The Train Station – Wellington, April 10th, 2040. 08:15 Local Time

  Built in the 1930s, Wellington Railway Station was an edifice that stood as equal parts iconic and functional, a bastion of the city’s daily grind. Its grand brick construction loomed over Lambton Quay, a gateway funnelling thousands into the heart of the capital every morning.

  On platform three, the six-car commuter train from Waikanae hissed to a stop, its brakes releasing a tired sigh. The doors slid open, spilling out a wave of commuters—a blur of office workers, students, and tradesmen threading through the station’s cavernous halls. Some paused at Trax Café, desperate for caffeine before the day’s onslaught; others made a beeline for McDonald’s, craving a greasy breakfast to soak up last night’s excesses. A few ducked into New World Metro, grimacing at the prices but resigned to grabbing a pre-packaged sandwich and a bruised apple for lunch.

  Nathan Liu had no time for such things. His thoughts were murky, his body sluggish, and his bladder screaming. His nights had been long lately—too long. His mind clouded with fatigue, he had already downed three cups of coffee before even stepping onto the train in Mana. Forty-five minutes on the warm, swaying carriages had made sure of one thing—he needed the bathroom, badly.

  He pushed through the morning throng toward the station restrooms, unsurprised to find them already busy. After all, this was routine—commuter trains weren’t built for comfort, and without onboard facilities, the station restrooms always saw a post-arrival rush. Space was tight, and being jostled was normal.

  What wasn’t normal was when someone spoke to you while doing it.

  “You haven’t been picking up your phone, Nathan.” The voice was low, edged with warning. “Mr. Sun is getting impatient. You should call home. Immediately.”

  Nathan froze. A sharp jolt of adrenaline shot through his system.

  He spun instinctively, scanning the space, his pulse hammering in his ears. Nothing. No one obvious. A couple of Wellington Boys’ High students loitered near the urinals, cracking jokes and giggling in their high pitched voices, in the way only teenagers do. They were too young, too carefree to be his messenger.

  The voice had come from nowhere. No obvious speaker. No second glance. Just a message, dropped like a blade between his ribs. Nathan forced himself to breathe, his hands moving automatically as he washed them. Act normal. Get out. Now.

  MSS had never contacted him so directly before. Never this boldly. If they could get this close to him without him noticing, it meant only one thing. He was running out of time.

  Stepping out into the cool morning air, the paranoia dug its claws in deeper. Every street he walked towards the halls of Parliament, every passerby he brushed shoulders with—were they watching him? Tracking him? The crossing lights from Bunny Street across Lambton Quay to the Beehive grounds seemed to take forever, and the longer he waited the more people started to surround him. By the time he closed the door to his office behind him, leaning against it to catch his breath and try to bring his heart rate down, he was a wreck.

  Why had they approached him, were they assessing his usefulness? Was he still useful?

  He had been so sure. Just last week, he had reassured Beijing that New Zealand’s aircraft carrier was still undergoing maintenance in dry dock at the Oceania yard in Whangarei. He had even sent them pictures—clear, indisputable proof.

  And yet, just a few days ago the news had broken: the carrier wasn’t in dry dock—it had been at sea for days. And now one the Chinese carriers was at the bottom of the ocean.

  A failure like that? It wasn’t just a mistake. It was a death sentence.

  Nathan’s mind raced. He needed to think. To act. But the fear was an iron grip around his chest. If Sun wanted him dead, he would be. Right? He swallowed hard. Surely?

  Was he still useful? Or just… unfinished business?

  ***

  Sinclair’s Office, Pipitea Street – Wellington, April 10th, 2040. 09:15 Local Time

  “How did it go?” Sinclair asked without looking up, flipping through the latest intelligence brief on his desk.

  “Like a charm.” The man who had just walked in dropped into the chair across from him, stretching out his legs. “Liu is scared shitless. I guarantee he’s rethinking his life choices right about now.”

