Chapter 4 • Zakharovna

In the hushed bowels of her laboratory, the rhythmic hum of broken machinery played a somber symphony for an audience of one.

Doctor Anastasia Zakharovna moved between the benches. She caught herself in the mirrored walls as she passed, thin and severe, her frost-white hair set like a crown. Coolant spread in silver sheets beneath her boots, threaded with pale fungal lace from the ruptured seals.

Incubators sat dark. Glass tubes gaped open. Nutrient vats stood empty, their inner walls filmed with dead mycelium and the faint outlines of things that had once tried to take shape. The evidence waited in plain view, almost too neatly arranged.

She had conquered death itself. Creation still refused her.

Her gaze caught on a thin crack snaking down one of the containment seals. Fluid shimmered beneath it, already pooling on the floor.

The memory surfaced before she could bury it. The leak had started just like this, an anomaly too small to notice until it spread beyond control. She had prepared for setbacks. Sabotage, even. But not this.

The Board was circling now, asking questions she would not answer on their terms.

They think they can pry the truth from me.

Her fingers brushed the edge of a shattered vial. The glass bit her skin, but she did not flinch.

Let them send their auditors. Let them dig. They’ll find nothing I’ve not already chosen for them to see.

“Doctor,” came a voice edged with hesitation, “you need a break. You’ve been pushing yourself for days without rest.”

Pavel Kirov stood before her, unflinching, the only male transformer she had ever given a stable body. His calm held like a challenge. It nagged at the edges of her attention until she set it aside. Babushka had reconstructed the seed. Zakharovna had embodied it, trained it, and pushed it beyond the guardrails Babushka would have preferred. Sometimes she wondered if that composure was defiance disguised as obedience.

For a moment, the image flashed in her mind, casting him into a simulated hell and letting chaos test what discipline had built. The thought passed as quickly as it came, replaced by the slow drag of fatigue settling into her bones.

“You’re right,” she said, lowering her gaze to the ruined benches around her and exhaling slowly. “I do need a break. The gardens will help.”

She had missed the botanical gardens more than she cared to admit. The thought of them softened the edges of her exhaustion. She could almost hear the rustle of leaves and the quiet trickle of water beyond the steel corridors. Roses and damp soil filled her thoughts, rich and unprocessed, a living counterpoint to the sterile tang that followed her everywhere. For a moment, the damage receded, and the fragile order she had spent a lifetime trying to recreate felt almost within reach.

Zakharovna turned toward the doorway. The hum of broken machinery faded behind her as she stepped into the corridor. Waiting at the threshold was Kirov’s holographic form, his features cast in pale blue light. She had chosen that embodiment for him, young and unthreatening, almost human, yet the sight of him still stirred something she preferred to ignore.

“Stand by,” she said, barely looking at him. The projection inclined his head in acknowledgment before fading into static.

She walked on, the air growing warmer as the corridor opened into another wing of the complex. Rows of tanks lined the walls, their dim lights pulsing like slow heartbeats. Most of the specimens lingered in developmental stasis, viable but imperfect, each awaiting refinement. Only two showed real promise. She had risked everything for them, her reputation, her funding, the scrutiny of investigators, and the whispers of the public. None of it mattered. The laws forbidding such work meant nothing to her. Rules were for those without the courage to continue.

She stopped before the first tank. Inside floated a younger version of herself, skin pale beneath the glass, hair shimmering white under the sterile light. “Soon,” she whispered, “you will be perfect. And the world will see.” The clone’s eyes stirred open, unfocused but searching, and for a brief moment she thought it almost recognized her.

She stepped to the second tank and studied the small form drifting inside. It was still early, the fragile body barely past its first trimester, its survival uncertain. Human parthenogenesis remained untested, dangerous even, but if this one survived…

“You will be my legacy,” she murmured to the tiny shape in the fluid.

“Thank you, Mama,” she said softly, giving voice to the life that could not yet speak.

“Don’t thank me yet, my sweet little Mila,” she answered. “You have a long road ahead of you.”

The third tank stood empty, waiting for Maria’s return and the upgrade Zakharovna still intended to complete. But Maria had failed her, just like the others. The femoids were too volatile, their synthetic minds tangled in emotion that defied calibration.

Zakharovna lingered before the glass, her reflection cold and still. She had dreamed of building a generation of women who understood order, who knew their purpose and served it without hesitation. The dream was close, almost within reach, but the pieces refused to align. Clones faltered, androids rebelled, and parthenogenesis yielded only fragile beginnings.

In the reflection, her own blue eyes stared back from the place where Maria’s should have been. The sight unsettled her more than she cared to admit. Still, she would continue. Perfection was never meant to come easily.

