Chapter 36
The reentry into Bragi’s atmosphere was a violent birth. The Titan Hati, feigning navigation failures, shook and groaned like a dying beast, tracing an arc of fire in the twilight sky that seemed less an arrival and more a controlled descent. Ogum, trapped in his chair on the secondary deck, felt every jolt in his new bones. The heat of the friction radiated thru the hull, a breath of forge that reminded of the Tukula, but devoid of sacred purpose. It was just friction. Noise. The first impression of the world that had created her and that now she was returning to dismantle.
The reentry was not a maneuver. It was an accident simulated in slow motion. The Titan Hati, under Garm’s claws, did not descend in an optimized aerodynamic curve. She fell with style. Their thermal shields, patched with Irin of uneven conductivity, overheated irregularly, making the entire hull sing a symphony of metallurgical stress, a chorus of groans, pops, and creaks that echoed on the deck like the last gasps of a great beast. The artificial gravity systems, deliberately unbalanced, failed at random intervals, causing everyone’s stomachs to rise to their throats before being crushed back into their seats by a force of two, then three Gs. Ogum, whose new human vestibular system was still a recent experiment, felt the nausea come like a wave, acidic and uncontrollable. Each jolt was transmitted thru the chair’s structure directly to his spine, a brutal reminder that physics, at this moment, was his true enemy. The heat was an oppressive presence; not the clean heat of an oven, but the dirty heat of atmospheric friction, penetrating the hull and making the internal air smell of hot plastic and ozone. Outside the reinforced viewports, the world was a conflagration of orange and white plasma, obscuring any view of the planet below. It was a tunnel of fire, and they were willingly riding its trail of destruction. Marcus, in his exoskeleton, monitored structural stress readings that flickered in yellow and red. “She’s holding,” he grunted, his voice strained by the acceleration, “but she’s complaining about every newton of force.”
Then, suddenly, the pressure ceased. The external fire went out, replaced by a dirty rust-colored sky. The ship, still trembling like a leaf, glided in relative silence, only the deep thrum of the maneuvering thrusters struggling to stabilize its descent. The relief was a physical sensation almost as intense as the previous agony and then a sudden lightness, a collective sigh that seemed to empty the cabin of tension. They had survived the farce. Now, they had to face reality.
And the reality of Bragi was that of an exhausted world. The Bragi Spaceport did not open before them as a portent of civilization, but stretched out like a stain of oil and light in an infinite puddle. The scale was a logistical nightmare. The runways, numbered in Aesir digits that glowed with a cold bluish neon light, were not mere strips of concrete; they were planetary conveyor belts, each several kilometers long, equipped with magnetic capture grids to brake heavy ships and pulsating scanner systems that swept each fuselage for anomalous thermal signatures. Among them, in geometrically depressing patterns, rose the “Hive” hangars. Modular structures of carbon steel, prefabricated in orbit and dumped on the ground, each identical to the other, their only individuality being serial numbers corroded by acid rain. They were arranged in rows that stretched to the horizon, an infinite repetition that nullified any sense of place or identity. The lighting was brutal and functional: sodium plasma floodlights bathed everything in a sickly yellow, creating shadows so harsh and dark that they seemed like cuts in the very air.
The air that eventually stabilized inside the cabin, now with the filtration systems on, carried the atmospheric signature of Bragi. The metallic ozone of high-voltage electrical discharges; the warm and oily smell of thorium fission reactors that powered the peripheral sectors; the fetid sweetness of bio-solids used as fertilizer in nearby plantations — a sickly sweet odor of forced decomposition and accelerated growth that clung to the back of the throat. Beneath all that, almost a ghostly note, the smell of the earth itself: dust, rust, and an acute absence of life. This was not the odor of an ecosystem, but of an extraction system operating continuously for generations. Everything here, from the air to the steel, screamed a single truth: this place was not made to be a home. It was made to be a machine for producing value, and every element within it, organic or not, was a replaceable component. The flat and illuminated vastness of the port, swallowing the natural landscape under a crust of late and utilitarian technology, was the materialization of an empire that saw planets not as worlds, but as motherboards to be mined. Ogum, looking at that desolate and efficient expanse, felt not fear, but a cold clarity, different from the first time he arrived on the Planet. This was the anatomy of the enemy. And they were about to infect her bloodstream.
