The absolute silence is a deceptive construct. Especially five and a half kilometers beneath the Earth's surface.
Silence, down here, did not mean the absence of sound. It meant that every noise had become so constant, so immense, that the human mind eventually surrendered to it. The planet itself never truly slept. Deep beneath continents drowned beneath poisoned oceans, beneath mountains whose roots had fused with ancient tectonic scars, the Earth breathed in slow, immeasurable rhythms.
Pressure existed everywhere.
Millions upon millions of tons of solid rock rested overhead like an eternal verdict. Above that, an abyss of pitch-black ocean pressed downward with relentless force, layer upon layer of crushing weight. Every wall, every corridor, every support pillar of the military main habitat existed in a permanent battle against a world determined to reclaim the empty space humanity had stolen from it.
The inhabitants no longer noticed it.
They had been born beneath the pressure.
Only newcomers ever described the sensation—the invisible hand constantly resting upon their shoulders, pressing against their lungs, whispering that one microscopic fracture would erase everything they had ever known.
The habitat endured.
It had endured for decades.
Perhaps longer than the nations that had built it.
Cold bluish neon flowed across endless obsidian-steel walls polished so perfectly they reflected distorted silhouettes instead of faces. Every corridor stretched with mathematical precision. Every junction repeated another. Every surface appeared untouched by time, despite carrying the burden of an entire civilization hidden beneath the dead planet.
There were no windows.
Except one.
The massive BR11 armored observation glass.
Several meters thick.
Nearly indestructible.
It overlooked nothing but infinity.
Beyond the transparent barrier waited absolute darkness.
No fish.
No drifting debris.
No trace of sunlight.
Only an endless black ocean swallowing every beam of artificial illumination after only a few meters, as if reality itself dissolved into nothingness.
Certus stood motionless before it.
His broad silhouette reflected faintly against the armored glass while the darkness beyond seemed to consume even his shadow.
In his hands rested a faded metallic badge.
Small.
Scratched.
Edges worn smooth by countless years.
Its once-proud insignia had nearly vanished beneath corrosion and old blood that no amount of cleaning had ever completely removed.
A relic.
An artifact from another civilization.
Another version of humanity.
His thumb slowly traced the engraved surface.
He had once been a First Lieutenant.
The memory surfaced with uncomfortable clarity.
There had been skies back then.
There had been borders.
Flags.
Anthems.
Maps divided by colors.
Children learned where they belonged before they learned how fragile belonging truly was.
He remembered endless fields turned into oceans of mud beneath armored convoys.
Rain mixing with ash.
The suffocating smell of burnt steel and melting composites.
The screams that eventually disappeared into artillery fire until memory could no longer separate one battle from another.
Faces returned only in fragments.
A medic laughing while stitching his own arm.
A pilot refusing evacuation.
Young recruits pretending bravery moments before reality dismantled every illusion they possessed.
Their names...
Their countries...
Their victories...
Gone.
Erased so completely that Certus could no longer remember which banner had flown above them.
Only emotions remained.
Duty.
Loss.
Obedience.
Regret.
History had collapsed beneath its own weight.
Entire governments vanished.
Languages blended.
Economies dissolved.
Borders became meaningless lines remembered only by archived satellites orbiting a poisoned sky.
The Last Armed Forces.
That was all history had allowed to survive.
No nationality.
No ideology.
No homeland.
Only soldiers.
Soldiers without flags.
Without countries.
Without permission to stop fighting.
His reflection stared back from the glass.
Older.
Harder.
Emptier.
Yet strangely lighter.
The badge felt heavier than any weapon he had ever carried.
A familiar sensation emerged from somewhere buried beneath decades of discipline.
The memory of arrival.
Smoke.
Collapsed aircraft.
The distant glow of burning horizons beneath violet storms.
The air had tasted like rust.
Thousands had wandered through the devastation searching for orders that would never come.
Searching for governments already reduced to forgotten radio frequencies.
Searching for purpose.
Then Yoruba had appeared.
Not like a commander.
Not like a politician.
Not like a survivor.
He had simply stood amidst the smoking wreckage as though the collapsing world had arranged itself around him.
His eyes reflected neither fire nor destruction.
They reflected stars.
An impossible calm surrounded him while chaos continued only meters away.
<Yoruba: Calm>
"You are looking for meaning, old warrior. You hold onto this scrap because you are afraid that without it, you are nothing. But that is exactly your strength. You are no longer an instrument of a state. You are the only weapon that no longer burns for ideologies. You are clean. You are the empty vessel I need."
<!'>
Those words had remained untouched by time.
Everything else had faded.
Cities.
Governments.
Memories.
Even grief.
But those sentences remained perfectly preserved inside Certus' mind.
