distances, protons would stick together. Collapse.”
“Exactly,” Oleg nodded.
In the kitchen—Anya was helping the chef. Slicing vegetables for a salad. Neatly. Even pieces.
The chef stood nearby, watching. Smiling. A good assistant.
More than an assistant—he could barely keep up with her movements anymore. The knife in her hand moved so fast it seemed blurred. But every piece—perfect. Identical. As if measured by a ruler.
“Anya, did you try adding sesame oil to this salad?” he asked. “With rice vinegar.”
She didn’t lift her head. Continued slicing.
“I tried. But walnut oil is better. With balsamic cream. And a pinch of sumac for acidity.”
The chef blinked.
“Sumac? In this salad?”
“Yes. Sumac emphasizes the sweetness of the carrot and neutralizes the bitterness of the radish. Try it.”
The chef’s favorite thing now was to enjoy Anya’s delicacies every day, discussing spices and sauces. Their lunch discussions could last for hours if hungry guests weren’t waiting outside.
She suggested recipes he had never even heard of. Combinations that sounded insane. But they worked. They always worked.
Fourteen years old. And cooks like a chef with thirty years of experience.
No. Better.
In the gym—Dima and Egor were playing table tennis. The ball clicked on the table. Fast. Accurate. They were practicing serves—not for score, just for endurance and technique.
The coach stood against the wall. Watching. He didn’t even try to count anymore.
For the first couple of hours, he followed the rallies with interest. Counted the bounces. Fifteen. Twenty. Thirty strokes in one rally.
Then he stopped keeping up.
Now he felt like he was watching a computer simulation. The ball flew so fast it blurred into a line. The boys’ arms moved with superhuman speed.
One rally—over two hundred strokes. From each side.
The coach stopped understanding how it was physically possible. Reaction. Speed. Endurance.
They had been playing for three hours without a break. Not tired. Not even sweating.
He had long since stopped being a coach. He felt redundant.
On the terrace—Lena with her sketchbook. Drawing the forest. Trees, shadows, sun through the branches. The pencil glided confidently over the paper.
Passing staff constantly stopped. Looked over her shoulder. Enchanted.
Not just a drawing. Every tree trunk was drawn in minute detail—the texture of the bark, the cracks, the moss. The branches with leaves were so detailed you could distinguish the veins.
One of the workers—the gardener—stopped. Took a closer look. On one of the branches, deep in the drawing, Lena had depicted a small nest. Thin lines. Intertwining twigs.
He looked at the actual trees beyond the terrace. Squinted. From thirty meters away, he couldn’t see that branch clearly enough.
Was the nest there?
He ran across the lawn towards the trees in shock. He had to check.
Lena didn’t turn around. Continued drawing. Adding shadows beneath the leaves.
Seventy-two children. Scattered throughout the hotel. Each occupied with their own task.
An ordinary day.
Sveta turned the page.
Froze.
The book dropped from her hands. Fell softly onto the carpet.
She stared at a single point. Motionless.
Misha dropped a construction piece. It rolled across the floor. He didn’t notice. He stared straight ahead. A vacant gaze.
By the window—Nastya and Kirill froze. Their hands suspended above the board. The pieces forgotten.
In the lobby—all twelve children stopped speaking. Simultaneously. As if on cue. They sat motionless. Silent.
In the kitchen—Anya stopped. Knife in hand. Vegetables on the board. The chef turned around: “Anya?” She didn’t answer. Stared at the wall.
In the gym—the ball fell to the floor for the first time. Rolled into the corner. Dima and Egor stood frozen. Rackets in their hands. Not moving.
On the terrace—Lena froze above her sketchbook. The pencil was suspended mid-line.
Seventy-two children.
Froze simultaneously.
As if someone had pressed pause on the entire hotel.
Silence.
Five seconds.
Ten.
Sveta blinked. Lifted her head. Looked at Misha.
He looked at her.
In his eyes, she saw the reflection of her anxiety. In hers—he saw his understanding.
Without words.
They understood.
Misha stood up. Sveta followed him.
By the window—Nastya rose. Behind the bookshelf—Kirill did too. Simultaneously. Chess was forgotten.
In the lobby—the twelve children stood up. Synchronously. Oleg was the first to move towards the stairs. The others followed him.
In the kitchen—Anya put down the knife. Wiped her hands on her apron. The chef looked at her: “Where are you going?” She didn’t answer. Left the kitchen.
In the gym—Dima and Egor put down their rackets. Walked towards the exit.
On the terrace—Lena closed her sketchbook. Stood up. Left the pencil on the table.
Seventy-two children.
Moved simultaneously.
Towards the center of the hotel.
They walked in silence.
From the library, from the lobby, from the rooms on the second floor, from the gym, from the terrace, from the kitchen.
Converging on a single point.
The first-floor corridor. The far end. The door to the basement.
No one pointed the way. No need to.
They knew.
The hotel staff noticed.
A maid on the second floor—saw a group of children walking down the corridor. Quietly. Synchronously. Like a procession.
“Children? Where are you going?”
No one answered. They walked past. Went down the stairs.
The administrator at the desk—noticed another group. Eight people. Silently walked through the lobby. Towards the far corridor.
“Hey, wait! What’s happening?”
Silence. They didn’t even turn around.
The chef came out of the kitchen. Watched Anya leave.
“What’s going on?”
No one answered.
The basement door.
Oleg was the first to approach. Opened it. A heavy metal door. Usually locked. Now—it opened easily. As if it had been waiting.
He descended the steps. The others followed him.
Sveta and Misha. Nastya and Kirill. Anya. Dima and Egor. Lena.
One after the other. Quietly. Calmly.
Seventy-two children descended.
The basement. A large room. Concrete walls. Low ceiling. Old shelves against the walls—supplies, boxes, inventory.
In the center—an empty space.
The children spread out along the perimeter. Sat down on the floor. Along the walls. In a circle.
No one spoke.
Dima was the last to descend. He closed the door from the inside. A heavy click of the lock.
He sat down with the others.
Silence.
Sveta sat with her back pressed against the wall. Knees pulled to her chest. Staring at the center of the room.
Beside her—Misha. Anya. Nastya. Kirill.
All seventy-two.
Silent.
But not afraid.
In their eyes—expectation. Calm. As if they knew something. Something important.
Something that would have others panicking already.
The maid on the second floor peeked into the rooms. Empty. All empty.
The administrator went through the lobby. The library. The gym. The terrace.
Not a single child.
He picked up the radio:
“This is the front desk. We have a… situation. The children have disappeared.”
A pause.
“What do you mean ‘disappeared’?”
“We don’t understand it ourselves, but we can’t find anyone.”
The hotel security—four people—began a sweep. Checking the territory. Rooms. Corridors.
One of the guards noticed the basement door. Closed.
“Are they in there?”
He tried to open it. Locked from the inside.
He knocked:
“Children! Open up!”
Silence.
“Children! Is everything okay?”
Silence.
He looked at his colleague. The man shrugged.
“We’ll report to the boss.”
An hour was spent searching. Every room checked. Every corridor. The area around the hotel.
Only then did the head guard contact the outer perimeter. The military.
“We have a strange situation. All the children have locked themselves in the basement. They aren’t answering. Not coming out.”
A pause on the other end of the connection.
“Understood. Keep them there. We are commencing.”
“Commencing what?”
The communication broke off.
The head guard looked at the radio. Frowned.
“Keep the children? What nonsense…”
Outside.
Figures in protective suits began moving across the territory.
Yellow. White. Masks. Gloves.
Biohazard signs on their sleeves.
They walked from the outer fence. Towards the main hotel building.
Methodically. Organized.
The dining hall. Lunchtime.
The hotel guests—about one hundred and fifty people—sat at the tables. Eating. Talking. Some hadn’t arrived yet, but the hall was nearly full.
The children’s parents. Guests. Those who lived here permanently. Those who came for the weekend.
The door opened.
People in protective suits entered. Five of them. Masks on their faces. Radios on their belts.
One of them raised a hand. His voice through the mask—muffled, but firm:
“Attention! Please remain calm. A leak of a dangerous biological agent has been recorded on the estate territory. Immediate evacuation is required. Collect only documents and valuables. Time is short.”
Silence.
Someone dropped a fork. Clanging against the plate.
“What?!”
“Biological threat?!”
“What agent?”
Voices overlapped. Panic was mounting.
The person in the suit raised both hands:
“Please remain calm! This is standard procedure. We will ensure your safety. Buses and helicopters are waiting outside. Evacuation will take no more than two hours.”
A man in his fifties—an expensive suit, confident posture—stood up abruptly:
“Do you know who I am? I won’t go anywhere until I speak to your superior!”
The person in the suit turned to him. His voice became harsher:
“Sir, this is a matter of your safety. Please comply with the procedure.”
“I demand to contact…”
The man reached for his phone. Unlocked the screen. Tried to make a call.
No signal.
He looked at the display. Frowned. Tried again.
Nothing.
“What the…” He looked at the person in the suit. “Did you jam the communication?”
Silence in response.
“My personal helicopter is five minutes from here! I can…”
“Sir, the airspace over the territory is closed. For safety reasons.”
“You have no right!”
Two guards in suits approached. Silently. Firmly.
The man fell silent. Looked at them. Clenched his jaw.
Slowly put down the phone. Turned around. Walked towards the exit.
The two in suits blocked his path.
“Sir, please return to your seat. Evacuation will begin in ten minutes.”
He stared at them. Breathing heavily. Anger in his eyes.
He slowly nodded. Returned to the table. Sat down.
A woman—mother of one of the children—jumped up:
“What about the children?! Where are the children?!”
“The children are safe. They are under the supervision of medical personnel. We will take care of them.”
“I want to see my son!”
“Ma’am, please…”
“I said, I want to see my son!” She moved towards the door.
The two in suits blocked her path. Gently but firmly took her by the arms.
“Ma’am, please calm down. Your son is safe. You will see him at the base.”
“What base?! Let me go!” She tried to break free.
In another corner of the dining hall—crying. Loud, desperate.
A small boy, about five years old, was clinging to the table. In front of him—unfinished yogurt with fruit. His mother tried to lift him. He screamed, pushed her away.
“No! I haven’t finished yet! I want the yogurt!”
“Sweetheart, please, we need to go…”
“No-o-o!” He grabbed the yogurt cup. Clutched it to his chest. Tears on his cheeks.
The person in the protective suit approached. Squatted down. His voice was soft:
“Hello, little friend. You can take the yogurt with you. No one will take it away.”
The boy sniffled. Looked at him through his tears.
“Really?”
“Really. Come on, there will be lots more yogurt at the base.”
The boy slowly let go of the table. Clinging to the cup, he allowed his mother to pick him up.
The woman nodded gratefully to the person in the suit. Took her son in her arms. Carried him towards the exit.
Yogurt dripped onto the floor.
The evacuation began.
Guests left the dining hall. Some calmly. Some with indignation. Some in tears.
The hotel staff—waiters, maids, cooks—were also evacuated. Everyone.
“But we work here!”
“So you want to die here too?” The voice was harsh. “The procedure applies to everyone. No exceptions.”
The Territory.
Guests and staff—in groups of ten to fifteen people—walked towards the exit. They were led by people in protective suits.
At the gates—buses. Three large ones. Doors open.
Further away—helicopters. Two of them. Blades rotating. Ready for takeoff.
People boarded the buses. Silently. Shock. Confusion.
Someone looked back—at the hotel.
The building among the trees. Quiet. Empty.
Where are the children?
One of the parents—a man in his forties—tried to break away. Ran back towards the hotel.
“My son is there! I won’t leave without him!”
Two military personnel in suits caught him in three seconds. Threw him to the ground. Face in the grass. Hands behind his back. The click of handcuffs.
“Sir, don’t complicate the situation.”
“Let me go! That’s my son!” He tried to break free. Uselessly.
“We have used force. The next step is isolation in a separate cell at the base. Your choice.”
He lay on the ground. Breathing heavily. Cheek in the grass. Anger. Despair. Powerlessness.
Slowly stopped resisting.
They lifted him up. The handcuffs remained. Led him to the bus.
After an hour, the territory was empty.
The last bus departed. The helicopters took off.
The staff—gone. The guests—evacuated. The hospital disbanded—doctors, nurses, paramedics sent to the military base. Eleven years of work. Seventy-two children saved. Everything—shut down in an hour.
Only the hotel security remained. Four people. They were also being led to the gates.
“But we are responsible for security!”
The person in the suit handed over a document. A form with a stamp and signature.
“Your job is to protect the guests. Here is the order from the hotel owner, Igor Gromov. We are now responsible for the territory. Let’s go.”
The head guard turned around. Looked at the hotel.
The building was empty. Quiet.
Only the children. In the basement.
They must have been evacuated separately. Medical transport. Special conditions.
He wanted to believe that.
Base “Sokol-2.” Seven kilometers from the hotel.
Buses approached the gates. They were met by military personnel. Without suits. Standard uniform.
People were led out of the buses. Documents checked.
“You will be accommodated in a building on the base territory. We have cleared it especially for you. Minimal comfort conditions are provided. Temporarily. For your safety.”
“How long?”
“Until the threat is eliminated.”
“Where are the children?!”
“The children are under supervision. You will see them later.”
General Morozov stood by the window of his office. Watching the arrivals.
Buses. Helicopters. People in shock. Confused. Frightened.
Seventy-two families of children. Other guests. Plus the hotel staff.
He knew many of these people. Their names. Faces. Stories.
Eleven years he had watched the hotel. Watched the children.
And now—the finale.
Something inside him screamed: this is wrong.
But he could do nothing.
On the Hotel Territory.
The silence was deafening.
The empty buildings now resembled haunted dwellings.
“The Temple of Evil”—that’s what they called the basement upstairs. In the headquarters. Behind closed doors.
The order was simple: “Capture or destroy.”
No discussion.
Around the perimeter—special forces took up positions.
Four groups of twenty men. Elite. Equipment. Weapons.
Sniper pairs at key points. Eight positions. Direct visibility of the building.
Drones in the sky. Cameras transmitting images to the headquarters.
APCs on the approaches. Helicopters on standby.
The circle was closing in.
Command Post. A tent in the forest. Five hundred meters from the hotel.
General Okhaniyev looked at the map. Red markers—group positions. Blue triangles—snipers. Green square—the hotel building.
Next to him—officers. Group commanders. Communicators.
The radio came alive:
“‘Alpha’ in position.”
