Alastor Radio Tower Novels & Stories

My lungs burned and frost covered my gear, but we didn't stop to rest. As we reached near the lower access road, Vance pulled a hand scanner from his belt. He adjusted the frequency dial, trying to punch through the static. "Alpha, I'm picking up a localized emergency radio transmission," Vance called out, his voice suddenly dropping. "It's broadcasting from the estate’s outer relay tower." "Put it on speaker," I ordered, stopping in my tracks. Vance tapped the unit, and a broadcast filled the woods.

That morning, she stood beside Aaron outside the western relay station while two technicians worked on one of the communication towers. The station was only eleven kilometers outside New Haven's main wall, protected by a smaller security fence and a permanent military post. Rowan stood nearby with Captain Ryker and six soldiers. Aaron looked up at the tower. “How long?” One of the technicians answered from the control panel. “Twenty minutes, sir.” Aaron checked his watch. “The interference started after Adrian contacted us?” “Yes.” Natasha looked toward the technician. “Could Eden have caused it?” “We don't know yet.”

“Make sure the explosives are set correctly. I want the timer linked to my phone. One wrong move from Declan and the whole room goes up.” One of the men nodded. “Yes, sir. It’s all wired. He’ll have to choose.” Alastair smiled coldly. “Perfect. Let’s see how much his precious family is really worth to him.” He followed them downstairs to the specially prepared room. It was small, windowless, and lined with enough explosives to destroy half the estate. Wires ran along the walls, connected to a digital timer and a remote trigger on Alastair’s phone. His men laid Octavia and Seraphina on the floor and secured them with restraints. Alastair stood in the doorway, watching with satisfaction.

"Drop the gun, Dante! Your arm is literally falling off!" Bianca’s scream was ripped away by the freezing gale at the top of the Source tower. They were eight hundred feet up, standing on a narrow platform of reinforced steel that groaned under the pressure of the storm. Below them, the world was a grid of flickering lights and rising smoke. The "Purge" frequency was hitting its peak. Every transmission tower in the city hummed with a low, bone-shaking vibration that turned the air into static.

Alastor replied dismissively. “What’s it for?” Ashton pressed. “That’s none of your business,” Alastor shot back, his demeanor shifting to one of irritation. He has to be an alpha since he confidently spoke to Ashton that way, and Ashton appeared to be wary around him. After a moment, Ashton asked out of the blue, “Are you responsible for the note?” “What note?” Alastor asked, puzzled. Either he doesn't know, or he is such a good actor. But we certainly can't tell that yet.

The stillness wasn't normal, the sound seems to have been altered. We arrived at the tower and silently ascended the stairs. Through shattered windows, the wind howled. The sad and helpless old warning sirens blinked in circles. Malek switched the relay on at the top. “Warming up”, he stated, “It would take a minute, “once it's up, I’d send a blast to the Old Outcast Frequency.” Tyra kept her blade out and stood beside the doorway. Kieran paced up and down, looking around, staring out at the ruins.

But moving meant living. By morning, the first tower on the eastern ridge stood—a skeleton of salvaged scaffolding and courage. A girl tied a ribbon to its top. Arman signed the ledger: Tower 1, River Gate—Keeper: Mara D.—Lamp: Working—Sirens: Two—Radio: 4W—Sightlines: Good to Tower 2.

"It’s a dead tower. It hasn't seen maintenance since the sky turned grey." "It’s not dead," Alexander said. "It’s passive. It’s acting as a lens for the sea signal. If we can take the tower, we can invert the lens. Instead of letting the offshore signal down into the valley, we use the tower to blast the high-line’s indigo authorization code across the entire western sector."

It had belonged to the Van Dyne family since the 1880s, officially a weather station, but secretly the anchor for the family’s private shortwave network. "The Ouroboros signal is strongest here," Ethan said, checking a handheld frequency scanner. The device was chirping like a panicked bird. "Silas is using the satellite uplink in Rome, but the Torre di Luna is the only place that can override the ground-level broadcast. If we can get the ring into the transmitter's core, we can hijack his manifest." [Image: An ancient stone tower in Tuscany with a modern, high-tech satellite dish hidden within its ruined crenellations]

"Only since we set the trap. I want to know what went through last night." She extracted an old sandal and a fish. Both small, both knotted. "Some things still don't know where to go." Filtration doesn't throw away everything—sometimes it brings back what needs care. 7:31 AM — Roof of the Old Broadcasting Tower The antenna continued to lean toward the west but a rope was tied around its base—prayer flags draped along it, constructed of laminated sheets of school reports and handwritten notebooks. Caelan moved the solar array. The sun in the morning flashed for a moment against a metal screw.