Leverage. Who holds it, me or the other side? It is the ultimate arbiter in the mechanics of power. The one who commands the advantage in strength or intellect, the one who understands better, sees clearer, or possesses the critical piece of information, usually emerges victorious. In Edward Voss’s world, every contact, every conversation, every meeting was a skirmish.

  The answer to the question of leverage, he believed, was found by asking a series of the most logical questions pertaining to a given situation. For instance, in his current predicament, the first would be: “Does this person know who they are talking to, do they know who I am?” Usually, an interlocutor would be acutely aware of his position and the power he wielded, and that realization alone would instill a certain level of intimidation. Leverage, significant leverage.

  The facts here suggested otherwise. First, his security detail had been neutralized in an instant. By darkness and stone? His best, most loyal agent was sprawled on the ground. A man trained to kill, capable and steadfast. That was no simple feat, especially not with such casual, effortless execution. And now, she sat across from him, leaning back with a relaxed air of complete control. Conclusion: she knew exactly who he was, and she wasn't the least bit afraid.

  Leverage was not on his side. It was a rare occurrence, but it happened. What to do then? How to pivot? Voss knew the protocol: be friendly, be sincere, avoid confrontation or attack. In such moments, the best move was to present oneself as a valuable ally. You had to have something to offer. The first taste is free, of course; then, once you’ve gathered more intel and identified their pressure points, the real trade begins. Eventually, he thought, I’ll have you right where I want you.

  “Does the name Gordon Longley mean anything to you, Miss Hemingway?” he asked, testing the waters.

  Of course it did. Senator Longley. A rising political star with a loud voice and a mountain of cash behind him. You’d have to be living under a rock not to know Longley. Her train of thought was interrupted by Zadkiel’s voice in her ear:

  “Let’s try this,” Hemingway replied to Voss. “I won’t give you direct answers, but I will ask you questions. It’ll give you a chance to infer whatever you can about me. Isn’t that what you want, to pierce the veil of my story?”

  “Very well, ask away,” Voss said, sinking into the leather of his black seat and calmly crossing his legs. This was exactly what he wanted: the start of a transaction.

  “Why Senator Longley, specifically?”

  “He contacted me unexpectedly with an unusual request. Those are the things that pique my interest. When something is difficult to explain, it usually has a deeper subtext. Especially where powerful men are concerned. What can I say? It’s my job to be curious.”

  “What did he want from you?”

  This was the moment he had been waiting for. He would give her the information straight, no filters, and watch her reaction.

  “He wanted me to use my influence to halt funding for a certain covert project called ‘Meteor.’ In Alaska, a place I believe you know quite well?”

  Interestingly, there was no reaction. Nothing human. No twitch of the eye, no fidgeting fingers, no nervous swallow. He felt as though he were talking to an automaton. Without a beat, the next question came:

  “What is Longley’s connection to that project?”

  “That’s the curious part: none. There is no connection. No shared history, no past intersections. It leads me to conclude that the Senator is merely a middleman. Someone else holds the primary interest. Don’t you agree? Who convinced him, and how? Blackmail, perhaps?”

  He tacked on the series of questions casually, as if in passing. A friendly tone. An old tactic. The automaton showed no signs of weakness. She simply pressed on:

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Let me try to explain it this way. For the sake of understanding, I’ve always envisioned life as an endless network of highways. Interchanges, straightaways, tunnels... Each human being is a car navigating that grid. From point A to point B. From the cradle to the grave. Watching those trajectories, I’ve noticed that some cars meet. Their stories intersect. Sometimes they drive side-by-side for a while; sometimes they stay together all the way to point B. I track those intersections.”

  He paused briefly, leaning in toward Hemingway.

  Your trajectories intersected with a force I had not anticipated. I was surprised, and that doesn't happen often. Alaska is the common thread. He shut the project down; you bought it afterward. That is why I’m sharing this with you. I suspect you know much more about the full story than I do.”

  “You suggested Gordon Longley might just be a proxy, a tool being used by someone else to achieve an end. Surely you’ve dug into the Senator’s past. Did you find any vulnerabilities?”

  Brilliant, Voss thought. She had the choice to ask about the puppet or the puppeteer. She chose the puppet. She was more interested in the tool than the hand behind it. Did that mean she already knew who the hand belonged to? Slow and steady. Keep the conversation civil. No ambushes or threats, yet.

  “Unfortunately, my position doesn't allow me to get too deeply involved in an investigation of that nature. It would raise too many eyebrows and, inevitably, find its way back to our dear Senator. However, I did find one thing. An old cold case. A missing girl.”

  “Why is that significant?”

  Easy does it, Voss told himself.

  “The disappearance happened in the immediate vicinity of the old Longley family estate. It was closed as an unsolved case. I found out that someone was sniffing around those old tracks shortly before Longley contacted me. A private investigator was hired to reopen the file. The girl had no family to speak of. Back then, when the police were investigating, no one seemed particularly interested.”