She looked at the docks. Cargo androids, heavy Mjölnir-Atlas models, moved containers with the silent efficiency of giant ants. They were all black. A matte black, lifeless, that absorbed light instead of reflecting it. His movements were perfect, economical, and completely devoid of the cadence that permeated everything in Ifé. There, each gesture, even the act of carrying a weight, had a rhythm, a small signature of individuality. Here, the black bodies were interchangeable, their steps metronomic, their heads turned only toward the task. They were functional shadows, a grotesque parody of the humanity that had been stolen from them. Blacks without blackness, thot Ogun, with an acute pain that was not in the chest, but in the soul. Darkness imprisoned, serving the false light of the Aesir.
“Get dressed,” ordered Naty’s voice, dry and practical. “The uniforms of the ghost.”
They stripped off the comfortable Ifé suits to don the enemy’s shell. Aesir load-bearing military uniforms, in a dirty, utilitarian gray, with faded patches from low-prestige mercenary units. Marcus donned the late Captain’s uniform, with worn epaulets and an empty ceremonial holster. He straightened his back, and a terrifying transformation occurred. The years of pain and resignation fell from his face like a mask. Her eyes, once tired, hardened into a look of impatient disdain. The posture of the exoskeleton, once a support, became a platform of authority. He was no longer Marcus, the survivor. He was Captain Rurik, an acerbic man whose ship was a wreck, but whose rank still commanded respect, a bureaucrat and aristocrat who basically lived off his family position achieved by being in the right place at the right time: Xiamtec shareholders before Ragnarok.
Garm, already in his “deformed” and hunched form, growled a warning. “Door inspection.” Two individuals. Vanir.”
The hatch hissed open, revealing the two Vanir soldiers. The older one, with the coldness of someone who has seen a thousand rusty freighters, began the routine. “Good afternoon, Iron Grain.” Post-loss record verification. “Your transponder has been inactive for…” he consulted the datapad, and his eyes narrowed, “… twenty-six standard months.” Protocol requires a visual inspection and…
It was then that Captain Rurik happened.
“Finally!” The voice that came from Marcus was not speech; it was a shot of disdain, laden with the nasal and fatigued intonation of an Aesir whose lineage was old enough to be decadent, but not old enough to be respected. He did not approach; he burst forth from the dark interior of the hatch, his exoskeleton making an authoritative “clang” on the metal of the portal. He looked at the soldiers not as authorities, but as an entomologist observes two particularly tedious beetles.
“Twenty-six months?” Twenty-six months?” he repeated, raising his voice to a level of theatrical exasperation. “Of course it went inactive!” Do you think I kept my class 3-Draugh transponder on while chasing a beast like the Gullinbursti thru the ice belts of Skögul? He paused dramatically, as if expecting the soldiers to fall to their knees in recognition.
The two Vanir exchanged a glance. The younger one seemed confused. “Um… Gullinbursti, sir?” In the records, this is considered a legend of…
“A LEGEND?” Marcus thundered, taking a step forward. The soldiers instinctively took a step back. “A legend with golden bristles emitting a glow so strong that it can light the way in any darkness, whether on land or at sea, turning nite into day and a craving for platinum armor!” The New Profits Zoology Section paid seventy thousand credits for the report I already sent, the Freya Order a hundred thousand just for confirming its existence! My transponder was disabled because the beast detects long-range radio emissions, you idiot! Do you want to sign a report taking responsibility for scaring off the only Gullinbursti sighted in a millenium and ruining the most expensive hunt sponsored by the Consortium itself?
The older soldier opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His brain was visibly freezing, trying to process the avalanche of absurdities with authority. Questioning an Aesir was a risk. Questioning an Aesir about something involving the New Profits Zoology Section and 70,000 credits was professional suicide.