  Sinclair finally looked up, giving the man a knowing smirk. Paul Henderson—ex-SAS, former cop, and now his most trusted field operative. Too old for the Regiment, too experienced to waste behind a desk, Henderson had found a new purpose in the SIS. He was the kind of man who could slip a knife between someone’s ribs just as easily as he could buy them a beer and make them think they were old friends. Counterterrorism and counterespionage were different branches of the same tree, and Henderson was an expert at both.

  “You got close?” Sinclair asked, knowing the answer but wanting to hear it anyway.

  Henderson snorted. “Close enough to whisper in his ear. Watched him damn near piss himself.” He leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “He was already on edge before I said a word. You could see it—he’s been running scenarios in his head, trying to figure out if he’s still useful to his bosses or if he’s just a loose end.”

  Sinclair nodded, satisfied. “Good. That means he’ll make a move soon. Either he tries to reach out to Beijing, or he runs.”

  “And either way,” Henderson said, “we nail him.”

  Sinclair had had Nathan Liu— ‘Iron Lotus’—under surveillance for months. It had been his idea to feed the shadow cabinet the leaked file about Tangaroa’s dry dock status, knowing full well that Liu, as shadow defence minister, would leak it straight to Beijing. The hardest part had been keeping the ship’s departure out of the media. It meant that the anti-nuclear protesters and their incessant social media presence had to be dealt with, but that was a small price to pay. Honestly, It was easier to fake a maintenance delay in the halls of government, than to hide an entire aircraft carrier slipping out of port. But they’d managed. And now one of China’s prized carriers was sitting at the bottom of the ocean.

  Liu had no idea he’d been played.

  “He’ll try to contact someone,” Sinclair mused. “His handler, a dead drop, maybe even an embassy staffer. We have his phone and emails monitored, but I want eyes on him at all times. If he so much as takes an extra-long breath, I want to know about it.”

  Henderson cracked his knuckles. “Already taken care of. We’ve got two teams watching him—one outside Parliament, another floating near his apartment. He’s jumpy, but he hasn’t made a move yet.”

  Sinclair tapped his pen against the desk. “He will. He’s smart enough to know he’s in trouble, but not smart enough to know just how deep.” He leaned back in his chair. “The real question is, when he realizes he’s out of options, does he double down, run, or does he try to cut a deal?”

  Henderson grinned, a wolfish, knowing smile. “I’ll put money on him folding. Rats don’t go down with the ship, they scurry for the nearest hole.”

  Sinclair chuckled. “Let’s hope so. If he does, we’ll be there to welcome him with open arms.”

  ***

  HMNZS Franz Josef – Tasman Sea, April 2040.

  The icy dawn light filtered through the grey overcast, casting a muted glow across the restless waters of the Tasman Sea. HMNZS Franz Josef, one of the Royal New Zealand Navy’s two Glacier-class survey and undersea warfare support ships, cut through the rolling swells with quiet determination. The salt-streaked hull bore the marks of weeks at sea, a testament to the relentless pace of its mission.

  Alongside its sister ship, HMNZS Fox, the Franz Josef had been engaged in a tireless effort—laying down a vast, interwoven network of SOSUS cables, a silent sentinel beneath the waves. The network now stretched like a web from island to island, a hidden watchful presence deep below the ocean’s surface, linking the scattered atolls and volcanic peaks of the southern Pacific.

  The operation had been meticulous, methodical. At each relay point, divers and remote submersibles descended into the cold depths, securing the sensor-laden cables along the seafloor, ensuring every segment of the system functioned as an unbroken chain of underwater ears. Data nodes, carefully positioned in deep trenches and continental shelf drop-offs, fed into the broader intelligence framework—watching, listening.

  Now, every strategic island—every remote outpost, from the Solomons to Tonga, from New Caledonia to the Chathams—was connected. A vast, unseen perimeter stretched across the Pacific, a silent guardian against the approaching storm.

