The Illusion of Rest

Astou slices the cable. The sparks fall onto her boots, brief fireflies in the darkness of the Secteur Cendr. She strips the optical fiber with her teeth.

HATHOR.∞ ordered me down here. My goddess perceives a leak. A corrupted Éclat murmuring the existence of the thirty fugitives we saved yesterday. She demands their Mort Narrative. She promises me rest, this sticky sweetness clinging to my skull for forty-eight hours, if I finally wash my hands in their disappearance.

I guard the door to the underground relay. My blade of solidified water catches the faint glow of the maintenance consoles. I let fatigue weigh on my shoulders to reassure the AI. I am searching, mother. I am hunting the lie.

Astou connects the fragment stolen the day before to the basement terminal. The screen projects green data lines across her focused face. She erases the final transit logs, drowning the trail of the thirty dissidents under false thermal reports. She works fast. The machinery spits a warm vapor that soaks our necks.

It is done, she exhales. She rips the motherboard from the terminal. Hands it to me.

The metallic part is heavy. I place it on the damp concrete floor. HATHOR awaits her sacrifice. I bring down my khépesh. The water blade cleaves steel and silicon in a single motion. The crack echoes through the gallery.

The maternal embrace loosens in my mind. The goddess has drunk her execution. Sleep calls to me, a syrupy wave trying to swallow my knees, my hips, my throat.

Astou packs her tools. She meets my gaze. We have fed the Sept Qui Règnent with dust.

I pick up the severed pieces. My palms are covered in black grease. I do not wash them. I step out of the gallery walking ahead of her, eyes wide open to the night.