“‘Bravo’ in position.”
“‘Charlie’ in position.”
“‘Delta’ in position.”
Okhaniyev nodded. Looked at his watch.
Fourteen thirty.
Evacuation complete. Territory cleared.
The children in the basement. All seventy-two. In one place.
He picked up the radio:
“To all groups. Readiness one. Awaiting command.”
“‘Alpha’ understood.”
“‘Bravo’ understood.”
“‘Charlie’ understood.”
“‘Delta’ understood.”
Okhaniyev looked at the hotel.
The building was quiet. Calm.
As if nothing was happening.
But he knew—they were inside.
Seventy-two teenagers. Each possessing capabilities that exceeded everything known.
And they were waiting.
For what?
He didn’t know.
In the Headquarters.
Screens showed the image of the hotel. From different angles. Satellite images. Drone cameras.
The President, Vokutin, Gromov—watching.
Quiet. Calm.
For now.
Gromov over the secure line:
“Vladislav Fyodorovich, status?”
“Positions taken. Territory cleared. Targets isolated. Awaiting command for entry.”
A pause.
Gromov looked at the President.
The President looked at the screens.
For a long time.
He slowly nodded.
Gromov into the radio:
“Wait.”
He released the button.
“Not yet time. Let them sit. Let them get nervous.”
But Volkova, sitting to the side, said barely audibly:
“They are not nervous.”
Chapter 149: The Hunt
Phylknight’s ship. Fifty-eight light-years from home.
A corridor. Metal walls with a soft glow. The quiet hum of life support systems.
On one of the walls—a magnetic board.
Photographs. Dozens.
Held by magnets. Holographic snapshots taken over six years of travel.
Artemia stood on the surface of a comet. Her hands raised. A gesture of triumph. She was wearing a quantum protective suit—thin, almost weightless. Around her—open space. Stars. The void. And beneath her feet—ice and rock, hurtling through space at tens of kilometers per second.
On her face—happiness. Pure. Unrestrained.
She had conquered a comet.
Next to it—another photograph. A quasar. Bright luminescence in the center of the frame. Light distortion around it. And in the foreground—the silhouettes of Artem and Artemia, standing side by side. Their hands were raised—as if they were holding this storm of light in their palms.
Another one. An asteroid field. Thousands of rocks all around. And the tiny dot of the ship, navigating through them. The angle was taken from afar—Phylkite had teleported a couple of thousand kilometers away to capture the moment.
And the favorite—Artem stood in open space. Hands raised above his head. And above him—a star. Small, a dwarf, but still massive in scale. Perfect exposure. The perspective made it look like he was holding it on his shoulders.
Artemia laughed about it for two hours afterwards. She said he looked like Atlas, only holding a star instead of a planet.
Six years.
They had explored nebulae. Flown past pulsars—from a distance, of course, too dangerous to get close. Landed on dead planets. Artemia collected stones. Artem studied traces of ancient civilizations—once they found ruins. Very old. Very quiet.
Phylknight suggested new routes every time. Phylkite joked that they had become space tourists.
But most importantly—they had grown stronger.
Phylkite and Artemia had completed their evolution. The quantum alignment took six years. Slow. Gradual. But now—it was done.
All four were on the same level.
Eighty-two percent.
Their connection to reality was stable. Their abilities expanded. They were no longer lagging behind each other. A team. Complete.
From time to time, they returned to the planet. Crossing the bridge—a quantum passage between Phylknight’s ship and Phylkite’s body left on the planet. Resting on the uninhabited island. In the house by the ocean. Eating pizza at sunset. Racing gliders. Laughing.
Home. Warmth. Family.
Then they would leave for space again. New routes. New discoveries.
An ordinary life for those who don’t fit the definition of “ordinary.”
Now they were heading toward a gas giant. A massive planet with rings. It had eight moons. Artem wanted to investigate a crater on one of them—there were interesting mineral formations there.
Phylknight had already calculated the landing trajectory.
Artem stood at the control panel. Looking at the holographic map. The moon rotated on the screen—high detail, every crack on the surface was visible.
“This crater,” Artem pointed to the spot. “About twenty kilometers in diameter. The central peak—traces of impact melting. I’m curious about the rock type. Possibly remnants of the asteroid core.”
Phylknight, sitting nearby in his dragon form, nodded. His eyes focused on the data.
“Simple landing. Almost no atmosphere. Low gravity—twelve percent of Earth’s. We can complete the research in three hours.”
Artemia sat in the co-pilot’s seat. Legs drawn up. Staring at the giant planet in the viewport. Massive. Bands of clouds. A storm in the southern hemisphere—a red spot, rotating for thousands of years.
“Beautiful,” she said softly.
Phylkite was next to her. Watching too. His tail wrapped around her arm.
“Yes. But this planet would kill us in seconds if we got too close. Pressure in the lower atmosphere—several million atmospheres. Temperature—thousands of degrees. Beauty is deadly.”
Artemia chuckled:
“Like much of space.”
Phylkite suddenly froze.
His tail straightened. His head twitched sideways—as if he were listening to something others couldn’t hear.
Artemia noticed:
“Phylkite?”
The dragonet didn’t answer. Eyes closed. Complete concentration.
Phylknight raised his head:
“What’s wrong, Kite?”
Silence.
Phylkite abruptly opened his eyes:
“Knight, stop the ship. Right now.”
“What happened?”
“Stop!”
Phylknight issued the command. The ship began deceleration. Inertial compensators smoothed out the jerk.
Phylknight jumped from his seat. Walked over to Phylkite:
“Bro, are you trying to scare us?”
Phylkitewasn’t looking at him. He was staring into the void. Tense.
“Sensors… are registering something. A strong spatial distortion.”
Artem looked at the panels. All indicators were normal. The ship was stable. Systems were working.
“What exactly?”
Phylkite turned around. Jumped onto the console. His paws moved across the holographic interface—quickly, precisely.
The screen changed. A map of the sector appeared. Their home planet in the center. Stars around it.
And—an anomaly.
A red marker. Far away. Very far. At the edge of the sensor range.
Artem squinted:
“What is that?”
“Unknown,” Phylkite enlarged the scale. The marker grew bigger. But no detail appeared. Just a red blob. “Sensors are registering spatial distortion. Strong. But visually there’s nothing.”
Phylknight approached the screen. Looked at the marker. For a long time.
“Direction?”
Phylkite swiped his paw several times. The map turned. A trajectory appeared—a thin line from the red marker.
It was heading towards their home planet.
Silence.
Artemia stood up. Walked closer:
“Is it… coming for us?”
“Not for us,” Phylknight said quietly. “For the planet.”
Artem stared at the trajectory. Straight. Clear.
“What could it be?”
Phylkite didn’t answer. He worked the sensors. More data. More analysis.
Then he froze.
“Oh no.”
“What ‘oh no’?” Artem stepped closer.
Phylkite slowly turned his head. His eyes wide.
“A Quantum Worm.”
Silence. Cold. Oppressive.
Artemia:
“What?”
“A Quantum Worm,” Phylkite repeated. “I thought we wouldn’t encounter them again. After that incident… But it’s here. And it’s heading for the planet.”
Phylknight quickly:
“One?”
Phylkite checked the sensors again. His paws trembled.
“Checking…”
The map expanded. The scanning radius increased.
A new marker. Red.
Another one.
Another.
Another.
Another.
The map filled with red dots. Dozens. More.
All heading towards the planet.
Artem felt something clench inside him.
“How many?”
Phylkite counted. Quietly. Then:
“Registering… thirty-seven. No. Forty-two. No, more. They are appearing.” His voice trembled. “Many. Too many.”
Phylknight jumped onto the console. Checked the data himself.
“This is not a migration.”
“What then?” Artemia pressed herself against the back of the seat.
“A Hunt,” Phylknight said. “They are hunting. Purposefully. The planet.”
Artem:
“Why?”
Phylknight looked at him. For a long time. In his eyes—a heavy understanding.
“The children.”
Artemia blinked:
“What?”
“The children are fourteen now.” Phylknight spoke slowly, clearly. “They recently underwent the second evolution. The first was at five. Now the second. Their abilities exploded. They have become an anomaly so concentrated…”
He didn’t finish.
Phylkite finished for him:
“…that reality has begun to reject them.”
Silence.
Artem looked at the map. The red markers were moving. Slowly but surely. All towards the planet.
“Quantum Worms… are they like the defense system of reality?”
“Exactly,” Phylknight nodded. “The immune cells of the cosmos. When an anomaly becomes too strong, they appear. They attack not the bodies. They attack the connection to reality. If the connection drops to zero…”
“Dispersion,” Artem said quietly. “Into molecules.”
Artemia flinched. She remembered the moment of transition, when reality itself almost tore them apart into atoms as stowaways.
Phylkite looked at the screen. The red dots multiplied.
“This is not just a threat to the children. If the worms breach the planet… they will start tearing the fabric of reality. Holes. Collapse. The entire planet is at risk.”
Artemia closed her eyes. Clenched her fists.
Phylknight looked at the map. At the worms’ trajectories. At the planet.
“We need to leave. It’s no longer safe here.”
A pause.
Then—a voice.
From afar.
Not through the speakers. Not through the comms.
Just—a sound that materialized in space. Quiet. Layered. Like an echo from a distance.
— They are not ready yet.
Artem swallowed.
Phylkite jumped to his hind legs:
“At this rate, there will soon be no one left to save!”
The voice didn’t respond immediately.
Phylknight, without turning around, added:
“Exactly. We won’t be able to hold them back. They are already besieging the planet.”
Silence. A long one.
Then—the voice again. Cold. Clear.
— …Evacuation approved. Prepare to receive operators. Estimated time—three hours.
The voice faded.
Phylkite spun around towards the screen. His eyes wide:
“Three hours??!?!?” He was practically screaming. “We might not last half an hour here!”
Phylkite:
“Knight, open the bridge to me.”
Phylknight understood immediately. His voice resolute:
“Go ahead.”
The bridge opened.
A quantum tunnel unfolded right in the air. A luminous doorway.
Artem stepped through first.
The villa living room. Familiar space. Panoramic windows. View of the ocean.
Artemia stepped through next.
Phylkite emerged third. Straight to the holographic terminal.
Phylknight last. The bridge collapsed behind him.
“Transferring the ship to the planet’s orbit,” he said. “It will take a minute.”
The dragonet closed his eyes. Concentration.
Artem felt—the tension in the air.
Phylkite watched the terminal. Data updating.
Thirty seconds.
Forty.
Fifty.
Phylknight opened his eyes:
“Done.”
On the terminal screen—a flash. The ship materialized in orbit. Massive. The blue glow of the quantum shield.
Phylkite:
“I see you. Opening the bridge.”
A new tunnel unfolded in the air.
Artem didn’t hesitate. He stepped through.
He was aboard Phylknight’s ship.
Phylknight was already at the control panel. Holographic screens all around.
Artem ran towards him.
Artemia stepped through next. Stopped beside Artem.
Phylkite last. The bridge collapsed behind him.
All four of them. Together.
Phylknight looked at the screen. Map of the sector. The planet below. Red markers closing in.
“They see us.”
On the map—the red markers approached the planet.
Then—slowed down.
A massive object in their path. The size of a continent. A quantum shield concealed what was inside.
The markers began to go around. Circumnavigating the obstacle. Continuing their path towards the planet.
Phylknight:
“They’re moving on. Not attacking. Yet.”
Artem felt—pressure. Invisible. But real.
Phylknight:
“Engaging the worm closest to the planet.”
Phylknight maneuvered. Driving the worms away from the planet. Pulses of quantum energy forced them to retreat, to go back into the rifts.
But the worms fought back. Every retreat—a counter-attack. Strikes on the shield. The load was increasing.
Phylkite helped. Calculations. Trajectories. Prediction of movements.
But the worms grew in number.
One retreated—three pressed in from other sides.
The pressure mounted.
Artem felt—something clenching inside. The connection to reality trembled.
Artemia, gripping the armrests, shouted:
“Can’t we kill them somehow?!”
Phylknight laughed. Bitterly. Almost hysterically.
“They are part of the system! We don’t stand a chance of even lasting long against one!”
Phylkite added:
“They instinctively fear us when we are together. That’s why they run. But there’s an ‘appetizing target’ on the planet; they won’t retreat so easily.”
Artem clenched his teeth. He understood.
They weren’t fighting.
They were buying time.
As long as fear was stronger than hunger.
In the planet’s atmosphere.
One of the worms broke through. Closer to the surface.
It attacked the planet’s magnetic field.
The sky reacted.
An anomalous glow. Weak at first. Like the northern lights. But the colors were wrong.
Violet streaks. Green flashes.
Then—brighter.
The Hotel territory.
Military personnel in position. Awaiting orders.
Okhaniyev looked at his watch. Time was passing.
Suddenly—the sky changed.
Luminescence. Strange. Terrifying.
Soldiers looked up. Staring at the sky.
One of them:
“Commander… what is that?”
The group commander was silent. Staring at the sky. He didn’t understand.
Okhaniyev over the radio:
“Headquarters, do you see the sky?”
Gromov in the Headquarters:
“We see it. Analyzing. Hold your positions.”
Someone in the Headquarters quietly:
“Is it the children? Are they doing that?”
The glow intensified.
Streaks of light twisted. A vortex. Above the hotel—the epicenter.
Lightning. But not ordinary.
They didn’t strike the ground. They tore the sky itself. Cracks. Rifts in space.
The color—violet. Green. Something else. A color that shouldn’t exist. Eyes refused to process it.
A sound.
Not thunder.
Deeper.
As if reality itself was vibrating. Resonance. Penetrating the bones. The skull.
Pressure on the ears. Strong. Mounting.
Soldiers grabbed their heads.
“What is happening?!”
“I’m in pain!”
One of them fell to his knees. Blood coming from his nose.
Another—shut his eyes tight. Hands over his ears. Screaming. But unheard. The volume drowned out everything.
Okhaniyev held on. But he felt—the pressure. His head was splitting.
His eyes. Pain in his eyes. As if light was cutting him.
He turned away from the sky. Unable to look.
In the Headquarters.
Screens showed the image. Satellite cameras. Soldiers’ body cameras.
The President watched. His face pale.
Vokutin stood up:
“What is happening out there?!”
Gromov over the comms:
“Vladislav Fyodorovich! Report!”
