Chapter 110 - The Sovereign Inheritance
The smell of molten steel drifted down the ventilation shafts, sharp and sickeningly metallic. Victoria was already at the secondary armory locker, slamming 5.56 magazines into her tactical vest. Her shoulder was bleeding through the bandage, but her movements were razor-sharp.
"The southern blast door won't hold four minutes," she warned, checking the charge on an electronic jammer. "They’re using thermite-infused plasma torches. That door was built for kinetic impact, not industrial demolition."
Arthur didn't flinch. He walked over to the central holographic table and pressed his right palm flat against the glass surface. The console flared azure, scanning his epidermal ridges, sub-dermal capillary layout, and retinal reflection all at once.
*IDENTITY CONFIRMED: ARCHITECT VANCE, ARTHUR.*
*STATUS: ACTIVE COMMAND.*
"Override defensive sector four," Arthur commanded. "Route auxiliary generator power to the floor conduits in corridor B."
"Corridor B is where they're cutting through," I said, stepping beside him. "You’re going to electrocute the entire sub-level."
"Only the first five inches of air above the deck plates," Arthur replied, looking at me sideways. "Which is precisely why you and Victoria are going to stand on the rubberized command platform and keep your boots off the steel grating."
Through the security feeds, we watched the glowing red perimeter of the blast door suddenly give way. The circular steel plug crashed inward, slamming against the floor with a concussive boom that rattled our teeth. Thick, suffocating smoke rolled into corridor B.
Four operatives in full tactical gear—ballistic shields, night-vision optics, suppressed carbines—cleared the breach instantly. They moved with textbook tactical rhythm, covering every angle, their boots stomping onto the metal floor plates.
Arthur hit the manual relay.
A deafening electric crack tore through the bedrock. Ten thousand volts surged through the steel floor of the corridor. A blinding blue arc leaped from the plating, enveloping the four men in a violent halo of sparks and fried circuitry. Their communication gear detonated on their helmets; their weapons discharged erratically into the ceiling as involuntary muscular contractions dropped them instantly to the floor.
Before the smoke could clear, the intercom system crackled to life. It wasn't the sound of an alarm. It was the calm, aristocratic tone of my mother's voice, broadcast through the facility’s external communication relay.
"Arthur," Eleanor said, her voice smooth and devoid of any maternal warmth I had spent twenty-five years believing in. "I see you finally woke up from your little ice bath. You always were melodramatic about your retirements."
Arthur leaned over the console, pressing the broadcast stud. "You're trespassing on Vance ground, Eleanor. You know the penalty for violating the boundary treaty."
A dry, chilling laugh echoed through the vault speakers. "The treaty died when the Council dissolved your maritime charter, old man. And don't play the proud patriarch with Julian. Tell him what you really built beneath that old barn. Tell him why the Directorate wants this mountain."
I turned my head toward Arthur. His expression remained carved from granite, but his jaw muscle twitched once.
May you like
"Julian," Eleanor continued, her voice sounding like a knife scraping over fine crystal. "Ask your grandfather whose names are carved on the containment vaults in Sector Nine. Ask him what happened to your real father."
***