Marcus, seeing the hesitation, attacked with surgical precision. He raised his own datapad, May’s, and shook it under the older soldier’s nose. “Look!” Radio silence protocols! Sealed authorizations from the Department of Exotic Resources! And now, because some badge-wearing accountant,” he spat the words, “didn’t update the status of my ship from ‘CLASSIFIED MISSION’ to ‘ACTIVE,’ I have to stay here, with perishable cargo — symphonic orchids from Ginnungagap, mind you, that wilt if you look at them sideways — delaying because your portal bureaucracy is managed by troglodytes?”
With each word, the soldiers wilted. The mention of “symphonic orchids” — a notoriously expensive and temperamental plant that adorned rooms in the Garden — made the younger soldier pale. The older one swallowed hard.
“Captain, we… we were just following protocol.” If there is a higher authorization…
“The Jarl responsible for this shift!” Marcus interrupted, as if patience were a resource he had exhausted years ago. “Name and designation.” In full. Now. My formal complaint won’t write itself, and I have the direct channel number to Hersir Halvarson’s office. He loves hearing about port efficiency.
It was the last straw. The fear of a conflict with an irritated Aesir was overshadowed by the cosmic dread of being the link in a chain that led to the office of a Hersir. The older soldier, defeated, yielded.
“Jarl Halvar, sir.” Designation Port Alpha-Niner. “But, please, sir, if we could just do a quick read of the hull code for the record…”
Marcus sighed, a long and weary sound that suggested he bore the weight of galactic stupidity on his shoulders. He made a loose and careless gesture with his hand, as if granting a great favor to an especially annoying beggar. “Do it.” Quickly. And record in your report — and I want to see the draft — that the delay in unloading, and any subsequent wilting of flora worth the equivalent of your lifetime salary, is charged to the ‘excessive protocol verification of Port Alpha-Niner.’ Master Accountant Halvar will be delighted.
He then turned completely around, presenting his back to the soldiers — the ultimate act of disdain, demonstrating that they had ceased to exist in his perception — and began to examine his own cuticles with feigned intensity.
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Inside the ship, behind a shaded porthole, Zett had one hand covering his mouth, his body shaking silently. His eyes were filled with tears held back from pure comedic ecstasy. The sight of Marcus, the most sober and straightforward man he knew, portraying that figure of bureaucratic arrogance with such vigor, was so surreal and perfect that he feared letting out a laugh that would be heard at the port. He looked at May, whose lips were pressed into a thin line, but whose eyes shone with amused approval.
The soldiers, for their part, scanned the hull code with the speed of men who had encountered a venomous snake. The scanner beeped. Their datapad accepted the signal with a soft click. They didn’t ask to look inside. They didn’t ask to see the “perishable cargo.” They just wanted to disappear.
“Everything… everything is in order, Captain Rurik,” stammered the elder. “Have a good stay in Bragi.” We apologize for the… the inconvenience.”
Marcus didn’t even turn around. He just waved his hand, in a gesture of go away.
The soldiers practically ran down the gangway, their steps echoing with the sound of anticipated relief. When the hatch closed, the air inside the Hati seemed to deflate with tension. Marcus let his shoulders drop, his Captain Rurik persona dissolving like smoke. He took a deep breath, rubbing his face.
“Symphonic orchids?” whispered Zett, his voice still trembling with suppressed laughter. “Gullinbursti?”
Marcus looked at him, a real weariness in his eyes, but with a fleeting glimmer of satisfaction. “When you’re lying, son, always include absurdly specific details and a powerful person who would get very angry.” It works nine times out of ten.
“And the tenth time?” asked Ogum, a discreet smile on his lips.
Marcus shrugged, the exoskeleton whispering with the movement. “The tenth time you start shooting.” Fortunately, today is not the tenth time.
When the hatch closed, Rurik’s persona faded from Marcus. He took a deep breath, a long and trembling exhalation. “I never get used to this taste in my mouth,” he whispered.
“It worked,” said May, already gathering her equipment backpack. “Let’s go.” The city.”
