The Genius System

The official announcements spoke of peace. The cameras showed leaders smiling, pens hovering over treaties, handshakes framed in ornate rooms. But behind those smiles, every delegate carried the same grim dossier: the anomaly. The thing no one wanted to name in front of the public.

The Geneva summit was only the first. Others followed in quick succession, Zurich, Astana, Istanbul, each described to the world as "regional stabilization conferences." In truth, they were crisis councils where equations mattered more than speeches.

The delegates knew war was now a secondary theater. Armies could still march, tanks could still fire, sanctions could still cripple markets. But none of it would matter if the black line in the sky reached them.

Macro's delegation traveled with no flags, no parades. Lassen walked into those rooms with the same detached air he carried in his small apartment. Blanket or tailored suit, the attitude never changed: he was not there to impress. He was there to count margins.

The Cartel was there too. Their representatives were colder now, less theatrical than in New York. The man with the perfect hair and the ice-blue eyes no longer smiled like a predator observing prey. He was attentive, cautious, calculating. It was the first sign that even the unseen rulers had limits to their confidence.

The data was projected on walls, glowing in sterile light. Graphs sloped upward. Stars disappeared from sections of sky where telescopes once mapped them. The black wave had not yet entered the galaxy, but its trajectory was undeniable.

"Absorption events" the physicists called them. "Negative flux zones." Words designed to hide terror inside syllables.

But one term stuck, whispered between the coffee breaks and the hushed emails: the Néant.

Every meeting followed the same ritual. Proposals poured in from teams desperate for a solution. Particle injection. Directed energy. Quantum echo fields.

Each one was tested. The System ran the simulations at Lassen's request, producing neat arrays of probability trees. And every time, the branches collapsed into the same final box: failure.

[We've run every permutation within the energy budget of your civilization] the System said once, voice unusually quiet [None holds]

"Budget" Lassen muttered, almost laughing "As if the universe takes credit cards"

Kaela smashed a hand on the table during one session "Then give me something beyond budget! Something theoretical, I don't care how insane. Don't just give us dead ends dressed in statistics!"

But the System had no miracle left. Its answers grew shorter, the tone closer to resignation than arrogance.

Meanwhile, Adrian monitored the fronts. The war did not vanish simply because leaders spoke of peace. Skirmishes continued. Borders bristled. Armies eyed one another across lines drawn in desert and forest.

But even soldiers could sense the shift. For the first time in living memory, generals refused orders to escalate. A colonel on the northern front told Adrian in a coded transmission: "Why should we bleed here, when the sky itself is bleeding?"

The message spread. Troops who had prepared for combat now spent nights staring at stars, whispering that some were missing.

The world's citizens felt it too. At first it was only rumor, conspiracy videos on dark corners of the net, blurry photographs of skies where a faint shadow smeared the constellations. Governments denied everything. State channels looped phrases like "instrument error" and "satellite miscalibration."

But denial has a half-life.

One evening, in Lagos, thousands gathered at the shoreline to watch the horizon dim long before the sun had set. "It's the haze" officials insisted. "Seasonal weather."

The next night, it happened again.

By the third, markets plunged without needing a reason. Insurance companies stopped selling futures. People began hoarding candles, bottled water, fuel. The words changed from rumor to certainty in the mouths of ordinary people: "The end is coming."

Inside a secured chamber beneath Macro's council hall, Lassen listened to the latest reports. Alex had gathered scientists, economists, even clergy. Everyone had been asked the same question: what can humanity do in the face of the void?

The answers ranged from prayer to mathematics, from bunker plans to colonization fantasies.

None carried weight.

[Your civilization is built on the assumption of continuity] the System said [Continuity is the one thing you are about to lose.]

Lassen closed his eyes and let silence linger. He could feel Kaela trembling in the seat beside him, Adrian standing like a statue near the wall, Alex writing notes with his calm precision.

He finally spoke, voice flat: "Then we have to pretend continuity still exists. Until the last moment."

At the next summit, tensions exploded.

The Cartel's representative demanded full control over the response program, arguing that fragmented efforts would only accelerate chaos.

"You want control, not survival" Lassen said sharply across the table. His sarcasm was gone; only iron remained.

"Survival is control" the man replied.

The room filled with shouts, politicians, generals, scientists, each protecting their slice of power. It took hours before the noise subsided, but the result was clear: no one trusted anyone else.

A fragile compromise was reached: joint task forces, data shared across borders, experimental projects funded collectively. But the collaboration was poisoned by suspicion. Every lab feared sabotage from the other. Every simulation was double-checked, as if betrayal hid inside the equations.

And the Néant moved closer.

The absorption line thickened. Stars vanished from the maps like extinguished candles. Even ordinary telescopes, those sold to hobbyists, began to detect the absence. The lie of "sensor error" could no longer hold.

In Macro's streets, riots erupted. Some demanded truth. Others demanded salvation. Shops burned, banks were looted. Rumors of mass suicides spread in coastal towns where people believed the ocean would swallow them first.

Lassen watched none of it. He returned to the same small apartment where it had all begun. He wrapped himself in his old blanket, placed a mug of hot chocolate on the desk, and stared at the System's fading glow.

[You've tried everything] the voice said quietly [Every path, every permutation. The result does not change.]

"Then maybe we never had a choice" he murmured.

The silence that followed was heavier than war.

Outside, in the darkening sky, the bruise of the Néant widened, stretching like a wound across the stars.