ENTANGLED SHADOWS

Chapter 5

Ashes and Aftermath

The *Ebon Sparrow* hung in the void like a black needle against the starfield, cloaked and silent, three light-days out from the smoldering ruins of Obsidian Keep. For forty-eight hours we had done nothing but watch the sector unravel.

Every major feed carried the footage Crab had uploaded in the final seconds before the fortress detonated: the Directorate’s faces, their voices, their plans laid bare. Names that had been myths—admirals, CEOs, intelligence chiefs—were now splashed across emergency broadcasts. Arrest warrants flew faster than light. Bank accounts frozen. Private fleets seized at dock. Entire governments teetered as compromised ministers fled or were dragged from offices in restraints.

But wars do not end when the head is cut off. They convulse.

Concordance cells—dozens, maybe hundreds—went dark or went loud. Some surrendered. Most fought. Suicide charges on Federation outposts. Assassinations of investigators. Sabotage of orbital infrastructure. Three colonies lost atmosphere in the first day. A battlecruiser squadron mutinied and vanished into deep space.

And through it all, one name kept surfacing in intercepted chatter: Revenant Protocol.

Kessa found me in the observation lounge at 0300 ship time, staring at the replay of Varn’s final smile as the self-destruct armed.

“He knew,” she said quietly, sliding into the seat beside me. “Even dying, he thought he’d won.”

I killed the holo. “Revenant Protocol. You know what it is.”

She nodded once. “Failsafe. Deep contingency. If the Directorate ever fell, loyalist cells were to activate pre-positioned assets—sleeper ships, hidden fleets, orbital strike packages. Burn everything down so no victor could rebuild on the ashes.”

“How bad?”

“Bad enough that Varn smiled.” She rubbed her eyes. “Lantern intel thinks there are at least four Revenant keystones scattered across the sector. Physical devices. When all four are triggered within a narrow window, they wake the dormant arsenal. Automated. No human override.”

I felt the deck tilt—not from maneuver, but from the weight of it.

“We have both quantum relays,” I said. “We control the grids.”

“For now. Revenant doesn’t need the grids. It’s older tech—dumb, brute-force. Kinetic rods from shadow bases. Bioweapons in civilian traffic. Enough to glass half the sector and poison the rest.”

Silence stretched.

Then Captain Okoye’s voice over ship-wide: “All senior personnel to briefing. Now.”

We ran.

The briefing room was packed—thirty Lantern operatives, faces grim under harsh lighting. Okoye stood at the holo-table beside Commander Jalen—alive, bandaged, evacuated by a second shuttle we hadn’t known about.

Jalen wasted no time.

“Revenant is real. We’ve confirmed two keystones. One on Tartarus Moon—maximum-security black site, abandoned but still powered. Second in the Ophiuchus Drift—salvage derelict packed with automated defenses. Third and fourth locations unknown, but chatter suggests one is mobile—a stealth courier—and the last is planetside on a core world.”

She zoomed the map.

“We have seventy-two hours until the activation window opens. After that, any cell with a keystone can start the sequence. We need to secure or destroy all four before then.”

Okoye took over. “We’re splitting assets. *Sparrow* takes Tartarus with Alpha team. Corvette *Nightshade* hits Ophiuchus. Beta team on intel sweep for the mobile courier. Gamma inserts on Epsilon Prime for the suspected planetside target.”

Eyes turned to Kessa and me.

“You two,” Jalen said, “are with Alpha. Tartarus is the hardest nut—ground assault, hostile environment, Concordance diehards holding the facility. But we need the relays there. The moon’s magnetosphere scrambles FTL comms. We can use the relays to broadcast a kill signal that might override Revenant automation—if we can crack the protocol in time.”

Kessa’s jaw tightened. “And if we can’t?”

“Then we blow the keystone and pray the others fall in time.”

No one spoke the obvious: we were gambling with trillions of lives on a seventy-two-hour clock.

We launched twelve hours later.

*Ebon Sparrow* dropped us in Tartarus orbit under full stealth, then peeled away to draw off the automated defense grid—old but vicious railgun satellites that still functioned on residual power.

Shuttle insertion: six operatives plus Crab. Kessa, me, Jalen, three Lantern veterans code-named Rook, Bishop, Knight.

Tartarus Moon was a hellscape—iron-rich regolith that drank heat, constant micrometeor sleet, magnetic storms that fried unshielded electronics. The black site was buried half a kilometer under the crust, accessible only through three surface shafts.

We landed in Shaft 2 during a storm window—visibility near zero, sensors blinded.

Mag-boots down the vertical shaft—two hundred meters of rusted ladder in pitch dark, air thinning to vacuum.