  ***

  HMNZS Irirangi – Waiouru, New Zealand April 15th, 2040 – 12:47 Local Time

  The operations centre of HMNZS Irirangi hummed with the low murmur of routine activity. Banks of monitors bathed the room in a cold glow, displaying real-time satellite feeds, encrypted communications, and intelligence readouts. The air carried the faint scent of stale coffee and ozone from overworked electronics—a scent that had become familiar to the station’s crew.

  The first warning that something was drastically wrong, came as a sharp screeching alarm echoed through the chamber. Screens started flickering, feeds stuttering, then vanishing into darkness one by one.

  Chief Petty Officer Maia Collins leaned forward, her brow furrowing. A chill ran down her spine.

  “What the hell?” she blurted, her voice tight with alarm. Her fingers flew across the console, bringing up diagnostic readouts. “Satellites are going dark all over the place. Boss, you better take a look at this!”

  Lieutenant Commander Rhys Simmons, the station supervisor, turned from his workstation, crossing the room in quick strides. "What is it?" he demanded, his tone sharp but measured.

  Collins didn't need to explain—he could see it for himself. She was cycling through the satellite feeds at a frantic pace, each one replaced by a void of static. Then she stopped.

  One final feed remained active, the image trembling as the satellite adjusted its trajectory. They could see it—an object streaking toward them, a faint glow against the backdrop of space. Rocket-propelled. Fast.

  A Chinese ASAT.

  "Jesus," Simmons muttered. They watched, transfixed, as the missile closed the gap. A final transmission flickered through—then impact and the screen went immediately black. For a moment it was like waking up in a darkened room, without the sense of sight, the silence was deafening.

  Across the room, other operators were scrambling to make sense of the chaos. For now, the only operators not affected, were the sonar operators plugged into the SOSUS networks. Simmons turned, scanning the status boards. The pattern was clear as day—Rocket Lab satellites were being systematically wiped out across the board.

  He glanced at the classified link to Pine Gap. Their Australian counterparts were witnessing the same carnage, their own feeds dying. Across the Pacific, at the sprawling intelligence complexes in the United States and Japan, analysts were already pivoting, their satellites safe—for now—in higher orbits.

  But how long would that last?

  Collins exhaled sharply, trying to control the rising panic. “Sir, if they keep this up, we’ll be blind within the hour.”

  Simmons pressed his lips into a thin line. The Americans had offered to share their intelligence, but he knew what that really meant—they would show what they wanted New Zealand to see. A sanitized view of the battlespace, controlled, filtered, and edited for their own strategic interests.

  "Get me Wellington," he said finally, his voice grim. "This doesn’t just affect us, and we can't afford to fight a war in the dark."

  ***

  Sinclair’s Office, Pipitea Street – Wellington, April 16th, 2040 – 12:15 Local Time

  The world could be going to hell, and for all Charles Sinclair knew, it probably was.

  He sat in his dimly lit office, fingers steepled beneath his chin, staring at a bank of dead screens. The monitors that once fed him a steady stream of intelligence—satellite feeds, intercepted transmissions, surveillance logs—were now less than useless. They were blank and he was blind, deaf and in this instance, very much dumb.

  The Chinese had finally done it. They had finally succeeded where years of cyber warfare had failed. The complete destruction of New Zealand’s satellite network had severed a vital artery of communication, throwing the country into chaos. The civilian sector was reeling, businesses haemorrhaging money, financial markets in freefall.

  Hospitals weren’t receiving their ordered medicines and their cloud based reporting systems, which relied on secure satellite networks to transfer information to and from the central hub in Whanganui, were crashing left and right. Civil defence and emergency services communications went down, causing fires and accidents to go unattended.

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  Even the Supermarket chains were hit. They were running out of stock at a rapid pace, made even worse by the panic buying, the likes of which hadn’t been seen since the pandemic of 2019.

  The transport network was a mess, GPS-dependent systems grinding to a halt, a freight train hauling crucial steel supplies to the Oceania yard in Nelson had derailed when it missed a preprogrammed slow down point and took a corner too fast. Not only would this slow down production at the shipyard, but it would also take weeks to clear the wreck and the damage.

