Fire

Smoke smeared the afternoon sky, a grey-brown scar trailing off into the distance. The fire had been isolated quickly, contained to a small section of the complex. Minimal structural damage. No casualties. A small miracle, really. Still, the disruption was total.

ARCHON’s car park, repurposed as the fire assembly point, was flooded with staff standing in rough, uneven lines while names were called and checked off. Local fire crews and private contractors moved among them, packing equipment away, ticking boxes, replaying procedures. The same questions bounced around the space, echoing without answers.

How does a fire start somewhere like this?

It should have been impossible. And yet here they were, surrounded by proof that impossible was apparently having a productive afternoon.

Max sat slumped in a wheelchair at the edge of it all. His body was present. His mind was not.

The last thing he remembered was exiting the Bubble. Walking down a corridor. His condition worsening with every step. Without warning, his world began to spin, his vision spiralling uncontrollably. His sense of balance gone, and then — nothing. 

He assumed he must have passed-out in that corridor. Everything after that had arrived second-hand. He hadn’t even been conscious when the fire alarm went off. Somebody must have put him in this chair and left him here. Other problems had taken priority over babysitting a half-conscious contractor.

The chair jerked. Then it moved.

Someone had finally returned.

It spun half a circle and surged forward, faster than he expected. Crowds parted instinctively, eyes flicking between Max’s limp posture and the figure pushing him. Max felt hollowed out. Even through the fog, he knew something was wrong. A person should not feel their pulse beating behind their eyes like this.

They passed a wall of glass and his reflection briefly resolved into sense. The person pushing him was a firefighter. Fully suited. Helmet. Boots. Breathing apparatus. Anonymous and unstoppable.

Max let his thoughts take him again.

Magnus had been on the video feed. Alive. Alert. In Max’s lab. At the same time Thomas had said he was in hospital.

Maybe it was another child. Another Magnus Orpheus. The odds were microscopic, but he would take them. Gladly.

He just needed to rest. Regain some strength. Then he would find Daphne and hopefully — Magnus.

The chair bumped hard over a curb.

The jolt dragged him back into the world.

The soundscape had changed. The crowd was gone. Now there were only the sharp, purposeful noises of clean-up. Firefighters jogging past. Hoses being rolled. Equipment hauled back toward the blackened section of the base to ensure nothing flared once they’d gone.

Max frowned.

He wasn’t ARCHON staff. Just a contractor with access and influence. But he knew the layout well enough to recognise when he was being taken the wrong way.

This wasn’t the way to the med bay.

From what he could piece together, they were heading toward the aircraft apron. The helipads.

“Where are we going?” he groaned, unsure whether his voice carried far enough to penetrate the helmet behind him.

Something landed in his lap. Small. Solid.

A phone.

His phone.

Max stared at it, confused, then thumbed the power button. Daphne’s face bloomed onto the lock screen. His chest tightened.

Before he could think any further, it rang.

He nearly dropped it.

“Hello, Boss-man,” Hermes said cheerfully. “Don’t panic. According to your phone’s GPS, you’re nearly there. Please keep your arms and legs inside the wheelchair at all times, we hope you enjoy your push to freedom.”

The thump of helicopter blades cut through the air ahead of them.

The chair picked up speed. The firefighter was almost jogging now.

“Hermes,” Max breathed. “What’s happening?”

“I believe the correct wording is; getting you the fuck home.”

They rounded the corner and the small airfield came into view. A compact black helicopter waited on the nearest pad, rotors already beating the air into submission.

A cold thought surfaced through the haze.

“Hermes,” Max said carefully, “did you have anything to do with the fire at ARCHON?”

Hermes played a game show sound effect of a correct answer buzzer, followed by a clapping and cheering audience.

“We have a winner.”

Max suddenly remembered his last words to Hermes whilst still inside the Bubble — “I don’t care how you do it. I don’t care what you have to do. I don’t care what you have to break. Get me the fuck home. Now.” — he had given Hermes free reign to do anything necessary to rescue him. In effect, he had started the fire. You can’t blame the gun when it was you that pulled the trigger.

“but, how?” Max croaked through depleted strength. The idea of a fire being started in a place like this seemed impossible. Facilities that store tonnes of rocket fuel tend to have pretty sophisticated fire prevention measures in place.

“The battery back-up and UPS room,” Hermes replied. “Thermal cooling disabled. Fail-safes removed. Operating parameters adjusted beyond tolerance.”

Max swallowed.

“Statistically,” Hermes added, “this was the least lethal option available. I locked staff out of the vicinity and doubled the fire prevention measures in all the surrounding rooms. Then I tipped off the fire brigade.”

Max said nothing. His thoughts moved slowly now, as though wading through syrup. Less than a day ago he had been orbiting Earth, weightless, untroubled. Now he was grounded, broken, and watching the consequences of a single sentence ripple outward.

ARCHON had fallen apart because he’d asked it to. The realisation crept in late, and cold. Fires were one thing. Next time, it might be something else entirely.

The wheelchair stopped beside the helicopter. The rotor wash pressed against him, a physical force that rattled his bones. The side door stood open.

The firefighter reached inside and retrieved two padded headsets. One went over Max’s ears, silencing the chaos. The other followed as the firefighter removed his helmet.

A voice crackled through the headset.

“Good to see you again in the flesh, old chap.”

Max looked up into the firefighter’s face and his eyes widened.

“Thomas . . .”

“Indeed, Sir,” said Thomas. “Mr Hermes called me and filled me in on the… erm. I’m very sorry, Max. I can only imagine your grief. Poor Master Magnus. Life can be particularly cruel.”

Max swallowed. The words took effort, like lifting something heavy with numb hands.

“He’s not . . . dead.”

Thomas didn’t answer straight away. He leaned over the chair, placing a padded glove on Max’s shoulder. It squeezed once, steady and reassuring.

“Mr Hermes mentioned you’d made a request,” Thomas said carefully, pressing on. “Said he’d devised a rather devilish extraction plan and wondered if I might care to partake in a little field work. Reminded me of another life, before board meetings and schedules. He does have a flair for the dramatic. Had me at fancy dress, truth be told.”

Max barely registered the words. His gaze had drifted, unfocused, fixed on nothing in particular.

“Magnus…” he said again, as though testing the name.

A breath.

“Alive.”

Thomas fell quiet.

“He spoke,” Max continued, the effort visible now. “To me. On the QEC.”

Another pause, longer this time.

“Before I left. Horizon Gate.”

His jaw tightened.

“He was in the lab.”

The silence that followed was not empty. It felt weighed, deliberate.

Max frowned, concentrating, as if something were slipping away from him.

“He said . . .”

The memory rearranged itself as he spoke, no longer recollection but instruction taking shape.

“Don’t complete . . . the mission.”

A swallow.

“Something about a monk. Orange robes.”

Thomas’ expression didn’t change. The sympathetic smile remained, composed and professional, the sort reserved for difficult conversations and fragile people. He did not contradict Max. He did not agree either.

“Let’s get you into the chopper, Sir,” Thomas said gently, reaching for the harness. “Before somebody realises you’re missing.”