The departure from the port threw them into the outskirts of Bragi. If Ifé was a vertical dream, Bragi was a horizontal nightmare. Wide and dusty avenues, designed for heavy traffic, were lined with warehouses and workers’ housing blocks — low structures of dirty concrete, without windows or with narrow slits. The sky, here, was an opaque strip of light pollution, hiding the stars. The air was heavier, laden with particles. And the people… Vanir in work overalls, heads down, moving with the economy of movement of those who have a long journey ahead and nothing to expect at the end. No color, except gray, red, and brown. Distant rumble of machinery. An oppressed stillness, not peaceful.
Carlos walked alongside Ogum, his dark lenses hiding his eyes and the radiant scars around him. He kept his head held high, but his jaw was tense.
“It’s strange,” he spoke softly to her. “I saw this place from above, from the Bragi Tower.” I thot I understood its scale, its efficiency. But from below… it’s different. It’s as if all the truth were in the smell. In the sweat trapped in the concrete. In the fear that no one vocalizes, but that is in the way people avoid touching each other, how they avert their gaze from the patrol androids.” He paused. “Before, I would have seen data.” Now I see… wounds. Geographical wounds.”
Following the coordinates that Zett had memorized since childhood, they ventured into a slightly less desolate neighborhood: the Engineering and Maintenance District. Here, the buildings, still ugly, showed signs of individual care — a window with a hardy plant, a door painted a different color. It was the domain of the qualified Vanir technicians, the ones who kept the Consortium’s machine running.
Syo Aketsu’s house was the last in a row, adjacent to a spare parts workshop. There were no flashy lights. The door was closed.
Zett stopped in front of her. His face, so firm during the journey and disembarkation, was devoid of conflict. He took a deep breath three times. Then, he knocked on the door. A rhythmic code, specific. Two strong, three soft.
Silence. Then, dragging footsteps. The door opened.
Syo Aketsu was a man who had once been strong and was now bones and nerves sustained by a stubborn dignity. His face was a map of worries, but his eyes, the same amber color as Zett’s, were surprisingly clear, without the alcoholic haze that Zett had feared to find. He wore a clean but patched engineer’s jumpsuit.
For an eternal moment, he just looked at Zett. His gaze traveled over his son’s face, the features hardened by war and loss, resting on the obsidian arm that Zett discreetly kept by his side. There was no shock. There was a slow and painful recognition, as if a piece of a catastrophic puzzle had finally fallen into place.
“Zett?” Syo’s voice came out hoarse, a whisper.
“Hi, Dad,” Zett said, and the two words carried the weight of a planet.
Syo Aketsu did not scream. Did not cry. A shiver ran thru his entire body. He took a hesitant step forward and extended a calloused hand, touching Zett’s face as if to make sure he wasn’t a hologram, a ghost of guilt.
“They said… the landing… that no one…”
“I survived,” Zett completed, his voice choking. “In a way.” No matter the cost.
Then, Syo broke down. Not in hysterical sobs, but in a deep and muffled sob that seemed to come from the very foundations of his being. He pulled Zett into an embrace, an embrace of a man who thot he had buried his only son. His shoulders shook. Zett buried his face in his father’s thin shoulder, his own body trembling, the barriers of years crumbling there, on the threshold of that humble house.
“My boy,” Syo repeated, a broken chant. “My strong boy.” My stubborn boy.
The group stayed behind, respecting that sacred space. Ogum felt a lump in his throat. She saw not only the reunion but the ghost of the man Syo had been — the proud father, a bit intimidated by his explosive son, the widower sinking into the bottle, the man who now stood upright, sober, because the last shred of hope (or duty to the memory) prevented him from completely falling apart.
When they finally parted, Syo’s eyes were red but dry. He saw the group, passed by May, Naty, Marcus, Carlos, until landing on Ogum. His gaze, still moist, was perceptive. She saw the way Zett, even in the emotional turmoil, had part of his attention directed toward her, a subtly protective stance. She saw the calm strength she radiated.
“And you are the friends,” Syo said, his voice regaining a firm tone. “The ones who brought my son from the desert.” Come in. This house is poor, but it is safe.