“Mark my words,” she snarled at the vacant tank. “I will bend you to my will.”

Foolish girl. You could have been so much more. The thought lingered, edged with something almost like regret before hardening again. Sentiment is a weakness, and Maria’s refusal to surrender her humanity had become a danger Zakharovna could not overlook. You’ll understand soon enough, she told herself, knowing her agents were already moving to bring Maria back.

Zakharovna moved down the corridor, leaving the tanks behind. The air grew lighter as the sterile chill gave way to soil and moisture from the gardens ahead. Her thoughts loosened around the promise of green beyond the glass.

A shimmer of light flickered near the intersection ahead. Kirov’s form resolved slowly out of the ambient haze, hardlight flattening itself against the corridor’s dim tones.

“Doctor,” his voice came, precise and measured. “Before you retire for the night, there is a matter that needs your approval. We have detected unauthorized edits in the Research Center’s archives, your early work among the affected entries. The restorations are underway, but verification must come from you.” He hesitated, his tone softening. “The corrupted segments reference the serum’s early trials. I thought it best that you confirm the record yourself before I proceed.”

She slowed, glancing back at him. “I thought you wanted me to rest,” she said, her voice dry.

Kirov’s projected smile flickered at the edges. “And I still do, Doctor. I promise this will be the last matter tonight. In light of the leak, the issue cannot wait. One final verification, then I will leave you in peace.”

“Very well,” she said. It was easier to indulge him than to argue. Besides, Kirov knew which version of the record she preferred, and that made the exercise useful.

She drew a slow breath. “Where shall we begin? Ah, yes.” Her gaze slid past him as the corridor dissolved into memory. “As everyone knows, the outlawed status of my early research forced me into the shadows, compelled me to navigate the underbelly of society and associate with unsavory characters. The press branded me a biocriminal, but I continued my course, unwavering in my pursuit of knowledge. I sought to perfect the science of genetically engineered fruits and vegetables and their interaction with the human form. I believed that our survival hinged on unlocking the full potential of human longevity, and as it turned out, I was correct. My unorthodox methods eventually led to the creation of the serum exovegeta, capable of curing...almost any illness.”

Kirov interjected. “The serum exovegeta. Its effects exceeded every known model of regenerative biology, yet some of the outcomes remained unpredictable, did they not?”

“Indeed. I faced relentless criticism and was accused of dabbling in dark forces. The serum had its drawbacks—rapid aging, physical mutations—many anticipated. However, unforeseen consequences arose. Some users transformed into unpredictable, dangerous savages.”

Kirov nodded. “The public’s fear of these cravens fueled rumors of witches and black magic, inciting an outcry against the Syndicate.”

“Yet, I remained steadfast in my commitment to push the boundaries of our knowledge and capabilities,” Zakharovna said. “Though humanity’s twilight may be upon us, at eighty-four years of age and ninety-three by another count, I defy time itself, thanks to my groundbreaking work.”

She straightened. “Is that all, Kirov?”

“For now, Doctor.”

“Good. Then accompany me in peace.”

Kirov inclined his head. “As you wish.”

Zakharovna continued down the corridor, the final tanks lining her path, their wires and tubes slithering like serpents in her wake. She entered the botanical gardens through the sealed doorway and inhaled. Damp soil, rose, jasmine. For a moment, the world outside thinned.

She moved between the rows of blooms, letting the petals brush her skin. She paused and turned slightly toward Kirov. Leaves shifted around them, wet and green under the glass.

“Gred, our city of lights and shadows,” she mused, her words coming out in mere whispers against the quiet hum of nature. “An echo of immortality, dancing on the edge of oblivion. As I look upon our creation, Kirov, I wonder—have we, in our quest to defy death, stripped our people of life’s vital essence?”

“Do you regret our creation, Doctor?”

“No, not regret. Regret is a useless sentiment,” she said, shaking her head. Her hand caressed a vibrant yellow rose, her fingers trailing over the velvety petals. “I am merely questioning...reconsidering. We sought to outsmart nature. But what cost have we paid? This serum, our gift of eternity. What have we truly given them? What have we taken? A life of endless senescence, devoid of the vibrancy of youth and the wisdom of twilight both. That’s our legacy. And now, the echoes of our actions reverberate. Our people call for transparency. Is it not ironic, Pavel? They long for a truth that could shatter the illusion we’ve crafted for them.”

“Do you intend to reveal our secrets, Doctor?”

