JOURNAL ENTRY – PHILIP HARROWFIELD // JULY 9–10, 2097

 

July 9

A day of well-earned rest. Samarkand simmered in the heat while we simmered in residual adrenaline. Even Cheerful Philip needed a breather. The crew dispersed across lounges and shaded courtyards, pretending the last few weeks hadn’t been madness. And for a few hours, I almost believed it myself.

July 10
I woke to the scent of spice and the weight of anticipation. Today, we begin preparations for the next leg—New Delhi awaits—but the day had other plans.

The man who came to see me wore the same face I’d met in the old quarter café: Colonel Dastan Nurali, Commander of the Azure Guard. This time, however, it was no dragon in disguise. No theatre. Just the colonel, severe and steel-eyed, bearing grim tidings from his master.

Vivek had a problem. A stolen relic, one he kept close. The Scepter of Amun-Ta—Fourth World sorcerer, artifact of immense power. Stolen during the Oasis reception. Two days before anyone noticed. The Great Dragon is not amused.

It was more than a theft—it was a test. Of loyalty. Of competence. I could feel Vivek watching through his proxies, weighing my reactions.

Wizkid led the Matrix forensics. He and Greyskull traced the signature to a sliver-node buried in the Old City. What they found was... new. Terrifyingly new. Wiz dubbed it a Resonance Bomb—no better term for it. When it triggered, Greyskull was knocked right out of the Matrix. Wiz staggered, half-blind, but quickly regained his composure. We found a corpse at the site. Another technomancer, perhaps the detonator. It left more questions than answers.

I turned to the living.

Dastan was clean. The servants, the guards—mundane, dull, innocent. But the daughters of Vivek? That was a nest of schemes that would make the court of Louis XIV look like a knitting circle. So many secrets. So many sharpened smiles. I should’ve known better.

In the end, it was Arazz Vivekazi who cracked.

The anchor was the key. Hers, a resonance-infused metaskel kept her tethered to this world. The cult had it—leveraged it. She talked. Servants of the Silent Flame, she called them. A shadowy technomantic cult using a front: Cairo Imports & Exports, based in the Gul Dastan Arcology.

Problem: Vivek’s own law declared the arcology autonomous. No direct intervention. But persuasion? Persuasion I can do.

With a handpicked crew—Seattle muscle, Fijian bioroids, and one very charming negotiator—we hit Cairo Exports. Fought our way through bland-faced clerks and delivery boys who turned out to be cultists. We recovered Arazz’s anchor. One piece in place.

But no scepter.

Then came news: Selvetra Vivekazi, another daughter, had taken Vivek’s private aircraft. Because sometimes, dragons like to stretch their wings without actually stretching their wings, if you get my meaning.

Wizkid spliced into the plane’s node. Tag rigged in, took control. For a while. The cultists on board weren’t subtle. They tried to reboot the plane—with bullets. It crashed.

At the site, we found twisted wreckage. Dead men. No Selvetra. No scepter.

The traitor escaped.

But Vivek... didn’t breathe fire. Didn’t rage. Just nodded, slow and cold. He knows the truth now. And he knows me. I passed the test.

Then we turned to talk of greater things to come: the liberation of Pakistan from the clutches of religion and superstition. It's quite something—winged snakes, dragons, and cybercommunists joining forces to make the world a better place.