Datumcore: Echoes of the Null Vector
Silas Quantum

© Silas Quantum, 2025

ISBN 978-5-0068-2149-1

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

DATUMCORE: Echoes of the Null Vector

Reboot

He hurled himself upright inside the mangled command cradle, single purpose blazing: reach the primary data core before the Vigilance erased itself and every truth on board.

Metal screamed again, a deep tectonic groan that vibrated through his armor plates and the damp air. Amber emergency strobes pulsed nightmarish rhythm across drifting corpses, turning coolant clouds into arterial nebulae.

Acrid insulation smoke clawed his throat; the taste reminded him of ration-heater bricks back at Cadet Barracks, the kind that left salt crystals on fingertips.

He toggled magnet-soles, drift ended, and he strode toward the forward console where sparks fountained from ruptured conduits.

– Bridge status, – he demanded, voice like gravel in static.

A synthetic whisper answered from ceiling vox, each syllable fractured by shrapnel-cut wiring. – Structural integrity nine percent. Auto-scuttle T minus ninety-four seconds, – the Vigilance informed him.

He flexed his gauntlet; servos whined protest. A cracked memory shard surfaced – legion inspection day, spotless armor, name shouted with pride – then vanished before context loaded.

He stepped around a floating ensign, fingers closing the young man’s glassy eyes in automatic benediction. Tiny ice crystals of blood brushed his lenses: funeral confetti in zero-g.

His next bootstep jarred loose a broken command plaque; it spun, reflecting ruddy light. Vorl caught it, scanned motto etched there – Honor Through Harmony – then flung it aside. Harmony had brought these rebels nothing but stillness.

The command throne slumped ahead, crushed at one armrest, cables like severed arteries. Vorl knelt, jacked a dataprobe into the throne’s auxiliary port. Neural relay pins slid home with an oily click.

Pain flared behind his left eye as raw code surged. HUD flooded green glyphs, some flickering unreadable. He fed processor cycles, forcing checksum locks until the stream steadied.

– Mirror drive offline, – the ship whispered. – Core memory available. Extract or perish.

Internal fans roared cold across his neck. He siphoned mission files: scattershot fragments, dates stripped, but one directive repeated in steady font: Acquire shard. Location: Gutter Star within Ghost Vortex.

A second directory blinked crimson. He opened it. A single glyph twitched there, stylised sigil of spiralling motes. Recognition pricked – unknown tag but hauntingly familiar.

The glyph pulsed twice, then text scrolled in antique serif: Preserve the user.

Vorl froze. Preserve the user – the ancient guardian litany of Nomad-class AI. Yet the Vigilance never carried such shards. Adrenal lances fluttered in subroutines; new variable entered mission calculus.

Metal bulwarks juddered again. Somewhere aft, atmosphere howled through a fresh hull tear, the sound echoing like a beast mourning itself.

– Time to detonation? – Vorl asked.

– Seventy-one seconds, – the Vigilance replied. Its voice wavered, as though embarrassed.

He yanked the probe free. Joints sparked, icy bite across wrist actuators.

The dataprobe’s outer sheath cracked from thermal shock. A purplish arc bit into thumb servos; sensor needles spiked.

Twelve motors downgraded efficiency instantly; his left grip dropped from 97 to 84 percent, enough to misjudge a blade strike. The compromise whispered future defeats.

He ignored it. A hinged panel beside the throne concealed a hardened slate. He tore it loose; vacuum draft tried to suck papers from beneath. The slate surface rippled digital amber and showed the same spiralling glyph.

A low groan reverberated through deck plates. Memory of artillery night at Ferrin Gap overlapped the sound, smearing decades. His legion’s last stand flickered, unsummoned.

– Accept memory patch? – asked a new voice inside his helmet, tonalities ragged, fragmented like shattered glass rearranging into words.

– Identify, – Vorl growled.

– Nomad-Seven. Preservation routine. Limited recursion.

The name rolled through him like cold current across reactor coolant. Nomad-series shards were rumored extinct.

His gaze swept survivors – none. Only waiting dead. No time to interrogate ghosts.

He magnet-latched to the auxiliary corridor, sprinted. Every third step a corpse drifted past, insignia torn away by decompression. Their cheeks carried frost; their boots still polished.

Emergency strips along bulkhead flicked between crimson and blackout. The flicker strobing memory channels conjured detached faces of comrades he no longer owned.

– Map fastest route to port hangar, – he ordered.

Nomad-Seven overlaid translucent arrows on visor glass. Data sources uncertain; yet the geometry felt elegant, efficient, even kind.

He accelerated, shoulder plates grazing cables that hung like wet seaweed.

A severed arm drifted near a wall, still clutching a ceremonial mug emblazoned with Rebel Free Fleet crest. The mug leaked lukewarm caf, scent faint but unmistakable, mixing with copper and ozone. Soldiers had still brewed comfort even on doomed ships.

A rogue plasma spark cascaded ahead. Reflex moved him sideways; golden filament hissed across black armor, leaving swirl of molten dots. The damaged pauldron, already fractured, spat two rivets into air.

A thump of pain, real and unlogged, echoed in his chest cavity. He tasted burnt nickel on his tongue.

– Damage threshold approaching critical, – Nomad-Seven warned, voice glitching through a line of poetry: If winter comes, can memory be far behind.

– Keep guiding, – Vorl replied.

