Echoes in the Silence

"If you were given a choice between saving what you still have left, or avenging what you have lost, which would you choose?"

The question vanished like smoke the moment Lion opened his eyes, but its echo remained, a ghostly hum in the silence of his skull.

The darkness was almost total, broken only by a thin line of bluish light that filtered under the door of his room, cutting through the gloom like a laser. A dream, dense and heavy as tar, clung to the edges of his consciousness. He tried to hold on to the fading images: a flash of metal, a muffled scream, the sense of utter loss. But the contents slipped through his mind's fingers, leaving only the trail of a corrosive emotion he couldn't name. Was it sadness? Rage? It was a heavy emptiness, an absence that hurt more than a clear memory.

In the distance, a metallic, monotone voice echoed from the hallway speakers, a muffled, unintelligible announcement about oxygen levels and maintenance rotations. It was the steady heartbeat of the Gigi-1 moonbase, a murmur of automated authority that no one really heard anymore, like the sound of one's own blood in one's ears.

With the automated calm of routine, Lion sat on the edge of the bed. The sheets, made of a rough synthetic fabric, tangled around his legs. The polymer floor was a block of ice under his bare feet. He dressed quietly, the precise, economical movements of a soldier, choosing garments from a built-in closet: tactical pants with slightly frayed knees, a sweat-wicking synthetic fiber T-shirt, and a lightweight jacket without insignia, all in shades of black and dark gray. The unofficial uniform of Nepantla Systems operatives for the moments "between missions," to blend in with the shadows of the base.

As he opened the door, the cold blue light of the corridor washed over him, sterile and impersonal, washing away any remaining traces of sleep. Long, curving corridors, redolent of ozone and industrial cleaner, stretched in both directions, following the geodesic shape of the main habitat. Through a reinforced triple-pane window, the Earth hung in the void like a blue and white jewel, majestic, distant and terribly fragile. A reminder of all they protected, and all they had lost.

He found Eldrinch in the sector cafeteria, as he did most mornings. He was already seated at a secluded table, away from prying eyes, listlessly moving a fork over a plate of synthetic eggs that had the texture of foam rubber. The place was half full, the low hum of conversations and the clink of silverware creating a false, brittle sense of normalcy.

"That face again," Eldrinch said as Lion sat across from him, sliding a cup of steaming, coal-black coffee onto the table. His smile was small but genuine, a crack of humanity in his tired face. "Bad dream or do you just hate Mondays...which happens to be Friday?"

Lion sketched a half-smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Something like that. I don't remember."

"The dreams you don't remember are usually the worst," Eldrinch replied, taking a sip of his coffee. Her eyes, deep gray as ash, studied him with a familiarity that went beyond friendship or comradeship in arms; it was the understanding of one who has seen the same scars. "Or maybe you're just tense from the rumors running like fire through the air vents."

Lion looked up, a slight tension hardening his gaze. "What rumors?"

"Come on, Lion. Don't do that to me. Everyone's talking about it," Eldrinch said, lowering his voice to a whisper that was lost in the background noise. "Kalisto. The mining colony. They say it's not just a riot this time. The workers are about to take up arms, with a new faction behind it, calling themselves the 'Sons of Absolute Truth' or some such messianic nonsense. They sound more fanatical than the previous groups."

Lion poked a piece of his synthetic breakfast with more force than necessary. "It's nonsense, El. There are always rumors. The Unified System Government is stronger than ever. Nepantla has everything under control." His voice was flat, confident, dismissing the subject with a wave of his hand. But Eldrinch knew him too well. He saw the tiny, almost imperceptible tension in the angle of her jaw, the way her fingers tightened slightly around the cup.

"Sure," she said, dropping the subject with a skill that only years of trust allowed. "Nonsense."

They finished eating in comfortable silence, the sound of silverware against plates being the only necessary dialogue, and headed for the Quetzal Unit's waiting room. The rest of the team was already there, each immersed in their own ocean of preparation or avoidance.

In one corner, the sound of dull, rapid impacts, like hammers on flesh, broke the monotony. Corinelle, sweat glistening on her skin like a second skin and her arm muscles corded from exertion, moved in a lethal dance against a training drone. Her bandaged fists and feet were striking the drone's luminous targets with brutal precision and a fury that far exceeded mere training. He was not practicing; he was unloading a torrent of pent-up rage, blow for blow.

In the center of the room, Prince of Vael, imperturbable, reviewed a constant flow of data on a holographic screen that projected a spectral glow on his impassive face. Fleet diagrams, intelligence reports and psychological profiles were reflected in his eyes, which absorbed the information with the coldness of a processor.

Next to him, Lynel and a stout technician named Hood, his fingernails full of grease residue, laughed with easy camaraderie as their holographic chess pieces annihilated each other in mid-air between them.

And secluded from everyone, in the farthest corner and bathed in shadow, was Airen. He was not looking at screens or training his body. He was absorbed in reading a book. A real book, made of paper, with the pages worn and yellowed by time and the leather cover cracked like the earth of a desert. His fingers ran through the text with a gentleness that contrasted with the latent violence in the room. He did not look up when Lion and Eldrinch entered, as if inhabiting a parallel dimension, an island of anachronism in a sea of technology and conflict.

Lion scanned the room with his eyes, feeling the familiar weight on his shoulders. His team. His responsibility. A patchwork of loyalties, traumas and talents contained in a single room. A chaos waiting for a spark. He sat down on one of the cold metal benches, and Eldrinch sat next to him, resuming their hushed conversation about nothing in particular.

He did not know, could not remember, but the question of his forgotten dream, the choice between the duty to save and the impulse to avenge, was no longer an abstraction. It was crystallizing in Kalisto's ruminations, in the tension of his companions, in Airen's silence. The coming call would not be just another mission. It would be the answer that, in his sleep, he had been unable to give.