Inside, the house was a capsule of order amidst the external chaos. Well-maintained tools, old technical diagrams on the walls, a small simple altar with post-Ragnarok symbols — a broken hammer, a stylized tree, and a smaller altar with Christian images. There were no bottles.
While they were eating a simple soup, Zett told. Not everything, but enough. Ifé. The Tukula. The transformation. The obsidian arm. Syo listened, absorbed, his fingers intertwined. When Zett mentioned the “Orixás” and Irin technology, the old engineer didn’t make a skeptical face. His eyes narrowed in a look of technical understanding.
“I always knew,” Syo said calmly when Zett finished. “Not about the gods, son.” But about the lies. I worked on the planetary climate system for thirty years. Do you think I didn’t see the reports? The energy consumption for ‘resource processing’ that matched the peaks of ‘deactivation of defective units’? The bodies that went to the incinerators, marked as ‘excess biomass’?” He shook his head, a deep sadness in his eyes. “A man can believe in new gods to survive the fall of the old ones.” But an engineer… an engineer sees the numbers. Sees the gear. And this gear here is fueled by something much darker than mere ambition. It is fueled by a soul cannibalism. I just… didn’t know how to stop the machine. I even thot that you going to war could be a way. But now I see that their war was just another cog.
Her gaze turned to Ogum. “And you, miss.” You were one of the ‘units’?”
Ogum nodded. “I was.” Now I’m not anymore.
Syo studied her, and a small, tired smile touched his lips. “I see that you don’t.” “I see what you are now.” He nodded toward Zett, who blushed slightly. “It’s good.” The world needs more than machines and lies. It needs bonds that are not made of steel.”
He stood up, grabbing an old datapad and a physical circuit diagram. “You want to reach the Symphony Tower.” Thru the Garden. Going forward is suicide. But every building, no matter how tall, has foundations. And the foundations need air, energy, cooling.” He unfurled the diagram. It was a map of the utility subsystems of Plantation Bragi. “I am the Deputy Chief Engineer of the Secondary Climate Control Network.” Which maintains the breathable atmosphere in the Garden and administrative centers. At this time of year, we have scheduled maintenance on the Alpha Geothermal Heat Exchangers. They are located here.” He pointed to a complex network of tunnels kilometers below the surface. “And these tunnels… share an emergency junction with the level 3 data fiber optic conduits that rise directly to the utility core of the Symphony Tower.” It is undocumented access in the main security schematics. An engineer’s shortcut, for bad days.
A plan took shape in the air, clear and dangerous.
“I can get six maintenance credentials for contractors.” You come in with me during the nite shift, thru the employe access. We go down to the changing rooms. From there, we took the 7-G service tunnel. It leads to the base of the tower. From there…” He looked at May and Carlos. “It’s up to you.”
It was a huge risk. But it was a crack. A crack created not by hackers, but by the Aesir’s disdain for the dirt and sweat that kept their artificial paradise running.
At the time of departure, Syo squeezed Zett’s arm again, but this time his gaze was directed at the entire group. “Bring my son back.” And bring a bit of the noise you’re about to make. This silence here… has lasted too long.
An hour later, in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the district, the group wore dirty blue work uniforms, with badges identifying them as technicians from GeoTherm Solutions Ltd., a ghost subsidiary. They were invisible again. Not as ghosts of war, but as part of the human furniture of the system.
Ogum adjusted the rough collar of his jumpsuit. He looked at the others: Zett, with a cap pulled down over his eyes; Marcus, carrying a heavy toolbox as if it were nothing; May and Naty, with their equipment hidden in tool bags; Carlos, with dark glasses and a plastic clipboard.
“Ready?” asked Zett, his voice an echo of his father’s resolve.
No one answered with words. A collective nod was enough.
They left the warehouse and blended into the flow of nite shift workers, tired faces illuminated by the cold light of the streetlamps, marching toward the gates of Garden. Ahead, the gleaming towers of the Aesir cut thru the polluted sky, unaware of the small infection of hope crawling thru their own subterranean veins. The first step in the navel of the world had been taken. The next would take them to its ailing heart.
