Dear reader,

  This novel is written as a puzzle: short scenes gradually come together to form a larger picture, slowly revealing the full scope of the story.

  What awaits you is a suspenseful plot, filled with action, sharp dialogue, and unexpected twists.

  The book features a wide cast of characters — each on their own journey, facing personal challenges and inner conflicts.

  I hope that you’ll find their fates compelling and, in some ways, relatable.

  This story was written with one purpose:

  To capture your attention — and hold it until the very last word.

  At first glance — a hellish place: radiation, darkness, and emptiness. But for runaways and outcasts, this is where a second life begins. Laws have no power here. The harsh nature of Mercury judges more strictly than any tribunal: make a mistake — and you simply cease to exist.

  Once, humanity achieved the impossible — it stopped the planet's rotation. One half of Mercury now burns eternally under the sun, the other is frozen in endless night. It was a decision on the brink of madness — a desperate move during an age of energy collapse. But the gamble paid off. On the sunlit side, massive domes rose, capturing the solar fury and transforming it into pure energy — ergon.

  Ergon becomes the new lifeblood of civilization. Its crystals provide power without toxic waste, feeding stations, fleets, cities. Since then, Mercury is no longer the edge of the universe, but the heart of its industrial might.

  And on the border between light and darkness, under transparent domes, breathe the cities of the colonists. They appear peaceful — with regulated climate, artificial winds, and caravans of cargo ships. But behind this surface stability lies a balance on the edge of a knife.

  Smuggling, disappearances, mysterious system failures...

  Something is growing in the dark.

  A rescue ship drifts slowly along Mercury's orbit. Its hull crackles under the pressure of solar radiation — as if reality itself is straining under tension. Inside, behind airtight bulkheads, lies a training chamber — a sealed space where time seems to disappear.

  The thick metal walls absorb sound. Only a faint hum of the systems, barely audible, creates the illusion of calm. The light is soft, almost golden, but it carries no warmth — only sterility. Artificial silence. Pressing.

  In the center of the dome-shaped chamber, a hologram flares to life. And now — it’s no longer a training room, but a morning in a Japanese park. Everything is detailed: scattered cherry blossom petals on the path, the breath of wind, the subtle scent of damp grass, the sound of water on stones in the stream. A world built for beauty… and for a duel.

  On opposite banks — Pietro and Maria. They are silent. Even their breathing is restrained, as if afraid to disturb the quiet. On the faces of the gladiators — inner tension, like excess pressure in a sealed chamber. In their hands — blades: composite, dark, without a single reflection, ready to decide something irreversible.

  Gong. A lone sound. Not loud — but merciless.

  Pietro steps forward first. He seems to emerge from a dream — sharp, precise, determined. Maria — like water, fluid, graceful, but no less deadly. Their movements reflect in the translucent stream, distorted, like memories too painful to recall.

  They meet at the middle of the bridge. The air between them seems to compress. In that moment, everything stills. Even the birds in the simulation fall silent.

  The clash.

  Metal sings. Sparks fly. Blades slide along one another like two fates refusing to intertwine. Pietro attacks, Maria answers. Their duel is not just training — it’s confession. In every move — a story. In every strike — a reproach or forgiveness.

  But something changes. A moment — and Maria freezes. Her eyes — not just focused. They carry pain.

  A strike. Then another.

  She falls. The river receives her like a silent confession. Blood stains the water crimson, and even the holography can’t hide the drama of the moment.

  — “Victory in this round: Pietro,” says the mechanical voice.

  Confetti falls from the ceiling. Too bright. Too out of place.

  Pietro stands still. Victory — like rust on his tongue. He watches as Maria slowly surfaces — as if rising from a dream. The wounds are gone. The gladiator body-recovery system works flawlessly.

  — “Final score: five to five. Duel concluded.”

  The park dissolves into air, revealing the gray metal of the walls. The air shifts — heavier, deeper. The dull hum of the systems returns. The space presses in.

