The Ritual

(This is the first chapter of “Dead Serious”)

The High Tower of Circuits loomed over New Annapolis, its spires stretching skyward like a monument to both faith and machinery. From the outside, it resembled the ancient cathedrals of Old Earth—ornate, weathered stone, arched windows—but the details betrayed its true nature. Wires snaked like ivy across its surface, red lights flickered from embedded server stacks, and ports, some rusted and long-forgotten, jutted from walls and columns, waiting for inputs from an age no one remembered.

Inside, the air buzzed with human chatter and electronic murmurs. Worshippers in plain robes bowed their heads over handheld terminals, fingers ghosting across holo-screens as they muttered silent prayers. Teenagers clustered near access points, their faces bathed in the glow of the best WiFi in New Annapolis. Even ordinary citizens wandered the halls, taking advantage of the Church’s open public infrastructure—free connection, free power, free space to exist.

The spires of the Tower glint under a storm of signals and stars.

Gregor Hartford, Nova 7’s Defense Secretary, cut through the crowd, his entourage of political aides and Church liaisons flanking him. He was no stranger to the Tower, nor to the rules of dealing with the Church of Zero.

Never invoke their gods’ names.
Never unplug what they have plugged in.
And under no circumstances—never upload their old gods.

Yet here he was. About to break at least one of those rules.

A middle-aged man intercepted them, eager, clutching a campaign pamphlet in one hand and a neural pad in the other. One of Gregor’s aides stepped forward to wave him off, but Gregor held up a hand. Even now, even on this errand, he knew the value of a handshake and a well-placed word.

“Our defense is the most important thing in the universe,” he said, voice smooth, measured. “We have been a persecuted people since leaving Earth—alone in this vast and indifferent cosmos. We should never be afraid to show our strength. To take pride in what makes humanity unique.”

The man beamed, vindicated, and Gregor shook his hand, posed for a quick photo. Then, without another glance, he pressed forward, deeper into the Tower.

The halls darkened as they passed the common spaces. Soon, they reached an unmarked metal door, its frame almost hidden by the creeping growth of cables. One of the Church officials—a high-ranking figure, judging by his embroidered robes—retrieved a golden chain from around his neck. A simple USB drive dangled from it. He plugged it into a barely visible slot in the wall.

With a soft click, the door slid open. A thick plume of air exhaled from the space beyond, heavy with the scent of old incense, dust, and age

The stairwell into forgotten layers of civilization.

They stepped inside.

The glow of LEDs and natural light from the cathedral above vanished. The descent began in near silence, save for the sound of boots against stone steps. Candles flickered at intervals, their soft glow barely illuminating the narrow stairwell. Every so often, an ancient CRT monitor jutted from the wall, displaying unreadable script that flickered and glitched at irregular intervals.

The staircase spiraled downward, deeper than sight could follow.

Gregor kept his face impassive, but his aides were visibly uneasy. He had spent a lifetime in politics, had walked the gilded halls of Nova 7’s greatest institutions. He had debated men and women who wielded power like a weapon. But this was different. There was something ancient here, something unknowable, built long before his great-grandfather had ever taken office.

They passed levels where small knots of monks murmured to themselves, heads bowed in eternal digital prayer. The further they went, the fewer people they saw.

After several minutes, the procession halted at a landing. An arched entryway stood before them, its frame thick with cables and pipes, all feeding into the darkness beyond.

A voice, quiet and even, broke the silence.

“When we enter, you will approach the terminal,” one of the officials intoned. “You will input the password. Then, we will see if the Demon accepts your proposal.”

Gregor took the folded post-it note handed to him. A leet-speak password scrawled in ink.

“I’ve agreed to your terms,” he grumbled.

“But the Demon has not agreed,” the priest corrected.

Gregor rolled his eyes. The Church’s theatrics never impressed him. He knew what they wanted—what they had always wanted. They were zealots obsessed with a digital afterlife, with finding a way to awaken their old gods from the void. He was no fool; this was a transaction. They would kill his opponent, Kazuki Takahashi, in exchange for what they desired most.

A single fragment. A mere sliver of Black Energy.

It was a small price to pay.

They entered the chamber.

Hundreds of candles burned in neat rows, the only source of warmth in the cold, stone room. CRT screens lined the walls, their convex glass glowing softly with static. A pedestal stood in the center, facing a massive screen that loomed over everything like a watchful eye.

Gregor stepped forward. The screen pulsed with a waiting cursor.

> PASSWORD:

He glanced at the post-it note, fingers hovering over the keys. He had done worse things in his life. This was just another deal.

One by one, he keyed in the string of letters and numbers.

He hit Enter.

The candles went out.

A gust of unseen wind roared through the chamber, snuffing out the warmth of the screens, replacing it with a suffocating, electric cold. The flickering blues and greens of the old monitors shifted, their glow turning red—each and every one of them flashing the same symbol.

A white, skull-like face.

Then, the massive screen at the front of the chamber flickered. The static resolved into a figure. A silhouette. It loomed impossibly tall, shifting, pixelated edges crackling with barely contained energy. The skull face appeared again, blinking into focus.

Then—

A shrill, warbling screech ripped through the chamber, starting as a series of rapid, jittering beeps before plunging into a grinding howl. Metal against metal, a violent symphony of distortion. The sound sputtered, rising and falling in erratic bursts, each note clashing with the next in a mechanical shriek—like some unseen thing awakening from dormancy, screaming itself into existence.

Then—one final victorious chime.

And silence.

The screens went black.

A hand gripped Gregor’s arm.

“Quickly now,” a Church official whispered. “We must go.”

The procession turned sharply, moving fast, retreating up the stairs. Gregor followed, but his mind lingered.

He did not believe in ghosts. He did not believe in gods. But something had been in that room.

Something old. Something wicked.

And he had just made a digital handshake with it.

Now, all he could do was wait.