At the bottom: blast door, slagged open long ago. Signs of recent occupation—fresh welds, power cables snaking into the dark.

We moved in standard stack: Rook point, Bishop rear, Jalen and Knight flanks, Kessa and me center with the relay cases.

Corridors were tomb-cold. Emergency lighting flickered red. Frost coated everything.

First contact came fast.

Motion sensor tripped. Automated turret unfolded from the ceiling—twin gauss cannons.

Rook hosed it with suppressor fire; Knight grenaded the mount. Metal rained.

But the shots echoed.

They knew we were here.

Deeper in, the facility woke.

Concordance loyalists—twenty, maybe more. Diehards who’d stayed when the site was abandoned, waiting for this exact day.

They fought like cornered animals.

First ambush at a T-junction: flashbangs, overlapping fields of fire.

We lost Knight in the opening salvo—center mass, armor breached.

Return fire dropped three defenders.

We pushed through smoke and strobes.

Bodies on both sides.

Corridors narrowed. Gravity failed—old generators dying.

We switched to mag-boots on walls and ceilings, fighting in three dimensions.

Crab scuttled ahead, disabling traps—pressure mines, monowire, automated blades.

We reached the central vault level—massive pressure door, biometric and quantum lock.

Defenders had fortified it: barricades, heavy repeaters, two exosuits.

Siege.

Jalen called it. “We don’t have time for attrition. Breach and clear.”

Kessa and I took the relays to a side terminal—Crab jacking in, trying to crack Revenant code while the rest laid down fire.

The battle was brutal.

Rook charged an exosuit with shaped charges—took it down but lost an arm.

Bishop sniped from a catwalk—dropped four defenders before a lucky shot took him through the visor.

Jalen dual-wielded carbines, advancing step by step.

I covered Kessa—flechettes whispering death.

The door finally cycled—Crab succeeded where force failed.

We stormed the vault.

Inside: the keystone.

A black obelisk three meters tall, pulsing red. Holo-display counting down: 58 hours 12 minutes.

Around it: six remaining defenders, led by a woman in battered power armor. Concordance insignia fresh-painted over old Federation markings.

She laughed when she saw us.

“Too late. The sequence is armed. You can’t stop it from here.”

Kessa stepped forward. “We don’t need to stop it here. We override it from orbit.”

The woman’s eyes flicked to the relays.

Realization.

She raised her rifle.

Too slow.

Kessa shot her twice. The rest surrendered or died.

We had the vault.

Crab interfaced with the obelisk—downloaded the partial protocol, uploaded a worm.

But the countdown continued.

“Need the other keystones synchronized,” Crab chirped through speakers. “Or manual destruct.”

Jalen, bleeding from multiple wounds, keyed ship comms.

“Sparrow, we have Tartarus keystone. Status on others?”

Static.

Then Okoye’s voice, strained: “Nightshade is dark. Lost contact over Ophiuchus. Beta has a lead on the courier—stealth frigate designation *Wraith*. Gamma reports Epsilon Prime site is a decoy—empty.”

Kessa and I exchanged looks.

Three keystones still live.

Fifty-six hours.

We rigged the Tartarus obelisk with thermobaric charges—last resort—and exfiltrated.

Shuttle ride back to *Sparrow* was silent. Four survivors out of seven.

Jalen passed out from blood loss en route. Medics swarmed.

On the carrier, the mood was apocalyptic.

Okoye met us in the bay.

“Nightshade went silent mid-assault. Debris field confirms destruction. Ophiuchus keystone likely active.”

He brought up the map.

“*Wraith* sighted jumping toward the Core. Gamma team rerouting to intercept. We go for the final planetside target—new intel points to New Avalon, capital world. Underground facility beneath the Parliamentary Spire.”

I felt cold.

New Avalon. Population eight billion. Seat of Federation power.

If Revenant triggered there…

Kessa voiced it. “They hid the last keystone in the heart of civilization. Any assault risks civilian catastrophe.”

Okoye nodded. “Which is why we’re not assaulting. We’re infiltrating. Small team. You two, me, Crab, and two stealth specialists. We drop in a civilian shuttle, pose as diplomatic security. Get to the keystone, disable quietly.”

“When?”

“Wheels up in six hours. Window closes in forty-eight.”

No rest.

We prepped.

New Avalon approach was nerve-wracking—*Sparrow* stayed dark at the system edge, launching us in a nondescript courier vessel with forged transponder.

Planetary traffic control cleared us—Lantern codes still held in some databases.

We landed at the executive spaceport amid sleek liners and government skimmers.

Surface gravity felt heavy after weeks in space. Air smelled of rain and city.