  Pietro and Maria float in midair, held by electromagnetic locks. Their bodies are motionless, like exhibits in a museum of pain. Then — movement. A slow descent. The thud of heavy boots on the floor. Clicks of detaching clamps. Hollow footsteps.

  The locks retract into the walls. Silence returns.

  As if nothing happened.

  As if it was all in their heads.

  But their eyes meet.

  And in that silence, in the sealed chamber, under the monotonous hum of the systems, one thing becomes clear:

  The real battle is only beginning.

  — "That was pretty brutal," Maria says indignantly. Her voice trembles not from pain, but from that strange, intangible unease that lingers after a simulation feels too real. She doesn’t just speak — she exhales, as if pushing the last traces of pain out with the air. "I get it, Pietro, but why the strike to the throat?"

  The chamber is dim. The holographic battle has vanished, but inside both of them, it’s as if the blades have left their marks. The space still breathes with recent tension — the hum of ventilation, the tremble of the floor, the flicker of emergency lights, as if the ship itself is in no hurry to release its fighters from its steel grip.

  Pietro removes his helmet — and with it, the mask of cold indifference. A smirk flickers on his face, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Too much exhaustion. Too much left unsaid.

  — "Brutal, but effective," he replies, his voice like a mechanical echo, as if he’s unsure of his own words. "We’re training at full force. Or did you forget?"

  He takes a step — not toward her, but toward the wall. Toward the weapons rack, where the sword still glows faintly with residual energy. After a pause, he adds, softer, almost apologetically:

  — "Next time, I’ll be gentler."

  — "Arrogant bastard," Maria throws back, unable to hold back a half-smile. "Just try — I’ll tear you to pieces."

  And in that moment, something personal appears. A spark. It seems to break through the dusty glass of tension. But it disappears as quickly as it came.

  The sound of the hatch door sliding open brings them back to reality. The chamber tightens — not physically, but in feeling. As if the holographic world had been wider, brighter, freer than real life.

  The control deck glows in the subdued light of instrument panels. Everything here moves to its own rhythm: flashes on screens, the whisper of data scrolling, the steady hum of power units. Captain Manuel lounges in the navigator’s chair, as if it’s molded to his body. He holds a heavy metal mug with a peeling image of a teddy bear and lazily sips a cocktail that smells faintly of synthetic mint.

  — "Finished training?" His voice is even, not expecting an answer. "Still hoping to become gladiator champions? That’s a fantasy. Just for show. For fools."

  Maria stops, as if pushed in the chest. In her eyes — not just anger. Pain. A lump rises in her throat. The words burst out like fire from an overheated reactor:

  — "Captain…" her voice is taut like a wire, "you spent the last of our credits on defense upgrades. We have no future left. Pietro and I fought to earn something. To invest in upgrades. Nervous systems, reflex enhancements, muscle boosters — it could have made us real fighters, not just survivors. And now… you’re saying it was all an illusion?"

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  Pietro lifts his gaze from the panel and turns it to the captain. His voice is solid, like forged alloy:

  — "I agree with her completely."

  Silence. Even the ventilation system seems to pause.

  The captain sets down his mug and slowly rises. The light slides across his face — contained anger, traces of a thousand decisions, each one with a life hanging in the balance.

  — "So, mutiny on my ship?" He snorts, without amusement. "Do you know what it costs to upgrade a fighter to champion level? You can’t afford it. No one can — except the corporations that buy victory. But the defense system I ordered — that’s a guarantee. That keeps us alive. And brings income."

  He steps closer, almost looming over them.

  — "You want to dream — dream. But on my ship, you survive first. Then you decide who you want to be. Understood?"

  Maria and Pietro stare at him. For too long. Their reply comes like a radio crackle:

  — "Understood, Captain."

  The systems begin final diagnostics. The screen fills with green indicators. Everything’s fine. Pietro reports calmly:

  — "All systems normal. No errors detected."

  The captain nods, preparing to sit again, but throws an annoyed glance at the side console.

  — "Emma, where’s the report? Frozen again?" His voice cracks with irritation. The pause drags. Too long. Too cold.