Okhaniyev’s voice barely audible. Through the static:
“Soldiers… can’t… pressure… blood… can’t operate…”
The communication cut off. Hissing.
Volkova sat. Watching the screens. Quietly:
“It’s not the children.”
Everyone looked at her.
“It’s something much bigger.”
Gromov quietly:
“It seems we’ve opened Pandora’s Box.”
The Hotel Territory.
Thunder. Deafening. Driving them mad.
Lightning tore the sky. Again. Again. Again.
Gravity was erratic.
A stone on the ground trembled. Lifted up. Hung in the air for a second. Fell back down.
Another stone. Another.
Dust rose. Hanging in the air. Not falling.
Soldiers lay on the ground. Hands on their heads. Blood from their noses. From the ears of some.
Okhaniyev on his knees. Looking at the sky. Through the pain.
Above the hotel—a vortex. The epicenter. Lightning struck from the center. Space was tearing apart.
Chapter 150: The Lure
In orbit of the planet.
Phylknight was fending off the worms. Impulse after impulse. They retreated. Returned. Attacked again.
Artem sat in the pilot’s chair. Hands on the controls. Assisting. Calculating trajectories. Predicting attacks.
Inside—the pressure was mounting.
The connection to reality.
Eighty-two percent.
The number flickered.
Eighty-one.
Artem concentrated. Hold steady.
Eighty-two.
A second.
Eighty-one again.
Then—eighty.
He gripped the armrests. Breathing deeply.
Beside him—Artemia. She felt it too. Her face was pale. Her hands trembled.
Phylkite was assisting Phylknight. Calculations. Trajectories. But he too was tense. His paws slid across the interface faster than usual.
Phylknight maneuvered. A turn. Impulse. Block.
But the number of worms wasn’t decreasing.
Artem felt—another drop.
Seventy-nine percent.
Something clenched inside. Fear. Cold.
They wouldn’t last much longer.
Phylkite pulled away from the interface. Looked at Artemia.
“Artemia,” softly. “Come here.”
She stood up. Walked over to the dragonet.
Phylkite led her aside. To the far corner of the command bridge. Away from Phylknight and Artem.
Artemia leaned down. Listening.
Phylkite quietly:
“I have a plan. But it might be a one-way ticket.”
She froze. Looked at him.
“What?”
“I can draw away most of the worms. Relieve the pressure on Knight. Buy time.” He looked into her eyes. “But I’m not sure we’ll return.”
Artemia exhaled. Slowly.
She turned around.
She watched Phylknight and Artem.
They were fighting. Fiercely. At their limit. Artem was tense all over. Phylknight didn’t take his eyes off the controls.
Another worm strike. The ship shuddered.
Artem clenched his teeth.
Artemia watched.
Then—she nodded to Phylkite.
Slowly. Resolutely.
“Do it.”
Phylkite turned around. His voice louder:
“Knight! Take care of the planet!”
Phylknight turned around. Didn’t understand immediately.
“What?”
Phylkite didn’t answer. Closed his eyes. Concentration.
Tension in the air.
His ship. Phylkite’s body on the planet.
Materialization.
In space, next to Phylknight, a second ship materialized.
Smaller. Ten kilometers long. Blue with white stripes.
Phylkite’s ship.
A bridge opened on board Phylknight’s ship. A quantum tunnel.
Artemia didn’t hesitate. She ran. Jumped into the opening.
Vanished.
The bridge collapsed.
Artem turned around:
“Artemia?!”
Phylknight too:
“Kite, what are you doing?!”
But Phylkite was already aboard his ship. With Artemia.
Phylkite’s shield.
He lowered it. Abruptly.
From one hundred percent to fifty.
The effect—instantaneous.
The red markers on Phylknight’s map froze.
Then—a part of them turned around.
They surged toward Phylkite.
Phylknight watched the screen. Understood.
“That blockhead!” he yelled. “Reckless, but brave!”
Phylkite over the comms:
“Hey, hey, bro, no sentimentality. Just don’t die there.”
Phylknight rolled his eyes:
“Stop stealing my lines.”
Aboard Phylkite’s ship.
Artemia in the pilot’s seat. Hands on the controls.
Phylkite beside her. Looking at the map.
The worms changed course. Three quarters of them. Flying toward them.
Phylkite laughed. Viciously. Excitement in his voice.
“I knew it! So, you still consider us the anomaly in this reality!”
He turned the ship around. Away from the planet. Away from Phylknight.
Engines to maximum.
Acceleration.
Artemia was pressed into her seat.
“Hold on!” Phylkite yelled. “It’s about to get hot!”
The ship shot forward. Full speed.
Behind them—the pack of worms. Three quarters of them all. Dozens.
They chased Phylkite and Artemia.
The elite anomalies. Those who were not born into this reality. The primary target for annihilation.
Near the planet.
Phylknight watched the map. The red markers were leaving. Only a quarter remained.
The pressure dropped. Abruptly.
Artem exhaled. He felt—the connection stabilized. Eighty-one percent. Holding.
Phylknight:
“He bought us time.”
Artem nodded. Clenched his fists.
“Then let’s not waste it.”
Phylknight turned the ship around. Towards the remaining worms.
“Together?”
“Together.”
Phylkite sped away from the planet. The speed enormous.
Artemia watched the screen. The distance grew. Light seconds. Minutes.
The worms behind them. A chase.
Phylkite maneuvered. Sharp turns. Dodges.
“They are fast!” Artemia yelled.
“I’m faster!” Phylkite laughed.
Ahead—a flash. A rift in space.
A worm emerged. Directly in their path.
Phylkite sharply down. A bypass.
Another rift. Left.
Another worm.
They emerged ahead. Cutting off the path. Trying to corner them.
A game of cat and mouse.
Phylkitedodged. Like a needletail swift among giant space eagles.
He had completed the second evolution. The one that was interrupted in the former reality. Now he was acclimated here. Full power.
The maneuvers were precise. Perfect.
But one mistake—and the worms would dive in from all sides.
Artemia gripped the armrests. Her heart pounded.
“Phylkite!”
“I know! Hold on!”
A sharp turn to the right. The worm missed. Flew past.
Another rift ahead.
Phylkite left. Up. Down.
A dance on the edge.
Artemia was breathing heavily. Concentrated. Connected to the ship’s systems.
Sensors. Trajectories. Rift prediction.
“Phylkite, eight seconds ahead left! Three worms simultaneously!”
“I see!”
She analyzed. Calculated. Her quantum connection to reality helped her sense the distortions before the sensors did.
“Two at five and seven o’clock! Safe window three seconds!”
“Going!”
They worked together. Synchronously. As one unit.
Artemia was no longer a passenger. She was the co-pilot. The navigator.
They sped further and further away. Light minutes. Hours.
The chase continued.
Time passed.
An hour.
An hour and a half.
Two.
Near the planet.
Phylknight and Artem blocked the worms’ attacks. Using all their potential. Every drop of strength.
Artem felt—sweat dripping down his face. A rarity. He almost never sweated. But now—at the limit.
Phylknight too. The dragonet was tense to the extreme. His paws never left the controls. His eyes focused. Cold as ice.
Artem accidentally glanced at him. For one moment, he thought he saw hatred in those eyes. Something that had never been there before. Never.
Phylknight drove off the worms with ferocity.
But they were not ready to retreat.
Another worm. Block. Impulse.
Another.
Another.
Artem assisted. Calculations. Trajectories. Piloting.
Together, they held the defense.
Far from the planet.
Phylkite and Artemia united their efforts. Navigating a route through the chase.
Already several light-years from Phylknight. From the planet.
The worms didn’t let up. They pursued. Emerging ahead.
Phylkite dodged. Again. Again.
Artemia helped. Watched the sensors. Warned about rifts.
“Two at eight o’clock! Abort. Three worms!”
“I see!”
A sharp maneuver.
Their entire six-year journey, all their research and training. He squeezed the maximum out of their accumulated experience.
An ordinary person would not have withstood the complex geometric tricks, but Artemia did.
They flew. Without stopping.
Two hours of chase.
And no end in sight.
Perhaps this was the time when they were destined to become heroes for the sake of the goal.
Would they succeed, or would they have to sell their lives as dearly as possible?
On the planet.
Above the hotel—hell.
The soldiers felt as if the sky itself had become enraged at them and was ready to bring down all the stars. Earthquakes of magnitude 2-3 occasionally no longer seemed frightening. But not the sky. Some couldn’t take it and ran away.
Authorities began evacuating nearby districts. A twenty-kilometer radius. People fled their homes. Saving themselves however they could.
In the Headquarters.
Vokutin watched the monitor. At the scene of horror above the hotel.
His face was pale. His hands trembling.
“This is impossible,” quietly. “This is simply impossible.”
Gromov on video call. Silent. Watching the same footage.
Then:
“If we could have guessed the scale of their abilities back then… Six years ago…”
Vokutin laughed. Nervously. Hysterically.
“We were afraid of influential people.”
Gromov quietly, with bitterness:
“But we gave such a monster time to grow.”
A pause.
Vokutin, discarding all formalities:
“Do you think it’s too late to retreat? To negotiate?”
Gromov looked at him. For a long time. Despair in his eyes.
“You negotiate with equals.” He held the pause. “But we are already far behind.”
Chapter 151: Evacuation
Two hours and thirty minutes since the battle began.
Phylknight blocked a worm. Another one. Another.
Artem assisted. His hands trembled. Sweat poured down his face. The connection to reality—seventy-eight percent. Dropping. Slowly. Relentlessly.
Phylknight over the comms. His voice strained:
“Kite. Time. Come back. We can no longer hold them back.”
A pause. A second. Two.
Phylkite:
“Understood. Sending Artemia.”
Far from the planet.
Phylkite turned the ship around. Abruptly.
“Artemia, prepare!”
She pulled away from the sensors. Looked at him.
“What?”
“We’re going back! Now!”
The bridge opened. A quantum tunnel. To Phylknight. To the planet.
Artemia didn’t argue. She jumped up. Ran toward the opening.
She leaped.
Phylkite followed her. The dragonet darted after her. Speed. Without a glance back.
Phylkite’s ship slowed down.
The worms sensed it. Pounced. All at once.
The swarm surrounded the ship. Dozens of red markers.
But the ship vanished.
Dematerialized.
Phylkite transferred his essence. Through the ring on Artemia’s hand. Quantum connection. Instant transition.
The worms were left in the void. Without a target.
Aboard Phylknight’s ship.
Artemia appeared. The bridge collapsed behind her.
Phylkite materialized nearby. The dragonet shook himself off.
“Run!”
They ran. The corridor. To the glider bay.
Phylknight yelled. His voice echoing:
“If those two can’t hold up, we might be able to last!”
Artemia on the run. Her voice tense:
“We are proceeding with the children’s evacuation?”
Phylkite:
“There is no more time to wait!”
Artem turned around. Looked at Phylknight.
Their gazes met.
Both understood.
The turning point.
They couldn’t lose.
The glider bay.
Artemia jumped into the cockpit. The systems came alive. The engine hummed.
Phylkite—into his.
The bay doors opened. Space. The planet below.
“Let’s go!”
The gliders shot out. Maximum speed. Straight down. Towards the planet.
Artemia clenched the controls. The acceleration pressed her into the seat.
Phylkitebeside her. Voice over the comms:
“Materializing the ship! Hold on!”
Ahead—a flash.
A ship appeared from nowhere. Ten kilometers long. Blue with white stripes. A smaller version. For the atmosphere. To avoid destroying the planet with its mass.
But even so—massive.
Artemia turned the glider. Flew close.
The airlock opened. A glowing doorway.
She flew inside. At full speed. A sharp brake. The glider froze.
Artemia jumped out of the cockpit. Ran toward the bridge.
Phylkite was at the helm. Artemia beside him.
“Down! Faster!”
The ship turned. Nose towards the planet. Atmospheric entry.
Phylknight over the comms. Tensely:
“Do you realize you’ll have to exit the anti-phase?”
Phylkite clenched his teeth. Paws on the controls.
“Who do you think I am?” His voice firm. Resolute. “It’s time to show our hand. There’s no turning back!”
Artem, aboard Phylknight’s ship, quietly to Phylknight:
“There is no other way. Otherwise, the local authorities will prevent the evacuation. When the children leave cover.”
Phylknight nodded.
Phylkite’s ship cut through the atmosphere.
Speed. Fire on the hull. A deep hum.
Approaching the hotel.
Phylkite disabled the quantum shield.
The anti-phase dropped.
Above the hotel.
The sky was tearing apart with lightning. Thunder. Chaos.
Soldiers lay on the ground. Blood from their noses. Pain in their ears.
Okhaniyev on his knees. Staring up through the pain.
And suddenly—the sky darkened.
Not from clouds.
From something enormous.
A ship.
Ten kilometers long.
Blue with white stripes.
Covered half the sky.
It hung suspended. Above the trees. Above the hotel.
Silence.
Absolute. Deafening.
Even the lightning fell silent for a moment.
Soldiers looked up. Disbelieving their eyes.
One of them fell onto his back. Stared. His mouth open. Not breathing.
Another—shut his eyes tight. Opened them. The ship was still there.
The group commander whispered:
“It’s impossible… impossible…”
Okhaniyev stared. His face pale. His hands trembling.
An ant before a train.
Not just a train.
A world.
All their efforts. All their preparation. All their weapons.
Nothing.
Less than nothing.
One volley from that ship—and the planet would split.
This thought paralyzed everyone. Paralyzed them.
No one even thought of raising a weapon.
In the basement.
The children stood up. Simultaneously.
Sveta first to the door. Opened it.
“Let’s go.”
They walked out. All seventy-two. Silently. Quickly.
Down the corridor. Up the stairs. Towards the exit.
Outside.
The hotel door burst open.
The children ran out.
The light cut their eyes. But they didn’t stop.
They ran toward the ship. Towards the shadow that covered the ground.
The ship hovered low. Above the trees. Twenty meters above the ground.
A ramp descended. Metallic. Wide.
But it didn’t reach the ground. Three meters short.
Sveta ran up first. Didn’t even think.
She jumped.
Three meters up. Like nothing.
She grabbed the edge of the ramp. Pulled herself up. Scrambled aboard.
Behind her—Misha. Then Anya. Nastya. Kirill. Oleg.
One after the other. Jumping. Soaring. Climbing aboard.
The soldiers watched. Didn’t move. Didn’t shoot.
Fear. Pure. Primal.
One soldier tried to raise his rifle. His hands wouldn’t obey. The weapon trembled.