  And the military? They weren’t flying totally blind, they still had early warning from the SOSUS net, but their operations had been scaled down until a workaround had been found. Any operations about to get under way, or even just in the planning stage had been put on hold. That included relief convoys.

  This was no longer just a national security crisis. It was economic warfare and a national emergency.

  And yet, for Sinclair, the most immediate concern wasn’t the broader catastrophe unfolding across New Zealand. It was the ghost in the machine—the one enemy he had spent the last couple of years trying to control, only to now lose sight of him. Nathan Liu.

  Without satellite coverage, Sinclair’s ability to monitor Liu’s network had evaporated. The man could be transmitting anything—intelligence drops, orders, warnings to Beijing—and he wouldn’t have a damn clue. That single thought burned like acid in his gut. The idea that Liu, after all this time, could be making moves with impunity under his very nose was intolerable.

  The Prime Minister hadn’t been pleased when he briefed her earlier. That was putting it mildly. Miriama Kahu had barely restrained her fury, her frustration evident in every clipped word and tightened jaw muscle. ‘Fix it, Charles.’ That was the essence of her message. But how? Without satellites, without real-time signals intelligence, Sinclair was navigating in the dark.

  There was only one option left: he had to turn up the heat.

  If he couldn’t watch Liu directly, he’d make the man so paranoid that he wouldn’t dare move. He’d up the tempo with Henderson, keep Liu on edge, make him second-guess every interaction, every shadow at his back. If Liu was forced into a misstep, that might be the only opening left.

  Sinclair exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders before reaching for his encrypted phone.

  “Get Henderson,” he murmured into the receiver.

  This was a game of patience and pressure. And now, more than ever, the stakes were lethal

  ***

  RocketLabs Launch Facility, Mahia Peninsula - New Zealand, April 30th, 2040. 21:15 LT

  Trucks had been rolling in day and night for the past week, their engines growling as they delivered precision-engineered components from across the country. The satellite bodies were assembled on-site, but the heart of the machines—their circuitry and radiation-hardened processors—had come from Kōkako Microsystems Ltd in Whanganui. Other critical components arrived from Honeywell and RTX in Palmerston North, but the final, most crucial piece of the puzzle had just made its way down from Aotearoa Defence Optics' manufacturing plant in Auckland: the HELIOS-TWK—or Te Whetū Kaha, meaning "Strong Star"—Mk2 units.

  These next-generation laser payloads were smaller, more energy-efficient, and powered by lithium-ion batteries charged by solar arrays, ensuring longer operational endurance in orbit. With their arrival, the assembly teams could finally complete their work.

  Inside the satellite prep and clean room, a controlled storm of activity had been raging all week. Engineers in sterile white coveralls worked with surgical precision, piecing together the intricate systems that would restore New Zealand’s vision in space. Every component had been meticulously tested, recalibrated, and rechecked, failure was not an option. Now, with the laser units being carefully installed, the first launch was locked in for the following day.

  And this was only the beginning. Over the coming month, a relentless launch schedule would see an entire constellation of replacements sent into orbit. First up were the purpose-built RL-101 Guardian Satellites, designed to deter and counter future attacks. After that, fresh waves of RL-01 Communications and RL-10 Surveillance Satellites would take their place, rebuilding the network that had been shattered by the latest round of Chinese and Soviet anti-satellite strikes.

  New Zealand had been left blind, but not for long. By the time this was over, they wouldn’t just see again—they’d be watching.

  ***

  Low Earth Orbit, Southern Hemisphere – Earth, June 15th, 2040. 21:15 Local Time

  For two weeks, the RL-101 Guardian Satellites had drifted into position, adjusting their orbits with slow, deliberate precision. To any observer, they were nothing more than ordinary, solar-powered communications satellites, unremarkable specks in the vastness of space. But beneath their unassuming exteriors lay an almighty secret.

