Meanwhile, at the entrance of the convent, a young woman stood waiting. Her attire—a simple shirt and pants—seemed oddly modern compared to the planet's usual aesthetic. Yet, she was undeniably beautiful, now with a full head of hair.
"Your Grace!" she greeted as Bastion emerged.
"What's next on my schedule?" he asked, walking past her.
"A meeting at the barracks," she replied.
Bastion suddenly stopped and turned back to her. The scene felt familiar—leaving the convent, only to head straight to another military briefing.
"I'll be fine, my lord," she said, as if anticipating his concern.
"Hmm. Seems Ascrius-21 really did a number on you. If you say so," Bastion remarked with a smile, gently patting her head.
Selene was back—and better than before. Her crude cybernetics had been replaced with advanced biosynthetic augmentations, nearly indistinguishable from natural flesh.
Instead of bulky cogitator implants, she now had a neural lace woven from synthetic cells. Though technically external, it integrated so seamlessly with her brain that it might as well have been organic. The enhancements granted her sharper intuition, faster decision-making, and far fewer dogmatic impulses.
Yet her emotions remained intact. From her recovery to now, Bastion could tell she was emotionally stable—more so than most. That was good.
"Alright, if you say so," Bastion conceded before stepping into the hovercar.
Selene followed, and the vehicle lifted off smoothly. True to their stubbornness, several Sanctis sisters—already clad in full armor—boarded their own cars and fell into formation behind them.
Bastion didn't mind. They were assigned by necessity, after all. His honor guard consisted of the planet's Ordo Militant—though, to be precise, this wasn't the entire order, just a small preceptory. Only a squad of eight to twelve sisters trailed him today.
The convoy advanced without issue, gliding toward the Mid-Hive. It wasn't long before they descended, and even from inside the car, Bastion noticed the air quality worsening. Crowded hab-blocks loomed everywhere, and the stench was abominable.
"Has the Mid-Hive always been like this?" Bastion asked, gazing down at the teeming masses below.
He'd seen the reports, but witnessing it firsthand was different. The streets swarmed with more people than he could count, yet the hab-blocks rose only five or six stories high. It made no sense—if the population was this dense, cramming them into a hive was sheer idiocy.
Vertical expansion had been the right idea, but poorly executed. Then again, given the hive's age—tens of thousands of years, if not more—it might have been the only option at the time.
Historical records were vague about the planet's colonization. There were no creation myths, no tales of arrival. Likely, the first settlers had built these hives as temporary shelters during terraforming, then never dismantled them. Now, with the surface a wasteland, the hives were a grim necessity.
Bastion turned away. Infrastructure reform was on his list, but change couldn't be rushed.
Soon, they arrived at the barracks—a fortress within a fortress. As the hovercar approached, a small delegation awaited at the landing zone. Draven stood among them, resplendent in his full uniform, as did the others.
"Your Grace," they chorused, bowing as he stepped out.