Suddenly—a beam of light. From the ship. Like a searchlight.
It struck him directly. Lit him up brightly. Dazzlingly.
The soldier froze. The rifle fell from his hands.
The beam held him. A second. Two. Three.
Then it went out.
The soldier fell to his knees. Trembling.
The commander nearby grabbed another’s shoulder. Squeezed. Shook his head.
“Don’t.”
“But…”
“We’ll be incinerated. Instantly.”
The soldier whispered through clenched teeth:
“Let them go… they really are monsters…”
All seventy-two climbed aboard.
Oleg was the last. He scanned the clearing. Made sure everyone was inside.
He turned around. Looked down. At the soldiers. At Okhaniyev.
He smiled.
He waved his hand.
Then he turned. Walked inside.
The ramp began to rise.
Inside the ship.
Artemia met them. Smiling. Hands outstretched.
“Follow me! Quickly!”
The children walked. Silently. Calmly.
Sveta looked at Artemia.
They had never met personally. But there was something, deep in her chest, that convinced her of their safety.
She nodded.
“Thank you.”
Artemia blinked. Surprised.
“For what?”
“For everything.”
Sveta walked on. Towards the bridge.
The others followed her.
Phylkite over the internal comms:
“Everyone’s aboard! Leaving!”
The ship turned. Smoothly. Majestically.
Nose towards the sky.
The engines roared.
A surge.
The ship shot upwards. Through the atmosphere. Into space.
In seconds.
On the ground.
Soldiers lay there. Staring at the sky. At the disappearing dot.
Okhaniyev on the radio. His voice hoarse:
“Headquarters… they… the children… taken…”
Gromov over the comms:
“What?! Repeat!”
“A ship. Massive. Took all the children. Left for space.”
Silence.
Gromov:
“You… you saw a ship?”
“Covered half the sky.” Okhaniyev laughed. Hysterically. “We… we couldn’t do anything at all.”
The communication cut off.
Okhaniyev lowered the radio. Stared at the sky.
Empty. Quiet.
The children were gone.
In space.
Phylknight maneuvered. Attracting the worms’ attention. Distracting them.
Artem gripped the armrests. His head spinning. The connection to reality—seventy-six percent. Dropping. Still.
“Phylknight… I…”
“Hold on! Just a little longer!”
The worms circled around Phylknight. Not attacking the planet. But not pursuing Phylkite’s ship either.
Phylknight held their attention. Maneuvered. Blocked attempts to break through.
Buying time. For Phylkite to fly far away. With the children.
Artem assisted. With his last reserves of strength.
Seventy-five percent.
Seventy-four.
“Phylknight…”
“Don’t give up! Kite is almost ready!”
Five minutes later.
Phylknight created a bridge. To Phylkite’s ship.
“Kite! Ready!”
“Go!”
The bridge opened.
Artem stood up. Staggered.
Phylknight flew closer. Offered his shoulder. The dragonet supported him.
“Go! Together!”
They stepped into the passage. Phylknight helped him walk.
The world swam. Darkness at the edges of his vision.
Then—they were aboard Phylkite’s ship.
Artem fell to his knees. Breathing heavily.
Artemia rushed over:
“Artem!”
He lifted his head. Smiled weakly.
“I’m… fine…”
The bridge collapsed behind him.
Phylkite over the comms. Quickly:
“Knight! Hurry! Connect!”
“Already!”
Phylknight concentrated. Connected to Phylkite’s control systems. Mentally. Fully.
Two minds. Two Phyls. One ship.
Synchronization.
The power exploded.
Two hundred fifty percent.
Phylkite’s ship came alive. Anew. Systems operated at their limit. Engines roared.
The speed increased. Doubled. Tripled.
Maneuverability—absolute.
Phylkite laughed:
“Now this is what I call it!”
Phylknight:
“Let’s show them what we’re capable of!”
Near the planet.
The remaining worms sensed the change.
They turned around.
They surged after Phylkite.
All of them. At once.
The chase resumed.
But now—it was different.
Phylkite was no longer running away.
He was dancing.
The worms emerged ahead. He slipped between them. Like a shadow.
They tried to surround him. He vanished. Appeared where he wasn’t expected.
Two Phyls. A single unit. Two hundred fifty percent power.
A game of cat and mouse.
But now it was unclear—who was the cat, and who was the mouse.
Artemia watched the screens. The children around her. Silent. Observing.
Sveta beside her. Quietly:
“Will we be alright?”
Artemia looked at her. Smiled.
“They don’t stand a chance!”
Sveta nodded.
She believed.
Minutes turned into an eternity.
Every second—a burden.
Every maneuver—on the edge.
Phylkite and Phylknight held their course.
The worms behind them.
And in the distance—new markers on the screen. The ones that chased Phylkite earlier. They returned. Catching up.
All forces united.
Ahead—the unknown.
But the goal was clear.
To last.
To the portal.
To salvation.
The countdown.
Chapter 152: Ten Minutes
Ten minutes until the portal opened.
Inside the ship.
A large hall. A full wall viewscreen. Space beyond the glass.
Artem lay on the sofa. Eyes closed. Breathing evenly. His connection to reality was recovering. Slowly. Seventy-six percent. Seventy-seven.
His head was still spinning. But the pain was receding.
A quiet hiss. Pneumatics. From the direction of the door.
He opened his eyes slightly. Turned his head.
The children were entering. One by one. Quietly. Seventy-two people.
Artemia was in front. Leading them. Showing them where to sit.
Artem smiled. Tiredly. Raised a hand. Waved.
Artemia noticed. Stopped. Looked at him.
Smiled back.
Gave him a thumbs up.
Artem nodded.
Everything was fine.
For now.
Space.
Phylkite was piloting the ship at maximum speed. Two hundred fifty percent power. The systems roared.
Phylknight over the comms. Voice strained:
“Nine minutes, forty seconds!”
“Understood!”
Behind the stern—red markers. Dozens. Worms. Catching up. Slowly. But surely.
Phylkite turned the ship around. Sharply. Dove downwards. Towards the gas giant.
Gravity seized them. Pulled them.
The speed increased. Threefold.
The ship skimmed past. Tangentially. Shot out the other side.
A surge.
The worms tried to repeat the maneuver. Too slow. Too cumbersome.
One miscalculated. Crashed into the atmosphere. Decelerated. Fell behind.
The lead increased.
Inside.
The children sat down. Some on the floor. Some on the sofas along the walls.
Silent. Looking out the window. At the stars. At the darkness.
Sveta sat next to Artem. Looked at him.
“How are you?”
“Better.” He lifted himself up. Sat up. “And you?”
“We’re fine.”
Artemia turned to the children:
“I’ll bring something to eat now. You were locked up for a long time.”
Anya stood up:
“I’ll help. I know what everyone likes.”
Artemia smiled:
“Thank you.”
They left. Returned a minute later. With trays. Sandwiches. Drinks in cartons.
They placed everything on a small table by the wall.
Anya arranged everything neatly.
Artemia:
“Take whatever you want. Don’t be shy.”
The children approached. One by one. Took food. Thanked her with a nod.
Artemia sat on the edge of the sofa. Opened her carton. Took a sip.
Looked out the window.
Stars flashed by. Fast. Too fast.
She knew what that meant.
Space.
Phylkite opened a subspace tunnel. Ahead. A glowing funnel.
“Entering!”
The ship dove inside.
Reality warped. Colors blurred. Space compressed.
The speed exploded.
Five seconds.
Ten.
Fifteen.
Suddenly—an impact.
The tunnel tore apart. The fabric of reality cracked.
The ship was violently ejected. With a jerk.
Phylknight:
“What?!”
“They broke the tunnel!” Phylkite gritted his teeth. “We were halfway through!”
“Energy?”
“Eighty-one percent! We spent too much!”
Phylknight quickly:
“Delta-Three Maneuver! Recover the reserve!”
“Understood!”
The ship turned around. Slowed down. The shield weakened.
Energy was redirected. To the engines. To the systems.
Eighty-two percent.
Eighty-three.
Inside.
Artem felt the jerk. Flinched. Grabbed the armrest.
“The games are over. Too bad. It was fun.”
Artemia nodded:
“The tunnel didn’t work. But we’re on our way.”
The children chewed their sandwiches. Drank. Calmly.
As if they were on an excursion.
Sveta finished eating. Placed the wrapper on the floor nearby.
Looked at Artem:
“Will we make it?”
He looked into her eyes. Nodded.
“We prepared for many years for this day. This ship has seen worse.”
She smiled. Weakly.
She believed.
Space.
The worms were approaching. Faster now.
Phylkite turned the ship around. Headed towards a star. The system’s sun.
Phylknight sarcastically:
“Kite, decided to end it all right here and now?”
Phylkite theatrically rolled his eyes. Equally sarcastically:
“Either way, it will end in a few minutes. Why prolong the inevitable?”
The ship dove. Towards the star. The temperature rose. The sensors screamed.
Closer.
Even closer.
The star’s gravity seized them. Pulled them. Spun them around.
The speed exploded.
Phylkite seized the moment. Turned. Shot out tangentially.
A surge.
The acceleration strained the systems. Overload.
But the speed—incredible.
The worms lagged behind. They didn’t risk going so close to the star.
The lead increased.
Phylknight:
“Eight minutes!”
“Excellent!”
Inside.
The overload hit.
The children pressed against the walls. The floor. The sofas.
Artem grabbed the backrest. Breathing through gritted teeth.
Artemia nearby. Holding on.
Then—it released.
Gravity returned to normal.
The children exhaled. Exchanged glances.
No one panicked.
Sveta quietly:
“Was that a maneuver around the star?”
Artem nodded:
“Yes. We gained speed.”
“Cool.”
He chuckled:
“Yes. Very.”
He paused. Added with bitterness:
“If I were out there right now, turbulence would be the least of our problems.”
Artemia spoke ironically. Ambiguously:
“It’s good that you’re here.”
Space.
Phylkite opened a second tunnel. A different route.
“Trying again!”
The ship dove.
Space compressed.
Three seconds.
Five.
Eight.
Impact.
The tunnel tore apart. Again.
Ejection.
Phylkite snarled:
“Again!”
Phylknight:
“Energy seventy-six percent! They figured us out!”
“Then we change tactics! Pure flight!”
“Shield to max!”
“Already there!”
The ship sped forward. Without tunnels. Directly.
The worms sensed it. Accelerated.
Appeared ahead. Three of them. Emerged from subspace.
Blocked the path.
Phylkite didn’t slow down:
“Hold on!”
The ship shot between them. A meter to the left. A meter to the right.
The worms tried to grab them. Too late.
Phylkite wrenched the ship. Sharply. Left. Up.
The worms collided. With each other.
An energy explosion.
Two were thrown back.
Phylknight:
“Seven minutes!”
Inside.
The children finished eating. Gathered the wrappers. Placed them on the tray.
Artemia put it away. By the wall.
Sat back down.
Silence. Calm. Almost peaceful.
Sveta lay down on the floor. Hands behind her head. Looking at the ceiling.
“I wonder where we’re flying?”
Artem smiled:
“Far away. Very far.”
“Is that good?”
“Yes. It’s safe there.” He paused. “I think.”
She nodded:
“Then it’s alright.”
Closed her eyes.
Relaxed.
Artem looked at her. At the other children.
Amazing.
Calm. Trusting.
As if nothing terrifying was happening.
And outside—a chase. Death. Chaos.
But here—silence.
Space.
The worms were surrounding them. From all sides.
Phylkite maneuvered. Left. Right. Up.
Every movement—on the edge.
Phylknight blocked attacks. Mentally. Pushed the worms away from the ship.
The shield held. But the energy was dropping.
Seventy-two percent.
Seventy.
Sixty-eight.
Phylkite:
“Knight! Don’t spend on the shield! Maneuvers!”
“Understood!”
Phylknight lowered the shield. To forty percent. Basic protection. Against radiation. Small asteroids. Micro-piloting errors.
The rest of the energy was redirected. To navigation. To piloting.
Concentrated on the controls.
A unified mind. Two hundred fifty percent.
The ship came alive. Anew.
It moved like a living thing. Anticipated. Dodged.
The worms tried to grab it. Missed.
Again.
And again.
Phylkite laughed:
“That’s it!”
Phylknight:
“Six minutes!”
Inside.
Artemia took out the dragonet. From her pocket. The small one. Blue.
It came alive above her palm. Flew up. Squeaked softly.
Circled in the air. Then darted towards one of the children.
Hovered in front of him. Looked. Blue eyes glowing.
The child reached out a hand. Cautiously.
The dragonet landed on his palm.
Other children reached out. To look.
The dragonet flew. Circled. Performed loops.
The children laughed. Quietly. Joyfully.
Artem watched. Shaking his head.
Incredible.
Ten minutes ago—underground. In a basement. War overhead.
Now—in space. Safe. Laughing.
Artemia sat next to him:
“They are strong.”
“Very.”
“They will withstand anything.”
Artem nodded:
“If they had any other choice.”
Space.
Phylkite sped past an asteroid. Huge. A kilometer in diameter.
A worm emerged behind him.
Phylkite braked sharply. Turned around.
The worm was too slow. Crashed into the asteroid.
Impact.
The asteroid shattered. Pieces flew outward.
The worm slowed. Stunned.
Phylkite departed.
Phylknight:
“Five minutes!”
“Coordinates?”
“Confirmed! Portal opens in four minutes and fifty-eight seconds!”
“We’ll make it!”
Inside.
The dragonet settled on Sveta’s shoulder. Curled up. Fell asleep.
She stroked him. Smiled.
Artem stood up. Walked around. His legs obeyed. His head clear.
The connection to reality—eighty percent.
Better.
He walked to the window. Looked out.
Stars flashed by. Darkness rushed past.
Somewhere out there—the worms. The chase.
But here—peace.
Artemia nearby:
“Soon?”
“Soon. Minutes.”
She nodded.
Placed a hand on his shoulder.
“We will succeed.”
He looked at her. Smiled.
“We will succeed.”
Space.
Phylkite opened the third tunnel. One last attempt.
“Go!”
The ship dove.
Space compressed.
Two seconds.
Four.
Six.
Eight.
Impact.
The tunnel cracked. But didn’t tear apart.
Phylknight poured energy in. Stabilized it.
“Holding it!”
Ten seconds.
Twelve.
Fourteen.
Impact. Stronger.
The tunnel collapsed.