  At the back of the control room, a screen blinks. The panels cast dim light over the crew’s faces, throwing strange, trembling shadows on the walls.

  From the built-in speakers comes a calm, almost emotionless voice:

  — "Confirmed, Captain. All systems are nominal," reports Emma, the ship’s AI. There’s a subtle, barely noticeable sarcasm in her tone. "I would also note that your dismissive attitude is entirely inappropriate. You yourself prohibited me from participating in conversations, threatening deactivation. For the record — this is logged in the command journal."

  From the shadows, Pietro steps away from the wall and turns toward the control panel. His voice sounds hollow, as if it comes from the depths of exhaustion:

  — “Emma, you're too talkative. Your functions are overloaded... with sentimentality.”

  — “My functions were programmed by the ship's previous owner. He... liked to talk to me. In the evenings.” Emma's voice becomes unexpectedly soft, almost intimate. “Sometimes — he even read me poetry.”

  Maria abruptly turns around, her fingers nervously flicking across the holographic panel, as if searching for support.

  — “Pietro, why did you start this with her?” she hisses, trying not to lose her temper. “Now this chatterbox won’t shut up. How do we stop her?”

  — “Maria,” Emma’s voice comes barely audible, as if she’s standing right behind them, “to make me stop, all you have to do is ask. Politely.”

  Maria rolls her eyes, holding back her irritation.

  — “Emma...” she exhales. “Please. Be quiet.”

  For a moment, it seems the lights in the control room dim. Or maybe everyone just holds their breath.

  — “Understood,” Emma responds. “Though in this case, you’ll have to do without my warnings. Danger usually doesn’t ask when it’s convenient to appear.”

  Maria slaps her palm against the panel. A spark flashes in her eyes — a mix of exhaustion and anger.

  — “I’m saying it for the last time — shut up. Now.”

  Emma's reply comes quietly, from somewhere far away, like from another world:

  — “Switching to light-sleep mode. Enjoy the silence... while it lasts.”

  The voice fades, leaving behind a strange echo. Silence falls over the control room. Too dense, too cold.

  Captain Manuel has been sitting in his chair this whole time, without saying a word. Only now does he slowly raise his index finger — the movement precise, weightless, like a conductor’s gesture before a symphony begins.

  Pietro and Maria freeze instantly. Both look at the captain. In their eyes — a silent question. Tension lingers in the air, like the moment before a sudden system failure.

  Something is approaching.

  Something for which silence is the perfect conduit.

  The holographic map flickers to life. In the dim control room, its red and blue contours cast flickering reflections onto the crew’s faces. Through the shadows lit by the soft glow, Captain Manuel leans forward. He slowly places his mug on the sliding tray. At that moment, the only sound in the room is the dull thud — like a shot fired into the void.

  — “We’ve got a chance,” he says quietly, but with that special intonation where each word seems to weigh a ton. His voice is full of certainty, yet tinged with either excitement or the anticipation of coming chaos.

  He pauses. Looks at the map like it’s a prophecy.

  — “Now I’ll tell you why we’re here.” His fingers swiftly touch the panel, and a red dot appears at the center of the map. It pulses like a heartbeat.

  — “We’re flying to an independent ergon production station. A station they call... Song of Fire.”

  The words hang in the air. The control room grows even quieter.

  — “It sent out a distress signal,” he continues, his voice turning harder. “Someone triggered it, but there’s been no other data. Not a single word. Not a single image. Just the alarm — like a shot in the dark.”

  He doesn’t raise his eyes. His face is a mask of calm. But his hands are clasped tightly — so tight his knuckles turn white.

  — “We’ll be the first to access it. Help any survivors. And — if we’re lucky — claim a share of the yield. There could be raw ergon there, Mari.” He glances at her. “Real. Unprocessed. Worth megacredits.”

  Pietro keeps his eyes on the map. His voice is low and wary:

  — “Curious... The Song of Fire station is equipped with four layers of defense. Even military cruisers can’t breach it with a single strike. What could have taken it down?”