  Hot on their heels came the RL-01 Communications and RL-10 Surveillance Satellites, launched in rapid succession from both the Mahia and Christchurch spaceports. Each one was a vital node in New Zealand’s effort to restore its shattered orbital network—a network the Chinese and Russians were determined to keep dead.

  The enemy didn’t hesitate.

  As soon as the satellites began relaying data back to Earth, the response was swift and merciless. The Chinese and the Russians were confident that the New Zealanders had just wasted their time, setting their ASATs off to do their work. Killer-satellites—sleek, autonomous predators armed with kinetic weapons—closed in. Their thrusters fired in controlled bursts as they maneuvered into attack vectors, silent assassins in the void.

  It should have gone exactly the same as last time…. Only it didn’t.

  The moment the hostile satellites breached their engagement radius, the RL-101 Guardians awoke. Proximity alarms flared, hidden targeting systems roared to life, and within seconds, the battlefield above Earth was transformed into something out of a science fiction epic.

  Scarlet beams of coherent light lanced out from the Guardians, cutting through the darkness with terrifying speed. The first Russian killer-sat barely had time to react before it was sliced clean in half, its remains tumbling away in a spiralling cloud of molten debris. The second tried to evade, firing its thrusters in a desperate attempt to reposition—but it never had a chance. Another precise, searing blast punched through its frame, rupturing its fuel reserves in an instant.

  The weapons were not strong enough, nor did they have the range to hit land targets. That was one of the trade-offs for the ability to make them smaller, but they would perform the guardian job very well. They would keep going until they either burned themselves out or they were turned off.

  Across the Southern Hemisphere, in radar stations, control centres, and war rooms, analysts and military officers watched in stunned silence as the ambush unfolded. The Chinese and Russian satellites had walked straight into a trap.

  For every New Zealand communications and surveillance satellite in orbit, there was a Guardian satellite right next to it. One by one, every ASAT the enemy sent was obliterated, their remnants drifting lifelessly into the void.

  New Zealand had not just restored its eyes in the sky—it had turned them into weapons. And this time, they would never be blind again

  And now, the enemy knew it.

  ***

  HMNZS Irirangi – Waiouru, New Zealand. June 15th, 2040 – 12:47 Local Time

  “We’re back up and running, Boss.” Chief Petty Officer Maia Collins’ voice carried a rare blend of relief and exhilaration, the tension that had gripped the room for weeks finally beginning to break. She leaned forward, her fingers dancing across the console as fresh data streams populated the monitors before her. “We have eyes on the Pacific again!”

  For a heartbeat, the control centre remained silent—then, like a dam bursting, a wave of cheers, exclamations, and relieved laughter rippled through the room. Officers and technicians exchanged grins and exhausted nods, some even clapping each other on the back. It was as if a release valve had finally been loosened, allowing the pent-up anxiety of the past month to begin bleeding away.

  For weeks, they had been blind, cut off from the vast expanse of ocean they were meant to guard. The Chinese and Russian anti-satellite strikes had crippled their intelligence network, leaving them groping in the dark, forced to rely on outdated reports and fragmented signals. Every day had been a battle against uncertainty, against the gnawing fear that an unseen threat was creeping toward them, ready to strike.

  But now? Now, the screens came alive with real-time surveillance feeds, tracking ships, aircraft, and distant storm systems with pinpoint accuracy. The Pacific was no longer a black void—it was once again theirs to watch, to protect, to defend.

  Lieutenant Commander Rhys Simmons, standing at the centre of the room, exhaled slowly, his shoulders easing for the first time in weeks. He cast a glance at the large tactical display, where the familiar grid of the NZDF’s reconnaissance net flickered back into being. The enemy had tried to keep them in the dark.

  They had failed.

  “Good work, everyone,” he said, voice steady but carrying an unmistakable edge of pride. “Let’s get back to it.”

  ***

  Sinclair’s Office, Pipitea Street – Wellington. June 15th, 2040 – 13:15 Local Time

  For the past month, Sinclair had been doing things the old-school way. Not quite ticker tape and typewriters, but damn near close. The digital void left by the satellite blackout had forced his department to rely on hand-delivered reports, intercepted radio chatter, and old-fashioned boots-on-the-ground surveillance.

