Vassili's Confession

The barrel leaves the flesh. I smash the door panel with my heel and plunge into the gallery. The man with the transmitter remains behind, a spent pawn left on the board. My true target runs far ahead.

A stealthy silhouette slips between the cooling pipes. His shoes strike the metal. He drops three security grates in his wake. Manual lockdown. The echo of the steel latches bounces off the vault. Twenty meters separate us. He is going to reach the freight elevator.

The transaction displays behind my eyes. To unlock this sector, ATHENA demands her cut. The file opens. What I have left of Vassili hangs by so little. The gravelly pitch of her laugh in the tunnels. The warmth of her hand on my shoulder, the first night, when she shared her ration. Organic details. Life.

I authorize the expense.

The three grates lift. Vassili's laugh fades, reduced to a frequency in hertz. The heat of her fingers becomes a mere thermal measurement. Ninety-eight degrees. Filed. The exchange leaves me hollow, but my legs gain the necessary seconds.

I slam into the fugitive before he can press the call button. My hand pins his windpipe against the bulkhead. The impact tears a short rattle from him. A memory block slips from his pocket and drops onto the grating.

The name of the Dissolved hides there.

I tighten my grip. His vertebrae crack under my glove.

"The Truth. Give me the final words. What she said after the nineteenth blow."

He suffocates. His nails scratch my forearm without success. A scarlet trickle runs from his right nostril. He lowers his eyes toward the memory block at his feet. A smile twists his bloody lips.

"Plug it in, Praetor. Listen to her confession. She left you a message. You have no idea who you are trying to avenge."

He stops struggling. His gaze locks onto my visor.