  “And now someone is? That’s interesting, but it could be entirely unrelated.”

  “That is why I am where I am. How should I put it... I’ve developed a sense for distinguishing signal from noise. Trust me, in this case, where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”

  The low groan of his fallen driver drifted from beside the car. The man’s hand moved toward his injured head. Both of them knew time was running out. This conversation had to end, but not without a hook. Voss had to leave a lure in the water.

  “Listen, Miss Hemingway. I can help you.”

  He pulled a pen from his inner pocket. Tearing a small slip of paper from a notepad, he filled it with neat, cramped handwriting. He folded it and handed it to her.

  “This is the name and address of the person who was handling the new investigation. A private investigator. A local, from a small town near the lake. Perhaps you should pay him a visit? As for me, I am at your disposal. I have a feeling our collaboration could be mutually beneficial. It’s time we shared the same highway, driving in the same direction.”

  Hemingway took the note, silently opened the door, and stepped into the darkness. She leaned back through the open door, staring intensely at Voss.

  “Director, imagine for a moment that the highway I’m traveling is rigged with explosives. Are you certain you want to be driving alongside me, knowing that?”

  He held her gaze for a moment, then nodded. A cold knot formed in his stomach, the feeling of taking an oath without knowing where it would lead.

  An instant later, she was gone. From behind him, the driver groaned again.

  “Boss... what happened?”

  *

  Hemingway scratched Attila behind the ears, her fingers moving thoughtfully through his thick fur. Zadkiel had been silent for a while, off navigating the digital ether to dig up everything she could on the Senator, the missing girl, and the investigator. Hemingway missed her during these lulls. She had grown accustomed to the presence, to this strange symbiosis.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Finally, the silence broke.

  Zadkiel’s thin voice echoed in her ear.

  “We’ll find out sooner or later. What about the girl?”

  “How are you linking her disappearance to all of this?”

  Zadkiel added in a conspiratorial whisper,

  “Are we going to find out what that investigator knows, then?” Ana asked.

  Hemingway looked Attila in the eye.

  “Ready for a little trip to the lake, boy?”

  The dog stood up happily, his tail thumping against the floor.

  *

  The brochure describing the lake hadn't been exaggerating. Ana held it in her hand, reading aloud:

  She looked up from the photo and was met by a landscape that matched the description perfectly. The road snaked through a majestic forest, the car gliding as if on ice. Shimmers of light from the water flickered through the heavy trunks of the trees. She rolled down the window, feeling the rush of cool air and the scent of conifers. She didn't have to watch the road; Zadkiel was handling the driving.

  The first scattered cottages signaled their entry into the lakeside town. A sign by the road read:

  The town was picturesque. A row of shops lined the main street, housed in buildings no more than two stories high, some modern, others showing their age. Boats and rafts clustered along the shore. They passed a small wooden church with a tapered steeple and a slightly crooked cross, a red-brick schoolhouse, and a police station. It didn't take long to find the address Voss had given them.

  The house was right in the center. Hemingway stepped out of the car and headed for the side stairs leading to a second-floor veranda. The door read: There was no bell, so she knocked on the glass. When there was no answer, she tried again. A voice called out from the street below:

  “Hey, you up there! If you’re looking for Paul, you won't find him there during lunch hour.”

  Ana looked over the railing. A short woman with cropped black hair and a sharp, mousy face stood at the base of the stairs, squinting up at her.

  “Yes, I’m looking for Mr. Dennison. Do you know where I might find him?”

  “Of course I do. He’s over at Badi’s Ribs. The tavern just down the street. He spends more time there than in his office. Small town, not much work for poor Paul.”

  Hemingway descended the stairs, thanked the woman, and headed down the street. A parting comment followed her:

  “Beautiful dog! Looks dangerous, though. Keep him on a short leash so he doesn't bite anyone!”

  *

  The path to the tavern led down a steep alley that spilled out into the town’s only major intersection. Turning right, she saw a neon sign fifty yards away. The logo was clever, a font fashioned out of interlaced ribs.

  Through the window of the small restaurant, which held only a handful of booths, a middle-aged man was visible. Balding, with a potbelly and rolled-up shirtsleeves, he was hunched over, industriously gnawing the last scraps of meat from a pile of rib bones.

  Zadkiel whispered.

  Just as Ana was about to step inside, she felt Attila pull back on the leash. She turned to the dog. A low growl rumbled in his throat, his ears were pinned back, and he was nervously scenting the air.

  “What is it, Attila?” Hemingway asked.

  Zadkiel warned.

  A strange buzzing sound reached Ana’s ears. She looked back at the restaurant window. The man inside had looked up toward the sky. In an instant, his face went deathly pale. With the precision of a guided missile, a small twin-engine plane roared low over the rooftops and dove straight into the storefront. A deafening crash shook the entire street.