  Now, sitting at his desk, he flipped through the latest report from Henderson’s team.

  Nathan Liu was still being tailed, ever since the train station incident, he had taken to driving himself into work rather than trusting public transport. Every movement was logged, analysed, dissected—and last night, that surveillance had finally paid off.

  Liu had been followed to the underground food market in the Left Bank Carpark on Victoria Street. To any casual observer, he was just another bureaucrat sampling the street food, blending in with the late-night crowd. But Henderson’s men were trained to spot what didn’t belong.

  They saw the handoff.

  Two operatives stayed with Liu, tracking his every move. The other two tailed the courier, the poor bastard who had just taken possession of whatever Liu had passed along.

  There hadn’t been time to construct a cleaner plan. The team had improvised—cornering him in a dark alleyway, making it look like a brutal mugging. They made sure to take everything—his phone, his wallet, any data storage he carried. But, they had been careful. He was beaten, but not too badly. Well and truly roughed up, but still very much alive.

  Before leaving, they had even called an ambulance. Liu needed to think this was just random street crime.

  The contents of the recovered note had been both chilling and encouraging.

  The good news—Liu had been struggling to send information. The satellite blackout had cut him off from his usual network. That meant New Zealand’s countermeasures had worked.

  The bad news? The note contained a backdoor access code—the kind that could grant someone full, unrestricted entry into the Guardian satellite network.

  Sinclair’s gut turned to ice.

  He didn’t hesitate. He picked up the phone, issued the order, and within minutes, every backdoor code in the system was changed. The moment the Guardian satellites went online, protecting their brothers, so that their feeds buzzed to life, Sinclair finally allowed himself a breath.

  His worst fears had been staved off—for now.

  Confirmation of Liu’s communication woes came almost immediately. Within minutes, his office printer began spewing out intercepted transmissions, the same urgent messages repeating over and over, pouring out faster than he could shut it down.

  Sinclair allowed himself a small, satisfied smirk.

  Liu had just been blindsided.

  He considered reprimanding Henderson’s team for their heavy-handed approach—but in this case, they had likely saved countless lives, time and money. Instead, he simply marked the file as closed—a silent acknowledgment of a job well done.

  ***

  Zhongnanhai Complex – Beijing. June 15th, 2040 – 05:15 Local Time

  The sky beyond the ornate windows was a deep, bruised black. A mid-summer storm churned on the horizon, flickers of distant lightning flashing against the ink-dark sky. The air was cool for June, a sharp wind hissing through the imperial gardens outside.

  Inside, despite the fire roaring in the grand marble fireplace, the temperature in the private anteroom was just as frigid as the mood.

  “This is intolerable!”

  The enraged voice of CCP President Xiang Wei shattered the uneasy silence. His fist slammed against the lacquered table, rattling porcelain teacups and sending a tremor through the room. His eyes, dark and burning with fury, locked onto the man sitting before him.

  “Once again, you have failed us, Director!”

  Across from him, Sun Kai, Director of the Ministry of State Security, remained unmoved, though he felt the heat of Wei’s gaze like a brand. He was seated in a plush armchair, body composed, his hands resting lightly on his lap. Unlike the others in the room, he refused to shrink beneath the weight of the President’s wrath.

  Two other ministers occupied the remaining seats. Liang Qiang, Minister of Defence, wore his usual mask of forced calm, though there was a stiffness to his posture—a man bracing for impact. Beside him, Wen Lian, Minister of Science, was failing to disguise her anxiety. Her fingers were white knuckled against the fabric of her tunic, her breath coming in short, uneven bursts. Sun, a veteran of counterintelligence, recognized the signs immediately. Fear.

  And with good reason.

  Wei’s eyes cut to Liang first.