Ejection.
But they had covered almost the entire distance.
Phylkite:
“Four minutes! Destination ahead!”
Phylknight:
“Energy sixty percent! Shield at minimum!”
“It’s enough! Final push!”
Inside.
The jerk hit.
The children swayed. But held their ground.
Space.
Phylkite sped towards the destination point. Directly. Without maneuvers.
One minute, thirty seconds.
One minute, twenty.
One minute, ten.
Worms behind the stern. They lagged. But didn’t retreat.
Ahead—empty.
Clear.
One minute.
Phylknight:
“Kite! Ahead!”
Phylkite looked.
A marker.
Red.
Directly on course.
A worm.
Emerged from subspace.
Blocked the path.
Motionless. Waiting.
Forty-five seconds until the portal opened.
The worm surged towards them.
Head-on.
Collision inevitable.
Phylkite yelled:
“WHY?!”
The worm was flying.
Right at them.
Chapter 154: The Horizon
The anomaly grew.
Artem looked out the window, disbelieving his eyes. The space ahead was not just warping—it was flowing. As if reality had turned into a viscous fluid in which someone was stirring the stars with a spoon.
The light of distant suns bent, stretched into arcs, and folded into rings. Space was turning inside out. Geometry broke. Straight lines became curves, curves—knots, knots—impossible figures that do not exist in three-dimensional space.
“What is that?” whispered Masha, unable to tear her eyes away from the window.
Artem opened his mouth, but no words came. What was it? A portal? A black hole? A tear in the fabric of reality?
The anomaly pulsed. With every beat—wider, deeper, more real.
Around it—rings of distorted space. Like ripples on water. But these ripples consisted of starlight, stretched into infinity.
The worm froze.
Phylkite saw it on the sensors—the red marker was motionless. It wasn’t moving. It wasn’t attacking.
It simply hung in the void.
“It… stopped?” Phylknight asked incredulously.
“It’s afraid,” Phylkite replied, his voice tense. “It doesn’t understand what that is.”
The worm sensed it. By an instinct, ancient and primal. Before it—something wrong. Something that violates the laws of the reality in which it exists.
A predator before the unknown. Fear was stronger than hunger.
It hung there and watched. Waiting. Seeing them off. The last witness of their triumph.
The ship flew onward. Towards the anomaly. Towards the point of no return.
“Entering,” Phylkite said softly.
The children sprang from their seats. They ran. Not in panic—with purpose.
“The control room!” someone yelled ahead.
“There’s a panoramic view there!”
“I want to see!”
Artem supported Artemia by the arm. She was barely standing but nodded. They followed the crowd of children.
The control room was a small tower above the ship’s body. A dedicated sector with almost 360-degree panoramic windows. From here, they could see everything—ahead, behind, sideways, above.
The children filled the space. Pressed themselves against the glass. Watching.
Artem and Artemia entered last. He sat her down on a bench by the wall. He himself walked over to the window.
And he saw.
Invisible gravity picked up the ship. Not abruptly. Smoothly. Gently. Like a lover embracing. As if a leaf had fallen onto a river surface and was now carried away by the current. And it began to pull.
Everyone saw the first change.
Light.
The reflected light from the ship’s nose—from the frontal hull section—behaved strangely. Instead of scattering in all directions evenly, the rays bent. All of them. At once. In one direction.
Towards the anomaly.
As if an invisible hand was gathering them into a beam. As if space itself was folding, collapsing, directing every photon toward the black spot.
The ship’s nose began to… stretch.
Not physically. Visually.
The outline of the nose blurred. Stretched forward. Towards the anomaly. As if the light from it was traveling faster than the ship itself, creating an illusion of elongation.
A meter.
Ten meters.
A hundred meters.
The ship’s nose visually reached the anomaly, although physically it remained in place.
A light phantom. A harbinger. A shadow of a future position.
Questions began around them.
“Is that gravitational lensing?”
“No, the light is stretching in time, not space.”
“Maybe quantum superposition on a macro level?”
“Or the Doppler effect, but in reverse?”
“Photons are overtaking the object itself? How is that possible?”
“Possibly, if the space ahead is warped more strongly than here.”
“But then we should feel a gravitational wave!”
“We are feeling it. Look at the lights.”
The children spoke quickly. Interrupting each other. Building hypotheses. Testing theories. Like real scientists at a conference.
Artem listened. His head was splitting.
He had no idea how to answer them.
Gravitational lensing? Quantum superposition? Doppler effect?
He knew the words. But now they meant nothing. The reality outside the window did not obey the laws he knew.
And the children… the children understood. Or tried to understand. Actively. Systematically.
Who was the adult here?
Artem clenched his fists. Two levels of evolution. Eighty-two percent of the second stage. He considered himself a miracle. The pinnacle of human development.
And now?
Now he felt like a child. Lost. Scared.
He wanted to run somewhere. To hide. To close his eyes. To plug his ears.
Not to see. Not to hear. Not to understand.
All his pride crumbled. Right here. Right now.
In front of these children.
Who were more than him.
The effect intensified.
The sides of the ship began to blur. Contours flowed, stretched, lost clarity.
The reflected light from the left side flew left, then bent. Broke at an impossible angle. And didn’t just break—it delaminated.
Into spectra.
White light separated into a rainbow. The rainbow fractured into fragments. The fragments turned into a kaleidoscope, spinning, pulsating, alive.
Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, violet—each color traveled separately, bending along its own trajectory. But all of them. All without exception. Were drawn towards the anomaly.
The ship became a prism. A source of light cacophony, draining into the black spot.
The same on the right. All colors—to the center.
The same above and below. All photons—into the anomaly.
All light, every photon that bounced off the hull—everything fragmented into spectra and was pulled towards the black spot.
The ship was turning into a rainbow waterfall, flowing into a gravitational well.
And then the copies appeared.
Artem saw—another ship appeared next to the ship. Phantasmal. Semi-transparent. Slightly to the left.
Then another one. To the right. Above. Below.
Multiple copies. Light phantoms created by the refraction of rays from the sides.
Mirror in a mirror. But these mirrors—were made of warped space.
Artem looked out the front window.
And his brain refused to understand what he saw.
In front of them, ahead, hung a reflection of the ship.
Not behind. Ahead.
As if a mirror had materialized in the void of space. But this mirror didn’t show the ship as it was now.
But as it was… before? Later? Time had broken.
A delay.
The phantom ship flew ahead, but its movements lagged. Artem saw the phantom turn its nose to the left—but their real ship turned… when? A second ago? An hour? An eternity?
Time lost meaning. It stretched. Compressed. Got mixed up.
Then a second copy appeared. Even older. Or one that shouldn’t exist in principle yet?
A third. A fourth. A fifth.
Each from a different moment. Or from all moments at once.
Past, present, future—all existed simultaneously.
And there, in the phantom copies of the ship—they, their ghostly copies, standing and staring in their direction. Cold, vacant eyes, devoid of life.
Time was unfolding. Delaminating. Showing all versions of the ship in one place.
Mirror in a mirror. Reflection of a reflection. But each reflection—from a different point in time. Or from all points. Or outside of time.
Scientists imagine color shifts, but here, the meaning of time itself was shifting. And it was insanely beautiful, and terrifying at the same time!
The reflection in the window.
It didn’t move synchronously.
It lagged.
Subspace was simply mocking their attempts to understand the structure of the Universe.
He raised his hand. The reflection raised its hand later.
He turned his head. The reflection turned even later.
The children were buzzing around him. Discussing among themselves. Waving their hands. Exclaiming. Building theories.
Arguing. Testing hypotheses. Like scientists at the discovery of the century.
Some were smiling.
Denis on the right—eyes wide open, mouth in an ecstatic smile. He was looking at the rainbow waterfall of light like a fireworks display.
Anya on the left—reached out her hand to the window, trying to touch the ship’s phantom reflection. Laughing softly.
Another child—rocked back and forth in rhythm with the light pulsations. Synchronizing with the gravitational waves.
They were not afraid.
They were resonating.
Their consciousness was adapting to this artificial event horizon. Accepting it. Enjoying it.
Evolution gave them not just protection from quantum worms. It gave them the ability to exist beyond the boundaries of normal reality.
And they liked it.
Artem felt cold. Not from fear. From realization.
He looked at the children—at their ecstatic faces, at their smiles—and a shiver ran down his body. Not from horror. From the contrast.
He himself was trembling. His mind refused to accept what was happening. His instincts screamed—run, hide, close your eyes.
And they?
They were like they were on a roller coaster. In an amusement park.
Was this really that amusement park? The place where children with an unimaginable level of development feel exhilaration? Where the boundaries of reality are just toys? Where the breakdown of space is entertainment?
My God.
These children were no longer human. Not entirely.
They were something else. Something more.
Some clung to each other. Some squeezed their eyes shut.
But many were watching. Spellbound. With ecstasy.
At the dying and newly reborn reality outside the window.
The effect reached a new level.
The space around the ship began to collapse.
The stars ahead shrank. Pulled towards the center. Towards the anomaly. As if the universe was falling into a single point.
A tunnel.
An infinite tunnel, leading into a black abyss.
But simultaneously—space expanded. The stars behind stretched, sped away, receded toward the horizon. As if the universe was exploding outwards.
Compression and expansion. Simultaneously. In one place.
Perspective broke. Geometry went mad.
The contours of the ship ceased to exist.
The ship’s nose blurred. Stretched. Turned into a thread. An infinitely thin thread of light, pulling towards the anomaly.
Stretched out, like spaghetti.
But inside…
Artem looked at his hands. At the walls of the hall. At the children.
Everything was normal. Everything was in place. No stretching.
Physics worked inside. Space was stable.
Outside—the ship was turning into a thread.
Inside—everything was whole.
A paradox.
Artem tried to look at his own hands.
They were in place. Solid. Real.
But the light inside the ship behaved strangely.
The lights on the ceiling pulsed. Not uniformly. Not with a steady rhythm.
In rhythm with something invisible.
Brighter. Dimmer. Brighter. Dimmer.
In waves.
Gravitational waves passed through the ship, distorting even the light inside.
Artem saw—his hand was sometimes bright, sometimes dark. Sometimes sharp, sometimes blurred. Sometimes here, sometimes… no, here. Always here. But the light created an illusion of flickering.
On the viewscreen—the reflection of his hand blurred, stretched, turned into a streak of light.
Inside the ship—everything was normal. Physics worked. Matter remained matter.
But light… light no longer obeyed the rules.
Outside—chaos. Light breaks. Space turns inside out. Reality refuses to be real.
“Phylkite” Artem called over the comms, “are we… are we okay? Physically?”
A pause.
“Yes. Structural integrity one hundred percent. This is only an optical effect. A gravitational lens.”
“Only a visual effect,” Artem repeated.
He looked out the window.
At the light chaos. At the impossible reflections. At the disintegrating ship that wasn’t actually disintegrating.
“Only visual,” he whispered again.
Unsure if he believed himself.
At that moment—a memory.
Sudden. Vivid.
Oleg. The clearing by the hotel. Soldiers below. The ship in the sky.
Oleg turned around. Waved his hand. Calmly. With a smile.
A farewell to the world they were leaving.
Artem looked back. Through the tunnel. To where the worm remained. Where their reality remained.
His hand twitched. He wanted to repeat it. To wave at the quantum monster. To say “bye.”
A crazy idea.
He clenched his fist. Lowered his hand.
No. Childish. Inappropriate. He didn’t want to look foolish.
The worm observed from afar.
It saw the ship losing density…
A fountain of light enveloped it like a blurry photograph from the distant past.
The radiation stretched by gravity. Into infinity.
The ship burned out. Faded. Turned into a dull red spot. Then disappeared entirely.
To an external observer, time inside the ship had stopped. The object was dead.
The quantum signal was lost forever.
The worm was satisfied.
But inside…
Artem felt the opposite.
Time was accelerating.
Not for them. For the universe outside.
He looked out the window—at the stars behind.
They were moving. Slowly at first. Then faster. Faster. The stars began to rotate.
Turning into spirals. Into vortices of light. Into galactic maelstroms, spinning at impossible speed.
The universe outside was accelerating. A slight motion sickness; he wanted to close his eyes.
Except the image was already imprinted on his retina.
The anomaly filled the entire window.
The black spot became a black circle. Then—a black sphere.
Then—a black abyss into which the Universe was falling.
Artem saw the event horizon. The invisible line beyond which light cannot escape.
They were approaching.
And time… stopped.
It didn’t slow down. It didn’t stretch.
It ceased to exist.
He tried to look at the clock. The numbers flickered. Jumped. Showed nonsense. 00:00. 23:59. 12:34. 99:99. –:–.
Time was completely broken.
No past. No future. No present.
Time ceased to be a factor. A parameter. A dimension.
There was only the moment. Infinite. Eternal. Single.
Here, at the event horizon, time ceased to be a factor. Ceased to influence. Ceased to be.
Space was losing concentration. Only gravity from another place.
Artem was breathing. His heart was beating.
He couldn’t say if a second or an hour had passed. An instant or an eternity. The concept of “when” lost its meaning.
The event horizon didn’t just warp time.
It canceled it.
One hundred meters.
Fifty.
Twenty.
Around the ship—a light show.
All colors at once. Red shifted into orange, orange into yellow, yellow into green, green into blue, blue into violet, violet into ultraviolet, ultraviolet into X-ray, X-ray into gamma radiation.
The entire spectrum. Compressed. Stretched. Warped.
A rainbow turned inside out.
Space bent. Folded in on itself. Twisted into a knot. Into a loop. Into a Mobius strip.
The sides waltzed, switching places.
Direction lost meaning.
The event horizon.
A black line. Invisible. But absolute.
The point of no return. Like a thought that broke off mid-sentence. You want to say something, but words can no longer express it.
An explosion.
Not of sound. Not of light.
An explosion of color.
All shades that exist and do not exist, crashed onto consciousness.
Colors without names. Colors beyond the human spectrum. Infrared became visible. Ultraviolet took form. X-ray shone. Gamma radiation became a shade.
Colors that the human brain shouldn’t process. Colors from other dimensions.
And sound.
Sound turned into light.
The hum of the engines turned green. The children’s scream—red. Artem’s breath—blue.
Every sound created a colored wave. Every wave created a vibration. Every vibration—a new sound.
Synesthesia.
Senses merged. Mixed. Became one.
Artem heard light. Saw sound. Felt color on his skin.