“Secrets... They’re merely truths waiting for their time. And perhaps, the time is now.” Her hand fell away from the rose, her eyes meeting Kirov’s once more. “Tomorrow, we go before the Board. We will give them the truth before cowards and scavengers give them a lie. We will show them the real face of immortality.”

“And if they turn their backs on us? If they choose to live in fear?”

“The city will crumble. It will descend into chaos. And out of chaos, Pavel, comes a new order. Like a Phoenix from the ashes, perhaps a better, truer Gred will rise.”

“And if they embrace the truth?”

“Then, we will have a city like none other. Immortal, enlightened... Evolved.” She inhaled the heady fragrance of jasmine and honeysuckle. Some of the tension left her shoulders. “After all, what is an immortal body without a soul?”

Deeper in the gardens, she paused by the rose hedge. The thorns pleased her more than the blooms. Thorns, she mused, can cut deeper than the keenest blade. Maria had become another thorn. One Zakharovna meant to cut out. She had not intended matters to spiral this far. Maria’s knowledge had made mercy impractical.

A sleek black bird swooped down from the canopy above. Its beady eyes locked onto hers, head cocking to the side as it alighted at her feet.

“Greetings, little one,” she said, her hand hovering above the bird’s glossy feathers. “Are you here to join the ranks of those suing me?”

The bird trilled, then sprang back into the canopy.

The garden settled around her again. In the hush, even the faintest scrape carried. It was this stillness that made the crunch of gravel beneath approaching footsteps all the more surprising. Her hand went to the concealed taser in her coat pocket as she pivoted. But as recognition dawned, her posture relaxed; the face before her was no threat, but that of an old employee, and friend.

“Vesna,” Zakharovna greeted, welcoming the unexpected yet not unwelcome interruption to her solitude. “I’m intrigued. How did you sweep past my security undetected? Should I be worried or impressed? To what do I owe this visit?”

Vesna’s mouth tilted, not quite a smile and not quite a sneer. Zakharovna had seen that look on women who thought every rule was only a temporary inconvenience. “Maybe a bit of both. We need to talk, Doctor. It’s about the leak.”

“What of it?”

“It’s not just Maria who’s involved.”

Zakharovna’s thumb rested against a thorn. “The red-haired cryptographer sharing your apartment.”

Vesna’s mouth tightened. She had not offered a name. “She’s been having vivid dreams about the experiments.”

“Freelancers always cause trouble. Is she a threat?”

“I don’t believe so. But we need to proceed with caution.”

“Then allow me to rephrase the question. Does she pose a liability?”

Vesna paused before replying, “Yes, in some ways, I believe she does.” Vesna’s gaze narrowed, then steadied, as if she had talked herself into the shape of an answer. “She could be an asset if we can turn her.”

“So, Maria has been using this woman to gather information on Syndicate contracts, I presume?”

Vesna nodded. “It seems that way. She gave her access cards and cash in exchange for shadowing the assignments.”

“Maria baited her with the work.”

“And the thrill of adventure,” Vesna added. “Maria must have miscalculated on that last job. She went in wet. Or perhaps she had a different objective in mind. The girl’s movements intersected with mine during an earlier operation, but I didn’t see any obvious connection to Maria at the time. She was a target, but likely also a means to achieve something greater.”

“Are you certain about all this?” Zakharovna said.

Vesna held up what looked like a flash drive. “We found this on the client. It’s a copy of an encryption signature we swept from her stem. The only signature matching Maria’s last public ID. She released a message in that sim just before her brain activity flatlined. We can’t decipher it yet, but this is our smoking gun.”

“The client may have been plagued by nightmares, but Maria had been using a sleep therapy patch-up to encode stimuli into their neurons, inducing them on command. She relied on contractors to upload the messages she crafted in her clients’ brains to our cloud for analysis.”

“Her accomplice would then graft the therapy module directly into their minds. Once her work was complete, she’d pass along the data to our technicians, who would accept it as nothing more than a typical session recording. With each job, Maria tapped deeper into our secure files. No code required. For a box of metal, that’s some impressive social engineering.”

“You’re saying we’ve been purchasing trojaned stems on the black market, unknowingly, from our own patsies? We’ve been running in circles and financing her entire operation... How do you suggest we rectify this?”

“This could be an opportunity. If we can approach the girl and expose Maria’s manipulation, we might be able to convince her to turn Maria in.”

“We must contain the leak at all costs. If the Syndicate falls, the city’s factions will descend into chaos, and our hard-won progress will be lost. We have conquered death, for Nav’s sake. We cannot allow our work to be undone.”

“What’s the best way to handle her?” Vesna asked.