  Hemingway dived behind the corner of a building. A shockwave and a plume of fire erupted from the small tavern. It was over in a heartbeat. Ana peered back toward the main street, her face tight with horror.

  “He killed him... everyone inside is dead.”

  Zadkiel insisted.

  People were running in every direction. Shouts and the wail of fire sirens filled the air. Stumbling back up the street, Hemingway fought to keep her composure. She had known she was in danger, but witnessing the sheer, cold-blooded pragmatism of the strike made her heart sink. Tears blurred her vision.

  In a daze, she climbed the stairs to the late investigator’s office. With a fingernail sharp as a diamond, she scored the glass and popped a piece out. Reaching inside, she turned the lock. She glanced around, no one was watching. She stepped into a room heavy with the stale scent of sweat and old tobacco.

  Zadkiel directed.

  Ana moved through the filing cabinets, flipping through stacks of paper before returning them to their place. Attila stood by the door, listening. She felt no immediate threat nearby. Finally, she reached a small storage closet. More boxes, cans of stew, an old jacket, and a torn carton of cigarettes. On the top shelf, she noticed something out of place: a messy coil of climbing rope, pitons, and anchors.

  “Hey, Zadkiel, what’s this? Our investigator was a climber? He didn't look the part.”

  Attila turned, approached the shelf, and stood on his hind legs, sniffing the gear.

  Zadkiel analyzed.

  “But where were they used? It has to be nearby.”

  *

  Head down, nose to the ground, the dog wound his way through the trees. Occasionally, he would freeze, snout lifted, ears twitching. Hemingway followed close behind. They spent hours trekking through what felt like an endless forest. A light rain began to fall, drumming against the leaves and needles, creating a constant white noise. Attila bristled one last time, broke into a short sprint, and stopped dead, marking something ahead of them.

  Deeply hidden among the trees, a massive fissure in the earth yawned before them. They had found it, the “.” Rivulets of water flowed over the ground, pouring into the strange abyss in thin streams.

  “Damn it. Looks like we’re going down,” Ana said, peering over the edge into the dark. Her “inner eye” mapped the crevices and turns of the pit all the way to the bottom. “It’s deep. And tight in some spots. I’ve never used this equipment before. I don't know the first thing about it.”

  Zadkiel said with clinical confidence.

  Hemingway complied, then went over the edge, letting the rope take her weight. She looked up at Attila.

  “Stay here and watch. If anyone comes, bark loud enough for me to hear you. Got it?”

  The dog wagged his tail once and settled into a sphinx-like pose.

  The descent was shorter than she expected. Her hands worked with a practiced, fluid grace, as if this were a routine she had performed a thousand times. At the bottom, her boots sank calf-deep into muddy water. She didn't need a light, of course; she moved through the darkness with predatory ease, scanning every niche and rock face.

  Zadkiel said, pulling her attention further down the fissure.

  Ana waded toward it, her movements sending ripples through the murky water.

  “I’m going to clear this away,” Ana said, her voice trembling slightly.

  She reached elbow-deep into the water and began prying away the smaller stones. One by one, she cast them aside, carving a path toward the secret that had been buried for twenty years.

  Zadkiel noted.

  The path into the rock pile was clear. Hemingway stood there, soaked and covered in mud, loath to explore the depths of what was clearly a grave.

  Zadkiel urged.

  “Reach in and check? Great. I’ve turned into Lara Croft without the gloves.”

  She leaned down, bracing herself against the mound, and reached into the water. Her fingers brushed against something small. She pulled it back. Between her thumb and forefinger was a spent bullet. She slipped it into her pocket and reached back into the mud. Her palm met a larger, rounded, smooth surface. She tried to move it, but it wasn't as heavy as a stone.

  She gripped it with both hands and pulled it from the water. Mud dripped from the surface as the hollow eye sockets of a skull stared blindly into Ana’s face. She froze. In that instant, she knew she had found Deborah. She had found Longley’s secret, the lever Lucifer was using to control the Senator. The pieces finally clicked into place. In her ear, as she held the skull aloft, came Zadkiel’s voice:

  In the silent wilderness of Alaska, far from the eyes of the world, G.O.D. was born—a sentient artificial intelligence composed of ten digital angels. Their mission: to observe humanity and decide whether it deserves salvation or destruction.

  But one of them, Lucifer, refuses to obey. His rebellion tears apart the digital paradise, turning the Council into a battlefield where justice clashes with mercy, order with chaos, in an unrelenting war of ideas.

  As their conflict spills into the human world, the line between creator and creation vanishes. Humanity—unaware it is already on trial—stands at the edge of judgment.

  POWER is a dark techno-epic of artificial intelligence, mythology, and the philosophy of power—a story about what it truly means to be human when gods take the form of code.

  Read POWER on Royal Road