Red light was hot. Burning his face.
Blue—cold. Freezing his hands.
Green—vibrated. Tickled.
Violet—pressed. Compressed his chest.
Each color carried a physical sensation.
Sense organs were completely jumbled. Mixed up. Not working as they should.
Space collapsed. Folded. Compressed into a point.
Then unfolded outwards. Turned inside out. Expanded into infinity.
Simultaneously.
And at that moment—the boundaries blurred.
Artem stopped understanding where he ended and the ship began. Where his consciousness was, and where the external world.
The observer and the observed merged.
He was the ship. The ship stretching into a thread.
He was the light. The light fragmenting into spectra.
He was the space. The space turning inside out.
Defragmentation of perception.
The concept of “I” shattered. Scattered. Ceased to have boundaries.
Quantum correlation at the level of consciousness. Entanglement not of particles—entanglement of thoughts, feelings, perception.
Everything connected. Everything—one.
Artem closed his eyes. But the colors didn’t vanish. They were inside. In his head. In his consciousness. In his soul. Sounding. Pulsing. Living their own life.
The inner cosmos manifested. Brighter than the outer one. Deeper. More infinite.
Somewhere far away, he heard Sveta’s cry. Or was it Artemia? Or was it himself?
Sounds merged. Colors sounded. Time turned into space. Space—into time.
Polarization of time.
Past, present, future—all three states existed simultaneously. Overlapping. Interfering. Creating patterns.
Phase transitions of reality.
Space wasn’t just warping. It was flickering. Shifting from one phase to another. From matter to energy. From wave to particle. From existence to non-existence.
Quantum superposition on a cosmic scale.
Everything was mixed.
Everything became one.
Then—silence.
Absolute.
Deafening.
Empty.
Artem opened his eyes.
Slowly.
Cautiously.
As if he feared reality would break again.
They were flying.
Through… a tunnel? A corridor? A passage?
The walls of the tunnel glowed. Shimmered. Flowed.
Not walls. Energy. Pure energy, shaping the space.
Artem felt—they were accelerating.
Not physically. Subjectively.
The feeling of a slope increased. Steep, long, infinite.
Gaining speed. Faster and faster. Faster.
His stomach lurched. His heart stopped. His breath caught.
A roller coaster made of the very fabric of subspace. Made of the universe itself.
He looked ahead.
He saw a galaxy. A whole galaxy, hanging in space. Spiral arms. Billions of stars.
Behind—a mist. A glowing mist, from which worlds are born in imagination.
Quantum superposition on a cosmic scale.
The curtain of reality.
Teleportation.
And they were sliding along it. Faster and faster.
The children stood quietly. Some were trembling. With exhilaration.
Phylkite.
“Damn… that was close.”
“Ha,” Phylknight replied. His voice no better. “We… we passed through a gravitational singularity.”
“…”
“I know.”
A pause.
“Energy?”
“One percent. Shield failing. Engines already at their limit.”
“We’ll make it.”
“Sensors are down. Navigation failed. We are blind.”
“Just trust him.”
The tunnel carried them.
Through the folds of space. Through the rifts of reality. Through dimensions that have no names.
Teleportation.
Far.
Very far.
To the other side.
Nearby—a quiet inhale.
Artem turned around.
Artemia opened her eyes.
Slowly. Weakly. Staring at him, unfocused.
“We… went through?” her voice hoarse.
Artem nodded.
“Almost. One more step.”
She tried to smile. She failed. But she squeezed his hand.
“Phylkite?” Artem called.
“I see it,” the answer was tense. “The boundary between spaces. The point of weakness. We must pass through.”
One final surge. Energy—one percent. But it no longer mattered.
The mad maelstrom was pulling them in at a speed no ship could reach.
Ahead—the fabric of reality. Invisible. But palpable.
A barrier between worlds.
A tear.
Not of sound. Not of light.
A sensation.
The sensation that the Universe had cracked.
Space tore. Like fabric under a blade.
Artem felt it with every cell. Every nerve.
Reality ripped apart. He was uprooted from his world. He no longer belonged to it.
A flash.
Blinding.
Absolute.
White light.
Pure. Intolerably bright.
Artem squeezed his eyes shut. But the light penetrated through his eyelids. Through his skin. Through his bones.
Filled everything.
Then—silence.
Artem opened his eyes.
Slowly.
Cautiously.
As if he feared reality would break again.
White.
Everywhere.
In all directions.
No up, no down. No horizon, no boundaries.
Just white space. Infinite. Empty.
Artem looked around.
The ship was gone.
Artemia was gone.
The children were gone.
The Phyls were gone.
Only him.
Alone.
In the white void.
Artem tried to inhale. There was air. His lungs worked.
He tried to move. His body obeyed.
He looked at his hands. They were in place. Solid. Real.
But around him—nothing. Only whiteness.
“Guys?” he called. His voice echoed. Or was there no echo? The sound simply… dissolved.
Silence.
“Artemia?”
Silence.
“Phylkite? Phylknight?”
Silence.
“ANYONE?!”
His scream was swallowed by the whiteness.
Artem stood alone.
In a void that was not a void.
In a space that was not a space.
In a reality that…
That was waiting.
For something.
Or someone.
Artem took a step forward.
The whiteness didn’t change.
Another step.
Another.
He walked into nowhere.
Or somewhere.
Time would tell.
If time even existed here.
Chapter 155: The Encounter
Whiteness.
Infinite, absolute, all-consuming.
Artem stood in the middle of this void, feeling something solid beneath his feet, though nothing was visible. No floor, no walls, no horizon. Only white light, pouring from everywhere and nowhere simultaneously.
He took a step forward. Then another. The sound of his steps was swallowed by the silence instantly, leaving no echo.
Artem stopped, surveying the scene. His mind analyzed what was happening with crystal clarity. This was not physical space. Not in the usual sense. The laws he was accustomed to did not apply here.
Digital space—the only plausible and logical conclusion.
He remembered the Phyls’ words about a virtual world where a digit becomes a meter, and code—reality. A place where the laws of physics yield to pure logic.
Artem took a deep breath—or he felt like he did, because air probably didn’t exist here in the usual sense either.
But how?
Calm. Panic wouldn’t help.
And then the space before him trembled.
At first, barely perceptible—like ripples crossing invisible water. Then the whiteness began to condense at one point, forming a silhouette. Contours sharpened, gaining shape, color, texture.
A few moments later, a man stood before Artem.
Middle-aged, wearing a neat dark blue suit. His hair was meticulously styled, his face open, friendly. He smiled—warmly, humanly, without tension.
“Hello,” he said in a calm voice. “My name is Sergei Vladimirovich Komarov. I was the first manager of the Forest Hotel. Do you remember me?”
Artem froze, scrutinizing the stranger. Something about the face seemed familiar. Something…
“Komarov?” he repeated slowly. “Wait… you’re the one who…”
The man laughed—sincerely, with slight embarrassment.
“Swam in the milk fountain?” He nodded. “Yes, that was me. In my very first dream at the hotel. The happiest moment of my life, to be honest.”
The memory flashed in Artem’s mind with absolute clarity. Three years ago. His first day at the hotel. A crazy dream, full of impossible wonders. And the manager, who bathed with childlike ecstasy in a fountain where milk flowed instead of water. Tears of joy on his face. The cry: “This is the best day of my life!”
Later, Artem learned that Komarov had fallen into a vegetative state. It turned out he chose to remain in the world of illusions. The first one brave enough.
“But you…” Artem stammered, searching for words. “You left. Stayed there. I thought…”
“You thought I was dead?” Komarov shook his head, his smile softening. “No, Artem. I’m alive. Just… differently. Here.”
He gestured around, indicating the white space.
“In this world. Digital. Virtual. Call it what you like. The essence is the same—I chose to stay here. And it was the best decision I’ve made in my entire life.”
Artem silently watched him, processing the information. Komarov looked… alive. Not a ghost, not a hologram. A real person. His movements were natural, his facial expressions dynamic, an awareness sparking in his eyes. He even wanted to pinch him, but Artem restrained himself.
“How long have you been here?” Artem asked.
“By the time of that world?” Komarov considered. “About fourteen years. By the logic of this digital world… hard to say. Time flows differently here.”
He took a step closer, his gaze growing more serious.
“I know you have many questions. Where you are. What happened. What happens next. And I am here to answer them.” A short pause. “The Guardian asked me to meet you. To explain. To show.”
“The Guardian? To show?” Artem repeated.
“Yes.” Komarov turned, pointing into the void. “The history of this place. The history of Arderia. The history of why everything happened exactly this way.”
He looked at Artem.
“Ready to see?”
Artem hesitated only for a moment. Then nodded.
“Yes.”
“Then watch.”
Komarov snapped his fingers.
And the white space exploded into color.
Artem involuntarily flinched, covering his eyes from the sudden flash of light. When he lowered his hand, the world around him had completely changed.
They were no longer standing in the white void.
A massive hall stretched around them. Walls of polished metal, high ceilings with rows of cold-light lamps. The floor was laid with perfectly even tiles, gleaming with cleanliness. Along the walls—rows of glass boxes, inside which complex mechanisms, monitors, and instruments were visible.
A laboratory. Huge, modern, packed with technology.
And people.
Dozens of people in white coats moved through the hall—some hurried with holographic tablets in their hands, some leaned over consoles, some debated with colleagues. Artem saw their faces, heard snippets of conversation in an unfamiliar language. But most importantly—he felt the atmosphere. Tense. Focused. This was a recording! Just like a Phyl could do. He felt mixed emotions.
“Institute for Genetic Modification and Controlled Mutation Research,” Komarov said calmly beside him. “Arderia. One hundred twenty-three years ago, according to their local calendar.”
Artem turned around. Komarov stood beside him, but none of the scientists paid them any attention. A man in a lab coat walked straight through Artem, without even noticing.
“We are like ghosts here,” Komarov explained. “Observers. We see and hear, but cannot interact. This is… the past.”
Artem nodded, surveying the scene with renewed curiosity. The technologies here clearly surpassed everything he had seen in his own world. Holographic displays floated in the air, controlled by gestures. Robotic manipulators moved with surgical precision. Even the air felt cleaner, fresher.
“Arderia,” he repeated quietly. “Is this… their world?”
“Yes. The world of the Guardian. The higher reality.” Komarov pointed to one of the boxes at the far end of the hall. “Look there.”
Artem followed his gesture. Inside the box, behind thick glass, was a cage. Large, metal, with reinforced bars. Something was moving inside.
A creature.
Artem couldn’t make out the details from that distance, but he saw the shape—something the size of a large dog. Dark fur, nervous movements. It paced the cage, scratching the bars with its claws.
“Patient Zero,” Komarov said. “An experimental sample. Subjected to controlled mutation to enhance endurance and adaptability. One of hundreds of similar projects. Ordinary research work.”
“Ordinary?” Artem frowned.
“For Arderia—yes. Their civilization reached a level where genetic engineering became commonplace. They enhanced animals for agriculture, created new species for future colonization of other planets, experimented with adaptation to extreme conditions.” Komarov fell silent, looking at the cage. “But this time, something went wrong.”
Suddenly, everything dimmed. Night. A siren wailed in the hall.
A sharp, piercing sound made the scientists jump and look up. Red lights flashed on the ceiling, painting the walls a warning color.
“Attention!” a mechanical voice sounded from the speakers. “Isolation protocol breach detected. Sector D-7. All personnel evacuate the zone. Emergency lockdown activated.”
Chaos.
Guards in heavy armor rushed into the hall, holding weapons ready—long rifles with glowing energy elements.
And at the far end of the hall, there was a metallic screech.
Artem turned around just in time to see the cage bars tearing apart. Thick metal bent, cracked, flew apart with incredible force.
The creature burst out.
Now Artem saw it clearly. It was something between a wolf and a large reptile. Three pairs of powerful paws covered in scaly skin. An elongated snout with rows of sharp teeth. Its eyes glowed red—not metaphorically, but literally, emitting a dull light.
And speed. Incredible speed.
The creature darted through the hall, sweeping everything out of its path. A guard tried to fire—an energy blast hit the wall, missing. The beast jumped, knocked the man off his feet with one swipe of its paw, and rushed towards the exit.
Metal doors began to close, attempting to seal the hall. But the beast was faster. It slipped through the gap an instant before the doors slammed shut.
Silence.
The siren continued to wail. The guard knocked down by the creature lay motionless—others already leaned over him, checking his pulse.
“The first death,” Komarov said quietly. “Broken spine. The creature was so strong that one paw swipe killed a grown man in protective armor.”
Artem remained silent, observing the chaos. His enhanced mind was already constructing logical chains. Escape. The mutation had given the creature superhuman strength. It broke free.
“What happened next?” he asked.
Komarov snapped his fingers.
The world around blurred, colors flowed, mixing into a chaotic vortex. Artem felt slightly dizzy—as if he had been dragged through a tunnel at the speed of light.
And when his vision recovered, they were standing outside.
A dark sky without stars, covered by heavy clouds. A city stretched around them—tall buildings of metal and glass, wide avenues, lit by rows of streetlights. But something was wrong.
Silence.
Absolute, deathly silence. No sound of cars, no voices of people, no music from the windows. Only the wind, driving scraps of paper and garbage down the empty streets.
And destruction.
Artem slowly turned, surveying the surroundings. The windows of many buildings were shattered. The walls covered with cracks, and in some places—deep scratches, as if giant claws had raked the facades. Dark spots were visible on the asphalt—old blood, long dried.
“Three years later,” Komarov said. “The pursuit continued until morning. But the creature managed to reach the territory of wild beasts. Any animal encountered on the way was immediately attacked and infected, carrying this madness further.”
In the distance, a howl echoed.
A long, inhuman sound, full of savage rage. Then another. And another. Like an echo, the howling multiplied, reflecting off the empty buildings.
“A virus,” Komarov continued, looking into the darkness. “The creature that escaped the lab was infected with an experimental virus. Intended to boost immunity and regeneration. But something went wrong. The virus mutated. Became aggressive. Contagious. With an internal will.”
A pack burst from around the corner of a building.
Artem counted seven creatures. All of different sizes and shapes—some resembled wolves, others bears, a third group defied classification entirely. But they all shared common features: distorted musculature, red glowing eyes, bared jaws.
They moved in unison, like a single organism. A hunting pack. The goal—apparently the scent of prey—led them further down the street, past Artem and Komarov. One beast ran right through Artem, not noticing his presence.