He remembered Yoruba stepping closer.
The smoke had parted around him as if the wind itself refused to interfere.
A hand rested firmly upon Certus' shoulder.
Exactly where another insignia would later shine.
<Yoruba: Compassionate>
"You will be the guardian, Certus. Not for a country that no longer exists. But for the only ones who still count."
<!'>
Guardian.
Not conqueror.
Not executioner.
Guardian.
The distinction had changed everything.
Slowly, Certus exhaled.
His fingers loosened.
The metallic badge disappeared into the pocket of his uniform.
Not discarded.
Not forgotten.
Simply allowed to rest.
The past had earned its silence.
He turned away from the observation glass.
Immediately the endless darkness behind him disappeared, replaced by immaculate corridors stretching toward the incubation sectors.
The lighting became softer.
Almost warm.
Rows upon rows of transparent incubation chambers extended beyond the limits of vision.
Hundreds.
Perhaps thousands.
Perfectly aligned.
Each chamber emitted the quiet rhythm of life-support systems operating with unwavering precision.
Soft monitors pulsed like sleeping heartbeats.
Tiny ventilation valves released measured breaths.
Status lights blinked in synchronized patterns resembling artificial constellations.
Inside every incubator rested a child.
Humanity's future existed here before it had spoken its first word.
Tiny hands occasionally twitched.
Small chests rose and fell.
Dreamless sleep embraced every infant equally.
There were no uniforms.
No nationalities.
No inherited hatred.
Only possibility.
Certus walked slowly between the endless rows.
His boots echoed softly across polished alloy flooring.
Every step seemed almost disrespectful inside the sanctuary.
He had marched through burning capitals.
Across radioactive wastelands.
Over battlefields littered with machines and men alike.
Yet nowhere had he ever walked more carefully than here.
Eventually he stopped.
One chamber.
One child.
He never understood why his feet always led him here.
Vito.
The infant lay perfectly still.
His breathing remained almost unnaturally calm.
His face showed none of the restless expressions common among sleeping newborns.
No sudden movements.
No frightened reflexes.
Only complete stillness.
As though silence itself had chosen a human form.
Certus studied him for several long moments.
Others viewed the children differently.
Assets.
Resources.
Future operators.
Future commanders.
Future defenders.
Strategic necessity.
Population continuity.
Calculated probability.
He understood those perspectives.
He simply refused to adopt them.
Looking through the transparent barrier, he saw something else.
Something no military report could quantify.
A future untouched by the graves behind him.
A life that had not yet inherited history's failures.
The possibility that someone might someday stand beneath an open sky without remembering how the old world had died.
For that possibility alone...
Every sacrifice had been worthwhile.
A quiet voice emerged behind him.
Barely louder than the ventilation systems.
"They are yours now, Supreme Commander."
<!'>
Certus did not flinch.
He recognized the voice instantly.
He turned.
Standing beside him was Vito.
Not the sleeping infant.
The man.
Time had completed its silent work.
The child had become an adult.
His command uniform carried the unmistakable authority of leadership without requiring decoration to prove it. Heavy armored fabric rested naturally upon his shoulders, while the insignia of command reflected the cold illumination surrounding them.
His posture appeared effortless.
Almost relaxed.
There was no need to display power.
It already existed.
Invisible.
Contained.
Waiting.
He stepped beside Certus without another word.
The older soldier and the man destined to reshape humanity's genetic future stood shoulder to shoulder before the incubator.
Neither spoke immediately.
Words seemed unnecessary.
Together they observed the sleeping generation resting behind flawless glass.
An entire civilization waiting for its first breath.
Vito slowly lifted one hand.
His fingertips rested gently against the cold transparent surface separating present from future.
His expression remained unreadable.
Almost indifferent.
Almost bored.
Anyone seeing him for only a moment might mistake his silence for emotional distance.
They would be wrong.
His eyes betrayed everything.
Behind them burned impossible conviction.
Controlled.
Measured.
Uncompromising.
A force that neither hesitation nor fear had ever managed to extinguish.
"Let them sleep, Certus."
<!'>
His voice remained almost gentle.
Soft enough that it blended with the rhythmic pulse of the incubation systems.
"When they wake up, the work begins."
<!'>
Another pause settled naturally between them.
The countless sleeping children continued breathing in perfect rhythm.
Artificial stars blinked above every chamber.
The habitat itself seemed to listen.
"And then we will see if this world is worth preserving."
<!'>
Certus looked once more at the infant beyond the glass.
Then at the man standing beside him.
Past.
Present.
Future.
All existing within the same silent room.
He answered only with a single nod.
Nothing more needed to be spoken.
The age of flags had ended.
The age of Vito had begun.