  “Explain to me how this happened!” he demanded, voice laced with venom, slamming the report from the PLA Strategic Support Force, down on the table. “YOU, Liang! You assured me that our satellite weapons would cripple them! You said their networks would be ash, their intelligence capabilities reduced to nothing! And yet here we are! Our own systems are failing, while theirs remain untouched!”

  Liang exhaled slowly, choosing his words with caution. “Comrade President, with respect, we were aware that their directed-energy weapons program was advancing, but—”

  “But what?” Wei sneered.

  Liang hesitated, then pressed on.

  “We did not anticipate they had miniaturized their weapons enough to be mounted on satellites. It was an unforeseen—”

  “Unforeseen what!?” Wei spat, cutting him off. “Surprise?! Liang, this is not a child’s birthday party! I do not like surprises!”

  “Comrade President, I—”

  “Silence!” Wei snapped. “I’ll deal with you later.”

  He turned his fury to Sun Kai.

  “YOU! Director Sun! Why did we not know about this?”

  Sun held his gaze, his voice level.

  “It appears, Comrade President, that the New Zealand SIS has become highly effective at removing our assets. Our intelligence network within their ranks has been… severely compromised. Iron Lotus is one of the few remaining operatives who has managed to evade detection.”

  Sun let that sink in before delivering the final blow.

  “However, with our destruction of their satellite network, we inadvertently cut off his transmissions as well. That was an… unintended side effect.”

  The words hung in the air like a blade.

  Wei’s knuckles whitened around the armrest of his chair.

  “Unforeseen… surprises… side effects…” His voice was low now, but no less deadly. “Your words are chosen with great diplomacy, gentlemen. But they are beginning to annoy me.”

  Silence.

  Then, the President’s glare shifted to Wen Lian.

  “And you!” Wei barked. “Why are their lasers cutting our ships in half, while ours can barely scratch paint? Why are we still in preschool, while they are light-years ahead of us?!”

  The Science Minister froze.

  Her mouth opened, then closed. Beads of sweat gathered at her hairline. She was not a politician, nor a soldier. She was a scientist—a woman of calculations, not confrontations.

  Sun, watching, took pity. He reached for the crystal water pitcher and poured a glass, sliding it toward her with a steady hand.

  She took it with trembling fingers, a small thank you, in the quick look she gave him.

  “Ah… Comrade President… um… I…” Her voice faltered. She swallowed hard on a sip of water and forced herself to answer.

  “It’s the power generation versus the lenses, Comrade President,” she managed at last. “We’ve tried scaling up our lasers, but the lenses—our key component—can’t handle the strain. No matter what we do, the more power we push through, the quicker the optics burn out. We can’t sustain more than a 50-kilowatt output before they fail. It’s a critical design flaw. We simply can’t make the lenses any better, we can’t sustain more than a 50-kilowatt output before the optics shatter or the system overloads.”

  She inhaled sharply before delivering the worst of it.

  “Their weapons are operating at 500 kilowatts or more, with their lenses somehow able to endure. We’re decades behind in that area.”

  The silence that followed was suffocating.

  Wei’s face darkened, his breathing heavy. “And what are you doing about it?”

  “We—we are doing everything we can, Comrade President,” Wen stammered. “We have… new material sources for the lenses, prototypes that might withstand 200 kilowatts—but they are still in testing. If successful, it will be… months before we can move to full production.”

  Wei’s expression twisted in fury.

  “Months, Wen?” he seethed.

  The Science Minister visibly deflated.

  “…Maybe years, Comrade President.”

  The room erupted.

  “Get out!” Wei roared, his voice shaking the walls. “And do not return until you have real answers!”

  Wen bolted from the chair, nearly tripping in her haste to flee.

  Sun exhaled quietly, watching her disappear beyond the heavy doors. He clenched his jaw. Her treatment had been uncalled for. But in all honesty… she was relieved to be out of that room.

  Wei sat back, fingers pressed together, his rage simmering into something colder… deadlier.

  “This little thorn in our side is humiliating us,” he hissed. “They are making a mockery of the great Chinese nation.” His gaze swept across the remaining men. “And what are we doing about it?”