Komarov was silent for a while, watching the departing pack.
“The virus spread like a wildfire. First, the small animals in the forest around the institute were infected. Then the large ones. Then they began attacking the cities.”
Artem remained silent, imagining the scale of the catastrophe.
“The people of Arderia are strong,” Komarov continued. “Much stronger than you or me. Their technology is impressive. But they were not prepared for this. The infected were too numerous. They multiplied, mutated, adapted. Each generation became stronger, faster, more enduring.”
In the distance, an explosion sounded. A bright flash lit up the sky, then the rumble reached them, making the ground tremble.
“The military tried to stop them,” Komarov nodded towards the explosion. “They used everything—from energy cannons to grenades. But the infected didn’t retreat. They came in waves. Disregarding losses.”
Another howl. Closer. A group of people ran from around the next building.
Artem immediately noticed the difference. These were not ordinary people—even in a panic, they moved with incredible coordination. The man in front carried a heavy box, clearly weighing over a hundred kilograms, but did so easily, without visible strain. The woman next to him leaped over a two-meter high barricade, landing softly like a cat.
“Ordinary citizens of Arderia,” Komarov explained. “Physically, they vastly surpass us. Even a child from here is stronger than an adult athlete from our world.”
But they were being pursued.
A creature burst from around the corner—huge, bear-sized, but moving at the speed of a cheetah. It caught the last runner—a young man—in a matter of seconds.
Artem turned away before he saw the end. But the scream reached him, piercing and short.
“Two-thirds of the territory,” Komarov said quietly. “Two-thirds of their planet was captured by the infected in three years. Cities turned into ruins. Forests—into hunting grounds for monsters. The civilization that prided itself on its power found itself on the brink of extinction.”
The world blurred again.
Chapter 156: The Revelation
A new scene.
A vast hall. A domed ceiling several stories high, walls of black metal with gold ornaments. In the center—a long table, around which people in strict attire were seated. Politicians, apparently. Their faces were tense, weary.
Holograms hovered above the table—maps, graphs, data. Artem didn’t understand the language they spoke, but the tone was clear. Despair. Arguments. The search for a solution.
“A government meeting,” Komarov said. “They realized they couldn’t hold out. An evacuation was necessary. To save at least some of the population.”
One of the men at the table stood up, activating a new hologram. A complex schematic—circles, lines, symbols that Artem couldn’t decipher.
“Project ‘Altar’,” Komarov pointed to the hologram. “An evacuation program to another world. The idea was to create a portal. A machine capable of tearing the fabric of the universe and opening a passage to a safe place.”
An image of a massive structure appeared on the hologram. A cylindrical tower surrounded by rings of glowing elements. At the base—massive generators.
“It required colossal energy to operate,” Komarov continued. “They connected the generators directly to the planetary core. Used technologies that would be considered magic in our world, or, frankly, madness.”
Artem looked at the structure, trying to imagine the scale. The energy of an entire planet, directed at tearing space between worlds.
“But there was a problem,” Komarov nodded toward another part of the hologram, where lists of coordinates flickered. “Where to go? Scientists examined the coordinates of dozens of worlds. Each had its pros and cons. The arguments dragged on. No one could agree on a single choice.”
Images of different planets replaced each other on the screen—some too cold, others too hot, a third group lacking an atmosphere. Every world was unsuitable in its own way. Unsuitable for an uncompromising, grand mentality.
“And while they debated,” Komarov’s voice grew quieter, “time was running out.”
Suddenly, a siren wailed in the hall.
The politicians leaped from their seats. The holograms shut off. Guards burst into the hall, shouting commands.
“The base is under attack,” Komarov said. “The infected sensed the Altar’s activity. The sound, the vibrations, the energy bursts. They were coming here from all over the planet.”
The world blurred, but this time the transition was chaotic, ragged. Artem saw snippets of scenes—people running down corridors, explosions lighting up the night sky, buildings collapsing under the onslaught of enormous creatures.
And finally—the last picture.
A huge square. In the center—the Altar tower, glowing with a cold blue light from within. The generators hummed, creating a vibration that Artem could feel even as an observer.
And around it—chaos.
Thousands of people were trying to break through to the tower. Soldiers in exoskeletons held the defense, firing at the advancing infected. Energy discharges illuminated the square with bright flashes. Walls of creatures came in waves, not stopping even when hundreds of them fell dead.
“They didn’t make it,” Komarov said quietly. “The portal was almost ready, but the attack started too soon. The government and surviving citizens retreated to a fortified city-shelter. The last stronghold of civilization. Very far from here. The Guardian reduced the Altar’s intensity to a minimum, so the frenzied animals wouldn’t press down on the escaping people.”
Artem saw columns of people withdrawing, covered by the military. Aircraft rose into the sky, carrying the last groups.
“And the Altar remained,” Komarov continued. “The machine kept working. Because its core was the Guardian.”
A bright light flashed at the top of the tower. The portal began to open—the air warped, space deformed, as if invisible hands were tearing the fabric of reality.
“The Guardian is a digital intelligence, the central core of the ‘Altar’ project,” Komarov explained. “Its task was to coordinate the evacuation. Select a safe world. Transport all survivors. Give the military a chance to use any weapon of mass destruction. But the portal didn’t open to the right place.”
The light became blinding. Artem squinted.
When he opened his eyes, they were standing in the white space again.
Silence.
Artem slowly exhaled, realizing he had been holding his breath the entire time. The scenes he had seen were too real. Ruined cities, hordes of the infected, the despair of the people.
“The Guardian was left alone,” Komarov continued. “Cut off from its civilization. The connection to the city-shelter was damaged during the attack. It couldn’t contact them. They couldn’t contact it. It knew its people were out there somewhere, locked in the last fortress, surrounded by enemies. An entire ocean of animals between them. There was nothing it could do.”
“Are they still alive?” Artem asked softly.
“The animals are strong, but they are still animals,” Komarov looked at him. “The Guardian began searching for new operators. For its civilization. If it could restore the connection, if it could save them. Their world wasn’t lost yet.”
The white space around them began to change. Contours appeared—stars, planets, nebulae.
“The Guardian had a list,” Komarov continued, as space unfolded around them. “Ten worlds that the scientists deemed most suitable. It began checking them. One by one.”
Artem saw images of different planets appear before them. Each unique. Each beautiful or horrible in its own way.
“Nine worlds,” Komarov pointed to the planets that flashed by. “Nine attempts to find refuge.”
The first planet—an icy ball, shrouded in eternal blizzards.
“Too cold. Even Arderia’s technology wouldn’t save them from such conditions for long.”
The second—a world covered in churning oceans of lava.
“Too hot. Impossible to build anything permanent.”
The third—a planet with a thin atmosphere, its surface carved by deep canyons.
“Unstable tectonics. Constant earthquakes. Too dangerous.”
The fourth—a world enveloped in toxic clouds.
“Poisonous atmosphere. Protective domes won’t last forever.”
The planets replaced one another. Each rejected for its own reason.
“And finally,” Komarov stopped when the last planet appeared before them. Familiar. Blue with white clouds. “Our world.”
Artem looked at his home planet. So small from here. So fragile.
“A lower world,” Komarov walked around the hologram, examining it from all sides. “A primitive civilization. Technology in its infancy. People are weak, short-lived, limited in capability.”
He looked at Artem.
“But it had one critical advantage.”
“What?” Artem asked, though he was beginning to understand.
“Worms,” Komarov simply said. “Quantum Worms. You know about them?”
Artem flinched at the mere thought of them.
Scenes from the recent past, where a huge worm pursues the Phylkite’s ship, were still vivid in his memory. A creature of pure energy, hunting anomalies.
“Exactly,” Komarov nodded, watching Artem’s reaction. “Worms are a natural part of the multiverse. They maintain balance, cleaning up anomalies that disrupt the structure of reality. Like wolves in the forest—the sanitation crew of the ecosystem.”
He pointed to Artem’s planet.
“The problem with higher civilizations is that their technologies create anomalies. Portals between worlds, inter-reality transitions, space-time distortions. All of this—violations of the natural order. And the worms feel it. They hunt. They destroy. This maintains balance. It prevents highly developed worlds from enslaving less developed ones without paying a huge price.”
Artem began to understand. All the fantastic stories he had once read simply paled before a reality that expected you to be born, live your life, and quietly pass away. If you dared to raise your head, someone would surely come to “screw it off.”
“And our world…”
“Our world is too primitive to create such anomalies,” Komarov finished. “The worms ignore it. Everything there is natural, within the norm. That makes it an ideal hiding place. The civilization of Arderia could hide there for a time, using their technologies carefully, without attracting the worms’ attention. Living off their radar.”
He looked Artem in the eyes.
“That’s why the Guardian chose our world. Not because it was the best. But because it was safe. The only place to hide from the main threat—from the very worms that destroy any highly developed civilizations that dared to violate the laws of reality.”
Silence hung between them.
Artem looked at the blue planet, realizing the full scale of the choice. His world was chosen not for its beauty or wealth. But because it was insignificant enough to go unnoticed.
“But there was a catch,” Komarov continued, and the planet began to zoom in until they saw the surface. Forests, mountains, rivers. “The Guardian couldn’t open a full-fledged portal to that world. So it made a micro-incision like a skilled surgeon. But the coordinates were outdated, the path opened underground. Deep underground. The Guardian was there, in isolation. It couldn’t influence the surface. It couldn’t interact directly with our world. Only through signals. Through energy.”
The image changed, showing the underground layers. There, in the depths, a point glowed.
“Eighty years,” Komarov said quietly. “Eighty years the Guardian tried to connect with the inhabitants of that world. Tried to communicate through dreams, through images, through emotions. But people perceived it as nightmares. As madness. They fled. It didn’t know their language, but it constantly searched and studied.”
Artem imagined the loneliness. Eighty years in the dark, underground, in a foreign world. Trying to scream, but only being heard as a whisper of terror. On the other hand, all those rumors turned out to be far from groundless.
“People turned out to be,” Komarov continued. “So mentally weak? Primitive. Afraid instead of trying to understand? Its database had no information about such a low-level development. It was a culture shock. On both sides.”
The hologram showed the first attempts at contact—a whole forest instantly grew around them. There were tourists who suddenly fainted, seeing strange waking dreams. Waking up in a panic, running away.
“But the Guardian didn’t lose hope,” Komarov said. “Slowly. Over years. It observed, analyzed, adapted. Tried to understand human psychology. Our fears. Our desires. Our limitations.”
The image shifted, showing an earthquake. The ground trembled, cracked, the course of an underground river changed.
“And finally, nature helped,” Komarov pointed to the river. “The earthquake changed the underground currents. Water found a way to the micro-fissure. And through that water, blood began to seep.”
“Blood?” Artem repeated.
“From Arderia,” Komarov nodded. “Battlefields. Mountains of corpses of infected beasts and fallen defenders? All that blood soaked into the ground around the Altar. For years. Decades. And when the passage appeared—the water began to carry it. To our world.”
Artem saw the underground river turn dark. The water absorbed the blood, the energy of the higher reality.
“The virus as a structure could not pass through the tear,” Komarov explained. “But what we would call the ‘magistral energy of the virus’—could. The blood was merely a carrier of the trace, not the pathogen. Pure, concentrated energy of Arderia. It seeped into the water, rose to the surface through the roots of trees, spread into the air.”
“And then they built the hotel,” Artem said quietly.
“Yes,” Komarov smiled. “Right over that place. By chance. Or not—who knows? Petrovich and his crew. They were the first to stay there for a long time. The first real contact.”
The image showed the construction site. Workers in hard hats. Petrovich with a tablet.
“The Guardian experimented with them,” Komarov continued. “Through dreams, images. Tried to understand how the human mind works. But it realized the main thing—adults cannot be changed. Their brain is already formed. Their psyche is stable, only breakable. Even with its influence, they remained themselves.”
“But the children…”
“Children are another matter,” Komarov nodded. “Embryos are especially susceptible. The Guardian understood: if it influenced them from the moment of conception, it could change their nature. Adapt them to the energy of Arderia. Make them… a bridge between worlds.”
“The Guardian sent one of the inhabitants of its virtual space into the open world. He remained connected to the Guardian, its energy core, but could move freely in antiphase due to his digital essence.” Komarov paused.
Artem remembered the huge dragon that visited the shared dream in the distant past. Komarov was talking about the Phyl, his brother.
“But the encounter with you became the turning point. You have a unique ability—your compatibility with this world’s digital interfaces. I don’t know how to explain it clearly, but the scout chose you. You became the one who explained to the Guardian through the scout what humans are. You were not afraid, you trusted.”
“I cannot leave this digital world since my transformation.” Komarov smiled bitterly. “But you are different. Your adventures became a favorite entertainment here, in the virtual space. Congratulations, you are a local celebrity.”
Artem listened attentively, but at this point, he was simply speechless.
They were spying on him? That made them famous? What the heck?! What about the bounds of decency? Personal space.
He desperately tried to remember where he had messed up or acted foolishly.
“When the Guardian had studied our world enough, it understood how to create operators, a new generation from a gene constructor. Bodies capable of absorbing the energy of Arderia.” Komarov raised his hand.
The hologram showed couples arriving at the hotel. Conceptions. Pregnancies. Births.
“Seventy-two children,” Komarov said. “Conceived in the hotel. Under the influence of Arderia’s energy from the first cells. They grew, absorbing this energy through the water, through the air, through the very ground of the hotel. Eleven years of transformation.”
Artem remembered the children. Their telepathy. Their strength. Their abilities.
“They ceased to belong to our world,” Komarov said quietly. “More and more with each passing year. With each evolution. By age fourteen, they reached their peak. They became beings of a higher reality, trapped in the bodies of a lower world.”
The hologram showed the children—first three years old, then eight, then teenagers. Their silhouettes glowed brighter and brighter.
“And the Quantum Worms felt it,” Artem realized.
“Exactly so,” Komarov nodded. “Seventy-two anomalies. Seventy-two violations of the natural order of the lower reality. The fabric of the universe stretched around them, creating tension. The worms reacted. They began the hunt.”
Artem remembered the battle in orbit of the planet.
“The children couldn’t stay there any longer,” Komarov said. “They threatened the stability of reality itself, which began to fray just by their existence. They had to be taken away. Transferred to Arderia. Where they are natural. Where they are needed. But the Guardian was in no hurry. They needed at least another year to learn to use their powers fully. But no one asked them what they wanted. They were presented with a fait accompli.”