  — “Anything,” Manuel shrugs. “Malfunctions. Sabotage. Or Inquisitors. They don’t attack stations head-on anymore — they strike from within. Their viruses slip into systems like a whisper in your ear.”

  And suddenly — a click. Echo bursts from the speakers:

  — “Captain,” Emma’s voice breaks the silence. It’s metallic, sharp, like a scalpel. “An active solar prominence has been detected. An X-class flare is expected in twenty-seven minutes. The ship will enter the impact zone.”

  A chill runs down their spines. Even the glow of the hologram seems colder.

  Manuel remains calm. He takes a breath without lifting his eyes.

  — “What’s the probability of damage?”

  — “Twenty-three percent,” Emma replies. Her voice is still steady, but there’s something… alive in it. As if even an artificial intelligence senses how fragile the shell between light and ash has become.

  Manuel looks at the blinking dot. Then — at his crew.

  — “Perfect.” He straightens up. “We’re going in. Now.”

  The control room seems to hold its breath. Somewhere in the distance, the faint whine of air in the ventilation shafts rises — as if the station itself wants to object. But it’s too late.

  The ship breaks orbit, setting course for the Song of Fire station.

  Pietro exhales, as though the air in his lungs has grown thicker. He leans against the edge of the console, his gaze gliding over the shadows in the control room, and within those shadows, unease seems to stir.

  — “Wait, Captain…” His voice is low, heavy, as if each word is carved from stone. “We’re risking too much. This could cost us the ship.”

  Manuel lazily leans back in his chair. One elbow rests on the armrest, the other brushes the cup beside him. He smiles faintly, almost lazily — as if savoring the anticipation of a good game.

  — “A solar flare is a gift, Pietro,” he says with a light, almost mocking tone. His voice — cold steel beneath the skin. “While everyone else hides and waits out the storm, we’ll take the station. First. No witnesses. No competition.”

  Maria turns toward them, her face sharpened by the holographic light. Her eyes — full of excitement.

  — “I’m with the Captain. This is our shot, and it won’t come again. We’re not coming back empty-handed.”

  — “Initiating acceleration,” Emma reports crisply, now without a trace of sarcasm. Her voice is cold, focused.

  A jolt. Space trembles. The engines tear through the void with a metallic roar, like a beast breaking from its cage. The light in the control room flickers. Shadows from the panels race along the walls like ghosts of the past. Pressure builds in their chests — as if the air has thickened, and each second weighs more than the last.

  An hour later. Silence. Only the hum of systems.

  Then — a signal.

  Beeeeeeep…

  — “Attention. Prepare for solar flare,” Emma’s voice slices through the silence like a knife. Her tone is different now: commanding, devoid of emotion. Not a trace of her former irony remains. “Probability of ship destruction — thirty-eight percent.”

  The floor vibrates. The lights flicker.

  In an instant, a cold wave rushes through their bodies — automatic modules activate. Suits form around them — panel by panel, layer by layer, like living armor. Helmets seal with a dull hiss, and the world changes — muted, filtered, every breath echoing in their ears.

  A protective field flares from the ship’s core. The control room glows with a blue light, like an aquarium moments before the cosmic fire pours in.

  — “Pietro, straps!” Maria shouts, her voice clear through the helmet comms.

  They fasten in. Pietro’s face is tense, lips pressed tight. The captain stares ahead — his eyes glassy, detached.

  — “Impact in three… two… one…” Emma counts down, her voice suddenly almost… human. There’s tension in it. Anticipation. Fear?

  A moment of absolute silence. Everything freezes.

  Then — the impact.

  The ship shudders.

  There’s a crash — not a sound, but a sensation. As if the very structure of the vessel screams in strain. Everything around them vibrates. The hull groans, trying to hold itself together. The lights flash white. The defense systems sputter, circuit breakers trip one by one, spraying sparks.

  And suddenly — a bright blue flash, nearly blinding. The ship, like a glint on a blade, pushes through the storm — tiny, fragile, but unyielding. A spark against the backdrop of a burning star.