New Avalon was beautiful—towering spires of crystal and steel, skybridges, parks suspended in the clouds. Eight billion souls going about their day, unaware a doomsday device ticked beneath their feet.

We moved in plainclothes—suits, diplomatic badges, concealed weapons.

Transport to the Parliamentary District: mag-lev train packed with commuters.

I stood beside Kessa, hand brushing hers.

She didn’t pull away.

The Spire rose like a spear into the stratosphere—seat of Federation governance, supposedly the most secure building in known space.

But Concordance had built it.

We had floor plans from old Lantern archives.

Keystone chamber: sublevel 40, beneath the plenary hall.

Access: service elevators, maintenance corridors.

Our cover: inspection team for “quantum security upgrades.”

Badges worked. Guards waved us through.

Deeper levels grew quieter. Fewer staff. More automation.

Sublevel 30: first checkpoint.

Retinal scan.

Crab, hidden in a tool case, spoofed it.

Green.

Sublevel 35: armed guards. Concordance loyalists in Federation uniforms.

They recognized stealth specialists’ faces from wanted bulletins.

Alarm.

Fight in the corridor—silenced weapons, close quarters.

We dropped them, but the alert went out.

Lockdown.

Bulkheads slamming.

We ran.

Sublevel 38: blast doors sealed.

Crab burned through—seconds ticking.

Sublevel 40: the chamber.

Massive vault door, guarded by ten in heavy armor. Automated turrets.

No subtlety left.

We charged.

Okoye took point—shield projector up, absorbing fire.

Stealth specialists flanked—grenades, EMP pulses.

Kessa and I pushed center.

Crab launched—missiles screaming.

Turrets down. Guards scattering.

We breached.

Inside: the final keystone.

Identical obelisk. Countdown: 36 hours.

But not unguarded.

A figure stood before it.

Tall. Cloaked. Face hidden.

Voice modulated.

“Predicted your vector. Admirable dedication.”

Kessa froze.

I knew why.

The voice was Varn’s.

But Varn was dead.

The figure lowered the hood.

Clone. Or upload. Or something worse.

Perfect replica—silver hair, winter eyes.

“Continuity,” it said. “Directorate insured against mortality.”

Okoye raised his rifle.

The Varn-thing smiled.

“Too late. The sequence is distributed. Even if you destroy this keystone, the others will complete.”

Crab chirped urgently—scanning.

Not true.

Partial lie.

The obelisk here was the master node.

Destroy it, and the network collapsed.

But it was rigged—anti-tamper fields.

Touch it wrong, and it triggered early.

Standoff.

Varn-thing held a deadman trigger.

“Step back. Or I end it now.”

Kessa stepped forward.

“You taught me to see the bigger picture,” she said. “This isn’t bigger. This is petty.”

Varn’s eyes narrowed.

“You were my finest failure.”

She smiled—cold.

“No. I was your last lesson.”

She moved.

Faster than human.

Blade out—vibro-knife from her sleeve.

Varn fired—pistol flash.

She twisted, took it in the shoulder.

Kept coming.

They clashed.

Okoye and I cleared the remaining guards.

Crab jacked into the obelisk fighting ICE.

Kessa and Varn fought like mirror images same school, same lethal grace.

She bled. He didn’t synthetic.

But she was angry.

Anger won.

She disarmed him, blade to throat.

“End it.”

He laughed.

“Never.”

He triggered the deadman.

Nothing happened.

Crab had severed it.

Kessa drove the blade home.

The Varn-thing spasmed, collapsed.

Crab chirped victory.

Master node offline.

Revenant sequence aborted.

We planted charges thermonuclear, clean.

Exfiltrated as alarms wailed planet-wide.

Shuttle launch under fire Federation interceptors scrambled, unsure who to shoot.

*Sparrow* decloaked, guns blazing cleared our path.

We docked.

Charges detonated far below sublevels collapsed, but surface intact.

New Avalon saved.

Sector saved.

We stood in the bay again.

Fewer.

Okoye clasped Kessa’s good shoulder.

“It’s over.”

She looked at me.

“Is it?”

Feeds showed mop-up operations. Arrests. Trials beginning.

But shadows remained.

Always would.

Later, in the observation lounge.

Stars quiet.

Kessa bandaged, pale, but alive.

She held out a data chit.

“Two tickets. Civilian liner to the Rim. Leaves in a week from neutral port.”

I took it.

“Vacation?”

“Real one this time. No canisters. No keystones.”

I smiled.

“Think we remember how to be civilians?”

“We’ll learn.”

She leaned against me.

Outside, the galaxy turned wounded, healing, vast.

For the first time in months,

we weren’t running.

We were going somewhere.

Together.

The war was over.

The peacewhatever shape it took

was just beginning.