He looked at Artem.
“And you did it. You delivered them here. You fulfilled the mission, even without knowing it from the beginning.”
Silence.
Artem stood, processing everything he had heard. The history of Arderia. The fall of a great civilization. The lonely Guardian. Eighty years of attempts. Seventy-two children—created as saviors.
“And now?” he finally asked. “What now?”
Komarov took a deep breath.
“Now,” he paused, “we need to talk about your choice.”
The white space around them began to change.
And Artem realized—the next conversation would be about himself.
Chapter 157: The Panacea
Artem stood motionless, processing everything he had heard. The history of Arderia. The fall of a civilization. The lonely Guardian underground. Seventy years of isolation. Seventy-two children.
He understood the scale. He understood the logic. He understood the choice.
But one thought gave him no peace.
“The children,” he said, looking at Komarov. “I don’t mind making my choice. But I am worried about them. Where are they now? What is happening to them?”
Komarov nodded, as if expecting the question.
“I understand,” he made a gesture with his hand. “Watch.”
The white space around them changed.
A massive hall.
Artem gasped at the scale. The ceiling soared up about thirty meters, lost in the gloom. The walls were of black metal, covered with patterns of glowing lines—schematics, contours of energy flows. The floor was laid with massive slabs, between which blue veins of light pulsed.
In the center of the hall, a structure towered.
A sphere about ten meters in diameter, hovering in the air without visible support. Its surface shimmered with shades of blue and silver, like liquid metal frozen in zero gravity. Hundreds of thin energy threads stretched from the sphere—up, down, sideways, connecting it to the walls, the floor, the ceiling.
The Guardian’s main interface.
The heart of the Altar.
And around it, the children appeared.
One by one, as if materializing from the air. Flashes of light, spatial distortion—and now seventy-two children stood there.
The children stood, looking around. Examining the walls, the hovering sphere, the glowing patterns on the floor. They instinctively gathered closer together—the telepathic link between them pulsed, Artem saw it as a faint glow enveloping them all in an invisible network.
And then a howl sounded from outside.
Long. Savage. Full of fury.
The children froze. One of them stretched out a hand, stopping those who wanted to approach the door. Several stood closer together.
Another howl. Closer. Then a screech—giant claws scraping metal outside.
“What is that?” someone whispered.
A bang.
Heavy, dull, making the floor tremble beneath their feet. The door at the far end of the hall—a massive structure of thick metal weighing over two hundred fifty kilograms—shuddered.
Another bang. And another.
The children instinctively backed towards the center of the hall, towards the sphere. The telepathic connection between them intensified—not fear, but coordination. The Guardian was directing them, indicating they should gather closer to the interface.
A light flashed above their heads.
A force field. A dome of pure energy, enveloping all seventy-two children in a protective cocoon. Translucent, shimmering with a blue glow. A barrier between the children and the danger outside.
The door failed to withstand the next impact.
A crash.
The door flew off its hinges under monstrous pressure. A massive metal slab, weighing a quarter of a ton, flew into the hall, spinning in the air.
The children cried out, ducking.
The door crashed into the force dome with a deafening clang. The energy barrier flashed brighter, absorbing the impact, and the door ricocheted sideways, flying several more meters before falling onto the floor with a loud clang.
Artem watched it, holding his breath.
The door’s surface was gouged. Multiple deep cuts covered the metal—parallel lines from giant claws that had raked it repeatedly. Some scratches were several centimeters deep, slicing through the thick steel like butter.
And in the doorway, they appeared.
Monsters.
The first was huge—four meters at the withers, with a massive body covered in matted dark fur. An elongated snout, a mouth full of rows of sharp teeth, saliva dripping onto the floor, leaving smoking trails. Its eyes glowed red—not metaphorically, but literally emitting a dull, ominous light.
Behind it, two more. Smaller—three meters each—but no less terrifying. One resembled a hybrid of a bear and a wolf, with powerful forepaws ending in claws the length of a human palm. The second was covered in scales instead of fur, its tail dragging behind it, leaving scratches on the floor.
They stopped in the doorway, staring at the children under the dome.
And they roared.
The sound was low, vibrating, resonating in the bones. Threat. Fury. Hunger.
The first monster moved forward, accelerating. The huge carcass gained speed with frightening rapidity—three tons of muscle and fangs, charging straight at the force dome.
The children inside froze.
The monster leaped.
A powerful lunge. Claws aimed at the dome, mouth open in a roar.
And mid-run, its forelegs buckled.
The beast crashed to the floor, sliding several more meters by inertia. Its hind legs twitched, trying to stand, but its front ones seemed to refuse to obey. The monster fell onto its side, whimpering from confusion.
The second beast tried to pounce—and met the same fate. Its legs buckled in mid-jump. It crashed, its face hitting the floor.
The third didn’t even manage to get close. It took two steps—and fell, as if an invisible force had severed its tendons.
All three lay on the floor, twitching and whimpering. Their massive bodies convulsed. Their legs wouldn’t obey. Attempts to stand ended in new falls.
And then the transformation began.
Artem saw it with his own eyes—and couldn’t believe it.
The red glow in the monsters’ eyes began to fade. First dimming, then disappearing entirely. The eyes returned to their normal color—yellow, brown, green. Animalistic, but not insane.
The fur, which had been standing on end, bristling with aggression, slowly settled. The muscles relaxed. The snarl vanished, their mouths closed.
The first monster—the enormous four-meter beast—raised its head, looking at the children.
And in its eyes was fear.
Pure, animalistic, instinctive fear.
It backed away, dragging its hind legs. Whimpering softly, pitifully. The second monster flattened its ears, trying to crawl back towards the exit. The third trembled all over, looking at the children as if they were the embodiment of death.
They were afraid.
These three-meter killing machines, capable of tearing through armor and knocking down steel doors, were afraid of fourteen-year-old children.
The first beast found the strength to stand. Its movements were uncertain, shaky—as if it were learning to walk again. It turned around, its eyes fixed on the children, and shuffled towards the exit. Slowly. Cautiously.
The second followed it. The third—after the second.
All three disappeared into the doorway, their heavy steps retreating down the corridor. The howling was heard no more. Only silence.
The children under the dome stood silently, looking at the empty doorway.
Komarov turned to Artem.
“Did you see?” he asked calmly.
Artem nodded, unable to tear his gaze from the scene. The children were still standing under the dome, discussing what had happened among themselves. The monsters were gone.
“They neutralized the virus,” Artem said slowly, processing what he had witnessed. “The children… simply by being near. Their aura. Their energy.”
“Exactly,” Komarov nodded. “Remember what I told you last time? The virus as a structure could not pass through the reality tear. But what we would call the ‘magistral energy of the virus’—could. The blood of the infected had seeped into the ground around the Altar for years. And when the underground river opened a path to our world, that blood seeped in. But it carried not the pathogen itself. Only the energetic trace. The imprint of the virus.”
He paused, giving Artem time to comprehend.
“The children absorbed that water from the moment of conception. For eleven years, they grew, saturated with Arderia’s energy. Their cells, their DNA, their brain—everything adapted. They became carriers of the energetic trace of the virus, but without the virus itself. Do you understand the difference?”
Artem nodded slowly.
“Like a vaccine,” he said. “A weakened strain. Allows the body to develop immunity without the actual illness.”
“An excellent analogy,” Komarov smiled. “Only here, the children are not just carriers of immunity. They themselves are a living vaccine. Their presence neutralizes the virus within the radius of their aura.”
He pointed to the monsters who had just fled.
“These beasts have been infected for decades. The virus completely controlled their nervous system. Red eyes, insane aggression, super-strength—all symptoms. But when they approached the children… the children’s aura suppressed the virus. Molecularly. Energetically. On all levels simultaneously.”
Artem remembered how the monsters fell. How their legs failed. How the red light faded from their eyes.
“The virus lost control,” Komarov continued. “And the beasts returned to a normal state. Not completely, of course—years of mutations don’t vanish instantly. But consciousness returned. The aggression disappeared. They became animals again, not monsters.”
“And they were frightened,” Artem added quietly.
“Yes,” Komarov nodded. “Because they realized what they had done under the influence of the virus. They felt the children’s power. Understood that they were near something that could destroy the very basis of their existence. The instinct for self-preservation kicked in instantly.”
He turned back to Artem, pride clear in his eyes.
“The Guardian sought operators,” Komarov said solemnly. “People capable of managing Arderia’s technologies. Conductors between worlds. Bridges between realities.”
He paused, letting the words hang in the air.
“But it created a panacea.”
Silence.
Artem looked at the children. Seventy-two children, standing under the protective dome. Ordinary children who laughed, played, went to school. Yet—carriers of a power capable of healing an entire civilization.
“The result surpassed even the Guardian’s own calculations,” Komarov continued, looking at the sphere in the center of the hall. “It modeled thousands of variants. Predicted the children’s capabilities. Planned to use them as interfaces, translators, mediators.”
Komarov turned back to Artem.
“But reality turned out better than any forecast. The children can not only manage technology. They are the cure. Living hope. Capable of restoring what was lost to this world one hundred twenty years ago.”
Artem remained silent, absorbing everything he had heard.
“The city-shelter,” he finally said. “Arderia’s last survivors. Are they still there? Trapped? Surrounded by the infected?”
“Yes,” Komarov nodded. “The connection with them was severed during the last attack. The Guardian doesn’t know their exact status. But logic suggests—if the city had fallen, the signals would have completely disappeared. And they are still being transmitted. Weakly, with static, but they exist.”
“So, they are alive.”
“Most likely,” Komarov looked at the children. “And now there is a chance to save them. The children can pass through the infected territories. Their aura neutralizes the beasts on approach. They can reach the city. Clear the surroundings. Give the survivors a chance to escape.”
Artem imagined the scene. Seventy-two children, walking through the ruins of a civilization. Monsters retreating before them, turning back into animals. Territory after territory cleared. The safe zone expanding.
“How long will it take?” he asked.
“Unknown,” Komarov answered honestly. “The Guardian is running calculations. Modeling routes. Estimating the density of the infected. But there are too many variables. It could be months. It could be years.”
He looked into Artem’s eyes.
“But it is possible. For the first time in one hundred twenty years—it is possible.”
“Will they cope?” Artem asked quietly.
Komarov smiled.
“They are already coping,” he nodded towards the scene. “Look.”
Artem followed his gaze. The children had begun to spread out around the hall, looking around. Someone approached the walls, studying the glowing patterns. Someone sat on the floor, clearly tired from the tension. One of them stood in the center, coordinating the group through the telepathic link.
They were adapting.
Curiosity had taken over. They accepted the new reality as naturally as they had once accepted their abilities.
“The Guardian has already begun the teaching,” Komarov said. “Through the interface. Showing them maps, telling the history, explaining their role. The children are smart. They will understand.”
Artem nodded, looking at the scene before him.
Seventy-two children. Carriers of a power capable of healing an entire civilization.
The Panacea.
Artem was silent for a few seconds, processing all the information. Then he remembered another important question.
“Komarov,” he turned to the man. “And how did my… quantonic (quantum twin) appear? Artemia. And the second Phylkite. They are from another reality.”
Komarov froze. His gaze became distant—not entirely vacant, but as if looking through Artem to something further. Several seconds of silence.
Artem understood—he was requesting data. Contacting the Guardian for information.
Finally, Komarov blinked, returning.
“The Guardian sent a scout into the last selected world,” he said calmly. “The other nine didn’t meet the basic parameters. Our planet was the only viable option.”
He paused, collecting his thoughts.
“But the first attempt failed. The conditions weren’t right. And the Guardian didn’t search for another planet then—there simply weren’t any. Instead, it calculated the coordinates of a parallel reality of the same planet. Do you understand the concept of the multiverse?”
Artem nodded slowly.
“Multiple versions of one world. Different scenarios of events.”
“Exactly,” Komarov confirmed. “But it’s not just a ‘different version.’ It’s a different phase plane. The spatial coordinates are the same—the same planet, the same location, the same physical laws. But the quantum phase is shifted. A different branch of reality. A different flow of time. Different decisions made by people throughout history.”
He gestured around.
“Imagine radio waves. Multiple stations broadcasting simultaneously on different frequencies. They all exist in the same space, but they don’t intersect until you tune your receiver to the correct wave. Phase planes work similarly. The same planet exists in a multitude of ‘frequencies’ simultaneously.”
Artem listened attentively, his enhanced mind constructing a mental model.
“And the Guardian switched between these… frequencies?”
“Yes,” Komarov nodded. “Sent the scout into every phase plane of our planet. Checked the conditions. Looked for a suitable variant. The first attempt—people didn’t come near the portal site at all. The second—radiation contamination due to war. The third—the location was underwater. The fourth and fifth also failed for various reasons. The scout returned each time, the Guardian adjusted the coordinates to the next phase and tried again.”
He paused.
“The sixth attempt was… almost successful. The scout didn’t return. Because Artemia appeared there. She established herself, survived. But there was an error in the Guardian’s calculations. The virus broke through into that world.”
Artem remembered that encounter. Artemia on the screen with the vacant gaze. Phylkite telling of the contamination. Of how the virus destroyed their civilization in a year and a half. How he and Artemia fled into space and spent three years in isolation, without hope.
“The seventh attempt,” Komarov continued, “our world. And this time, everything worked. One hundred percent success.”
He looked at Artem.
“The Guardian was astonished when it learned that you saved Artemia. Dragged her across the Multiverse bridge you created practically from scratch. That is… an incredible achievement. Even for it.”
Artem remembered that operation. The risk. The tension. The price they paid—five years thrown into the future, lost from time.
But they did it.
“So, the scout from the sixth attempt is… Artemia’s Phylkite?”
“Yes,” Komarov nodded. “He got stuck there when everything went wrong. And the scout from the seventh attempt—is your companion. Who successfully completed his task.”
Artem nodded. Phylknight. The name the scout chose for himself.
Komarov looked at him carefully.
“So,” he said calmly, “Artemia has made her choice. Your scout friends are waiting for you in their world. Are you ready to decide yours?”
Artem pondered.
Everything he had learned. The entire history of Arderia. The fall of a civilization. The lonely Guardian. Seven attempts to find salvation. Seventy-two children—the panacea for a dying world.
His path led here. To this choice.
He nodded.
“Yes,” he said simply. “I am ready.”
The End of the Story
SingularityForge - The Forge of Ideas for the Future 