The Siege of Periapsis

Script

INT. ORBITAL DRILL HALL “PERIAPSIS” - ARTIFICIAL DAY

A vast centrifuge-ring gym wrapped in stained banners of rival HOUSES. Recruits in patched armor run mag-boots along a curving wall. Above them, the IRON PSALTER hangs like a black monolith—runes and telemetry crawling over its surface.

LEGATE SERA KEST paces the inner rail, stone-still. TRIBUNE JANNIK COR shadows her, counting heads with a soldier’s eye. DR. IVO RELLAN stands apart, a tablet in hand—more astronomer than officer.

The DRILL HORN BLARES. A squad hits a door marked: AIRLOCK SIM / VACUUM DISCIPLINE.

Kest raises two fingers.

KEST
Mask-seal check. Then you breathe when I tell you.

The recruits snap seals, synchronized. One—YOUNG RECRUIT from a rival house—hesitates. Cor steps in, correcting the clamp with a hard twist.

COR
You die alone if you’re late.

Rellan watches the Psalter’s live feed: HEART RATE, O2 SAT, TIME CODES.

RELLAN
(to Kest, low)
Your margins are thin even in training.

KEST
Then we train inside thin margins.

Kest nods. The airlock door cycles. The outer chamber HISS—pressure drop begins.

Suddenly—A JOLT. The chamber’s status lights stutter from GREEN to AMBER to DEAD BLACK.

A beat.

Then the chamber’s inner hatch SLAMS shut on its own.

Inside, recruits pound the window. Muffled SHOUTS.

Cor’s hand goes to his sidearm—instinct.

COR
That hatch shouldn’t—

KEST
(to the hall)
KNEEL. HANDS BEHIND HELMET. SILENCE.

The entire drill hall obeys like a single organism. The noise dies. Only the faint, terrifying thud of trapped fists.

Rellan darts to the control pedestal, fingers flying.

RELLAN
Power bus is live. The display is lying.

KEST
How many inside?

COR
Eight.

KEST
We open it without tearing seals.

Rellan’s eyes flick to the Psalter’s stream.

RELLAN
The Psalter is still logging. It sees the truth.

On the monolith, text etches itself in iron light:

IRON PSALTER (ON SCREEN)
TIMESTAMP 04:17:09 — AIRLOCK SIM: DEPRESSURIZATION INITIATED.
TIMESTAMP 04:17:12 — MANUAL OVERRID