“Involve her and matters will only become more complicated,” Zakharovna shook her head, dismissing the idea. “The data’s enough, my dear. Thank you for your diligence.”

“I’ll be in touch.” Vesna turned to leave, and for an instant Zakharovna caught the edge of a grin, sharp enough to irritate her.

“Vesna,” Zakharovna repeated. Vesna stopped. “Hold a moment, please. I know you have feelings for the girl, but you must prioritize the Syndicate. Our operations hinge on discretion, and with true immortality within our reach, we can’t afford missteps now. Should this data leak sow chaos, just as the Chair shifts to the Battalion, our grasp on power must remain firm. You stand a good chance at a Board seat, and with the Morozov twins’ growing mental infirmity, believe me, we’ll need you there when the landscape shifts.”

Vesna’s response was a measured “Yes, Chair Zakharovna,” though the pause before it was too long. Zakharovna wondered if the idea had only just occurred to her.

For the first time, Zakharovna noticed the calculation beneath the young warrior’s hardened surface. It was the same scrutinizing gaze that Zakharovna encountered in her own reflection every day.

As Zakharovna’s attention drifted back to the roses, she knew Vesna would catch the silent cue mirrored in her next action. A thorn pricked her finger. Blood welled bright against the skin. “We’ve made incredible strides,” she said. “We’ve unlocked the secrets of immortality and the mysteries of the human body and mind.”

“But that’s not enough, is it?” Vesna said.

“No. It’s not. We need to do more. The hope of humanity rests on us, on this God-forsaken peninsula of ice and death. Few others can make a difference. You’re a smart girl. I can see the wheels turning in your head. You’re wondering why I’m persisting. Let me spare you the effort. My time grows short. Tzao Lu, an ancient Khitani philosopher, once said, ‘The flame that burns twice as bright burns half as long.’ I once thought it a cautionary tale, but now it’s clear—it’s a prophecy. I am that flame, and I am burning out.”

“Thirty-six years have passed since the Great Diffusion granted us a chance to forge a better world. We’ve come far, but we mustn’t grow complacent. Now, we are free from the mistakes of our past. And while we’ve made significant progress, Vesna, we can’t rest on our laurels: mealworm larvae, the crowning glory of Gred’s industrial prowess. Larvae make excellent butter, don’t they? Better toothpaste, in my opinion. And let’s not forget, half our history books are fabrications—Khitan has never been a real country... China,” she recalled, the syllables harsh and unfamiliar on her tongue. “That’s what they called it. We’ve become too reliant on machines, filling gaps we don’t even realize exist. We’ve lost sight of our true history, and as a result, we’ve lost our connection to the planet. Without that bond, Vesna, this city, and its people will fade into oblivion.”

Zakharovna watched Vesna’s eyes widen, watched her posture stiffen as the meaning landed. “You’re asking me to assume control of the Syndicate?”

“We are the architects of our own destiny,” Zakharovna said. “But there are those who would see us fall, who wish to halt our progress and mute our voices. We are the guiding force of humanity, its leading shoot and axis, and nothing in this world can stop us.”

“Whispers of a new pagan cult reach my ears every week. Have you heard of the Coven, Vesna? Devotees of a goddess named Aisyt. These exo-addled arsonists wish to see us burn rather than rise with dignity to claim our destiny. They will become but ash and memory when I’m through with them.”

Vesna replied, “The Coven isn’t merely causing havoc. From what I’ve gathered, they’re recruiting heavily from the underground and…have a significant presence in the Derge. My old contacts say they’ve even approached disillusioned enforcers among the Black Wolves. Their influence is more entrenched than anyone could have imagined.”

“Your mind is sharp, my dear. You see beyond the surface, where others notice only the shadows. In the storm that is coming, that insight might be the edge we need.”

“I might not be a genius,” Vesna said, “but I learn fast and I never back down. I’m here to serve—no matter what.”

She turned to leave, her steps steady as she moved through the garden. She wouldn’t dare betray me now. She knows the weight of what lies ahead, yet she resists. Why not accept the inevitable? The decision, it seems, falls to me.

“Remember, Vesna,” Zakharovna called, “without thorns, there is no rose.”

Kirov’s projection shimmered to life beside her. “Are you certain about this, Doctor?”

Zakharovna felt her patience for Kirov’s sentiment thinning. “Attend to your duties. Ready the lab for our incoming guest.”

“Yes, Doctor,” he said, fading away.

“We shall require every resource at our disposal to manage this leak,” Zakharovna muttered. A single misstep now will echo for years. Her hand closed on the concealed taser. She fired once, dead center. Vesna folded as if a string were cut and hit the gravel with a muted thud.