The comm went dead. — The scene shifted abruptly, from the dark, blood-soaked lab to the pristine sterility of a governnt chamber. Rows of officials sat in grim silence, their faces pale as the chairwoman addressed them. "We are severing all ties with Cradle Planet," she declared.
"Effective imdiately, no communication, no travel, no aid. This is the only way to protect Pri Planet from the infection." A murmur of agreent rippled through the room, though so faces remained tense.
The holographic display in the center of the table flickered to life, showing fragnted images: the writhing infected, the towering organic structures, and the sheer devastation that had unfolded in re weeks. "We will tell the public that Cradle Planet's leadership grew hostile and cut communication. That they turned inward. The truth of the Aegis Virus dies with us," the chairwoman said coldly.
The council chamber fell silent, the weight of her words pressing on each official. So shifted uncomfortably in their seats, while others nodded grimly.
Holographic displays continued to flicker overhead, casting pale blue light onto their faces. Fractured images of Cradle Planet's devastation remained projected: flaming cities, writhing infected, and fractured satellite images of unrecognizable terrain.
"To ensure compliance, we'll need to bury all outgoing records," another official stated. His voice wavered slightly, but he quickly masked it. "Military reports, civilian communication logs, recon data—it all has to disappear. Anything that's leaked could dismantle the narrative." "Our people will handle the recon logs," another voice added.
"But what about the families? The ones still petitioning for answers?" The chairwoman leaned forward, her expression unmoving. "There are no families. Not anymore." She gestured toward the images on the display. "We fra it as a catastrophic nuclear fallout.
Cradle Planet's leadership engaged in a destructive civil war that annihilated the population. The fallout is too dangerous for recovery operations, and any attempt to interfere risks further devastation. That's the narrative we control." The younger officials exchanged uneasy glances. "And if soone uncovers discrepancies in the reports?" one asked, his voice tentative.
The chairwoman's gaze hardened. "They won't. Every record, every broadcast, every image is curated to reinforce the truth we present. Pri Planet must remain unified in its understanding that Cradle is lost—entirely, irreversibly.
There can be no questions." Another council mber shifted in his seat. "What about survivors? What if soone claims to have escaped?" The chairwoman's lips thinned.
"Then they are silenced. Quietly. This is bigger than individual stories or personal losses. The safety of Pri Planet depends on absolute control of this narrative." A shadow of doubt flickered across a few faces, but no one dared to voice dissent. The stakes were too high, and hesitation ant failure.
"Our focus now shifts to the future," the chairwoman continued. "Redirect public attention to dostic growth. Infrastructure advancents, new colony initiatives, space exploration. Pri Planet must look forward, not back. The story of Cradle Planet ends here."
The eting was nearing its end when the first alert ca in. A chi echoed through the chamber, followed by a sharp, clinical voice over the intercom. "Priority One. This is an urgent broadcast from Pri Astronomical Research Station. All council mbers are advised to remain in session.
Monitoring anomalies in planetary orbit." The chairwoman's brow furrowed. "What anomalies?" she asked sharply. A hologram in the center of the room flickered, replacing the grim imagery of Cradle Planet with a live feed of the night sky. At first, there was nothing but darkness speckled with stars.
Then, faintly, a shadow erged. "What am I looking at?" she demanded. The hologram adjusted, zooming in to focus on the object. It was massive, impossibly black, and unnervingly smooth. It hung in the sky like an unblinking eye, its edges shimring faintly as if it were not entirely solid.
Energy signatures pulsed faintly from its surface, unreadable by the station's sensors. "We... we don't know," ca the hesitant response from the lead astronor, his voice crackling through the intercom. "It materialized above the planet's orbit approximately three minutes ago. Its energy readings are... inconsistent. It's unlike anything we've observed before."
The council erupted into murmurs. "Is it from Cradle Planet?" one official asked, his voice trembling. "Unlikely," another responded, shaking his head. "If it ca from Cradle, we'd have tracked its trajectory. This... it just appeared."
The chairwoman raised her hand for silence. Her expression was carefully neutral, but the tension in her shoulders betrayed her unease. "What are its movents? Is it... hostile?"
"No movent detected," the astronor replied. "It's stationary. But its energy output is increasing steadily. We... we have no idea what it's doing."
"What's the projected risk to Pri Planet?" she asked.
"Unknown. We're running simulations now, but..." The astronor's voice faltered. "It defies all our standard asurents. Whatever it is, it doesn't conform to known physics." The room descended into chaos. Voices overlapped as theories and questions erupted from every corner. Was it alien? A weapon? A natural phenonon? No one had answers, only mounting fear.
The chairwoman slamd her hand against the table, silencing the commotion. "Contain this information imdiately. No leaks. No public broadcasts. Until we understand what this is, it does not exist outside this room." Several council mbers nodded, though so hesitated. "And if it becos a threat?" soone asked.
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