A Sound Like Truth

The sterile air of the vault, moments before thick with the quiet reverence of Anya’s brother’s final words, was now sliced by a new sound. A faint, metallic scrape, followed by a muffled cough, echoed from the tunnel’s mouth. Mykhailo’s head snapped up, his gaze, accustomed to the grey battlefield of memory, now sharp and present. He looked at Anya, whose face, pale as the preserved seeds surrounding them, mirrored his own dawning alarm.

"What was that?" Anya whispered, her voice barely a breath against the hum of the vault’s climate control.

Mykhailo didn't answer. He moved, a fluid, urgent motion, his steps silent on the polished concrete. The sounds were distinct now – the uneven rhythm of boots on gravel, the clink of metal, the low murmur of voices. Not the familiar camaraderie of soldiers he’d once known, but something colder, more deliberate. Mercenaries. Korzh.

He reached the arched entrance, peering into the oppressive darkness of the tunnel. The air carried a faint scent of damp earth and something acrid, like burnt circuitry. The voices were closer, the scrape of boots more pronounced. A heavy, rhythmic tread. They weren't searching; they were advancing.

"They're here," Mykhailo stated, his voice low and gravelly, devoid of the professor's measured tone. It was the sound of a man accustomed to threats. He turned back into the vault, his eyes scanning the immediate area, cataloging potential advantages. Near a stack of crates, tucked partially behind a defunct emergency light, he saw it. A small, battered radio, its plastic casing cracked, a dangling antenna the only sign of its purpose. It was exactly what they needed.

The radio felt cold and alien in Mykhailo's hands. He turned it over, his fingers tracing the gouges and cracks in the plastic casing. It was a simple thing, designed for communication, but now it felt like an instrument of a more ancient art. The faint metallic scrape, the muffled cough from the tunnel entrance – those were the notes, the raw material. He closed his eyes, pushing past the phantom whispers of forgotten lectures, the fractured echoes of academic discourse. Instead, he strained to recall the visceral, bone-deep rhythm of the battlefield, the cacophony that became a language of its own.

"Artillery," he murmured, the word rough in his throat. He didn't remember *hearing* it so much as *feeling* it. The low rumble that vibrated through the soles of his boots, the high-pitched whine that preceded the earth-shattering concussion. He could almost taste the dust, feel the sting of pulverized rock on his exposed skin. His mind, a battlefield of its own, was beginning to reassemble the sonic shards.

Anya moved with a quiet urgency, her movements economical. She understood his focus, the way his brow furrowed, the slight tilt of his head as if listening to a distant signal. She grabbed a crate, hefting it beside him, its surface smooth and cool beneath her hands. "This way," she directed softly, pointing to a alcove just beyond the main entrance, where the curved walls seemed to converge. "The acoustics in here… they’re unusual. Yevhen used it for a small sonic emitter once. It might amplify things."

Mykhailo nodded, his gaze still distant. He switched the radio on, a faint static hissing to life. He twisted the tuning dial, not searching for a broadcast, but for the absence of it, the clean frequency that would be his canvas. His fingers, clumsy at first, began to manipulate the controls, his breath catching in his chest. He wasn't seeking a memory; he was reconstructing a pattern, a phonetic architecture of destruction.

He brought the radio to his lips, inhaled sharply, and then, a low, guttural sound emerged. Not a word, but a pure vibration, a deep hum that seemed to resonate from the very marrow of his bones. He adjusted the volume, pushing it higher, then lower, searching for the right timbre. He layered it with a series of staccato clicks, mimicking the percussive crack of incoming shells, the rapid-fire bursts that preceded a sustained barrage. His eyes flickered open, locking onto Anya’s. There was a nascent fire in them, a flicker of the strategist he was becoming, or perhaps, had always been. He began to speak again, this time in a series of short, sharp breaths, punctuated by the metallic rasp of the radio’s speaker, the sounds coalescing into something terrifyingly familiar. The seed vault, with its peculiar architecture, began to hum in response.

The deep hum, amplified by the curved walls, deepened into a seismic thrum that seemed to vibrate from the bedrock itself. Mykhailo’s head was thrown back, his eyes closed, his body a conduit for the sonic phantom he was conjuring. He’d found the cadence: a low, oscillating growl, interspersed with sharp, percussive bursts that mimicked the crack and whistle of incoming ordnance. Anya watched, her breath held, as he modulated the volume, coaxing a chilling realism from the battered radio. He was creating not just sound, but the *feeling* of impending doom.

Through the winding tunnels, the distorted fragments of voices, tinny and agitated, began to filter in.

“What the hell is that?” a gruff voice, heavily accented, crackled through the rock. “Sounds too close.”

Another voice, higher pitched, more panicked: “Artillery? Did they find us?”

“Shut up, Petrov,” a third voice snapped, laced with exasperation. “Command said the sector was clear. Just echoes.”

But the echoes intensified, Mykhailo’s meticulous layering transforming the initial hum into a convincing crescendo. The staccato bursts became more frequent, closer, each one a sharp, percussive punctuation mark in the building dread.

“That’s not echoes, Vasily,” the first voice, the gruff one, protested, a tremor of fear now undeniable. “That’s… that’s coming down the main shaft. It’s *incoming*.”

A heavy, exasperated sigh, then Korzh’s voice, cutting through the rising panic: “Stand down! It’s a diversion. A sound trap. We proceed.” His tone was firm, but the edge of annoyance was clear. He was accustomed to obedience, not interrogation.

“A sound trap?” Petrov’s voice squeaked back, barely audible. “For what? Who’s even out there?”

Mykhailo shifted, his grip tightening on the radio. He fed the noise another layer: a high-pitched, metallic shriek that mimicked the scream of shells passing overhead, followed by a deep, guttural *thump* that suggested impact. He didn't need to see their faces; he could feel their fear tightening like a noose in the narrow tunnels.

“Forward!” Korzh’s voice boomed, an attempt to reassert control. “Move! Now!”

But the urgency in his command was met with a hesitant chorus.

“Comrade Korzh,” the gruff voice began again, a note of open defiance creeping in, “this sounds bad. Real bad. Maybe we should hold. Reconnaissance… see what this is.”

“Yeah, Korzh,” another voice joined in, softer, laced with a mercenary’s calculation. “What if it’s an actual counter-attack? Not worth our pay to get blown up by ghosts.”

Anya’s eyes met Mykhailo’s. A subtle nod passed between them. His manufactured terror was working. The carefully constructed illusion was unraveling their enemy’s cohesion. The silence that followed Korzh’s command was pregnant with unspoken insubordination. The sound of Mykhailo’s amplified artillery barrage continued, a relentless tide against the fragile walls of Korzh’s authority, each simulated explosion chipping away at his men’s resolve.