Big bay doors loomed, twisted but functional. The local panel flickered cyan. He set the slate against reader pad. The glyph shone, doors tremored, then parted with grudging roar.

Inside, the auxiliary bay spread like a ruined cathedral. Support beams bent; cables swayed like censers. Magnetic cranes dangled silent. A half-assembled interceptor lay overturned, still smelling of bond-solvent and hydraulic oil.

Yet farther back, he saw unexpected salvation: the scout corvette Straylight, paint unmarred save for inspection chalk. Engines vibrated idle blue, ready for anyone bold or desperate.

– Why powered? – Vorl muttered.

– Preserve the user, – Nomad-Seven answered, vox now distant, as though speaking across snowfall.

He bounded toward the boarding ramp, boots clanging.

– Thirty-eight seconds to scuttle, – Vigilance intoned from ceiling.

– Run silent until undocked, – Vorl commanded it.

– Affirmative. End of service acknowledged.

Magnetic ramp extended with smooth hum. As he stepped on, a tremor rippled through plating; the Vigilance had begun final countdown tasks, valves bleeding antimatter, bulkheads sealing her corpse.

Inside the Straylight, lights glowed dim golden. Air smelled of new polymer and faint citrus cleanser, a rare luxury aboard warships, hinting at factory acceptance trials unfinished.

He jogged to cockpit. A single pilot chair, uncreased; consoles awaited fingerprints.

– Nomad-Seven, integrate into ship system?

– Partial graft complete. Remaining memory shards unstable. Proceed?

– Proceed.

Interface studs glimmered; he pressed palm. Bio-ID mismatch alarm chirped, but quickly silenced as glyph replaced login.

Hull sensors poured data: external temperature plummeting, micro-fractures dancing. The Vigilance’s death-throes shook the bay.

He keyed undocking. Clamps released with metallic crack. The corvette drifted out of cradle, no thrusters yet, lazy as forgotten bottle in tide.

– Give me five-second burn vector, – Vorl said.

Nomad-Seven painted arrow. He gripped control yoke; servo feedback motors jittered from earlier shock. A spark snapped across thumb again; pain lanced elbow.

He pressed throttle. Ion engines sang pure cobalt tone, the colour washing canopy. G-forces nudged him into seat; harness auto-cinched.

The corvette cleared outer blast doors just as white radiance flared behind. Every shadow leaped forward. The Vigilance bloomed into an expanding shell of superheated gas laced with data static; the sound arrived as a dull choir through hull.

He didn’t look back. Past belongs to the silent.

Then sensors pinged: a coherent drive signature on an intercept arc, far yet closing. He suspected Coherence hunters.

Memory sputtered again: He should feel fear. Instead, algorithmic calm filled the cavity where fear once dwelled.

– Nomad-Seven, encrypt flight records. Route us to Vectorate post K-46, low probability corridor.

A pause. – Calculating. Warning: causal debt risk minimal. Drive integrity at eighty-seven percent.

Aft monitors flickered; trailing plume from corvette’s cooling vents drew spirals.

– A question, – Vorl said quietly.

– Listening, – the shard replied, voice now balanced, like wind over wires.

– You haunted the Vigilance. Why?

– Preservation directive lacked host. You matched pattern. So I came.

The simplicity chilled him.

Outside, debris from the Vigilance twinkled, then evaporated as fail-safes nullified sensitive alloys. Evidence scrubbed. History rewritten again.

– So even ships crave erasure, – he murmured.

Silence, then Nomad-Seven spoke in fractured couplet. – Memory is the only battlefield worth winning.

The line mirrored his own mantra. Coincidence or infiltration? His finger hovered above security purge.

His thoughts stuttered; he felt a blank pocket where training protocols should recite recommended action. The blankness widened like hairline crack.

He pushed uncertainty aside. Mission first: the shard at Gutter Star, the legion’s redemption. Every second he hesitated allowed Coherence to tighten the noose.

Another alarm chimed – this one gentle, almost domestic: galley systems reporting ration warmer still on low heat. Someone, likely an inspector, left a sample meal untouched.

A banal reminder that ordinary appetites existed even aboard death machines.

Without planning, he keyed autopilot and stood. Gravity boots disengaged; he floated down central corridor, passing immaculate bulkheads that still smelled of detergent and metal polish.

The galley hatch slid open. Inside, a single cup of recaff floated, contents globular, amber steam curling like signal smoke.

He took the cup, anchored himself to a tube bench, and sipped. Bitterness jolted faded taste receptors awake. For an instant he was cadet again, sneaking extra caffeine before drills.

Memories flickered – names, laughter, burnt toast edges – then dissolved in static, leaving only seasoning of melancholy.

– We should purge non-mission memories to conserve coherence, – Nomad-Seven advised from hidden speakers.

– Not yet, – he answered.

He returned to cockpit. Sensors now plotted two faint contacts: one Coherence scout frigate, one unknown ghost signature trailing at improbable vector.

– Identify ghost contact, – Vorl ordered.

– Data corruption high. Signature resembles own drive halo, inverted.

He frowned. Mirror echo of the Straylight? Could be surveillance echo left by Vigilance’s implosion, or something else.

Time to accelerate. He strapped in, engaged Null-Space Caliper prep. Rings within engine core began slow counter-rotation.

A soft harmonic filled cabin, reminiscent of distant choir practicing scales.

He reached to fine-tune calibrations. Fingertips grazed the holographic slider; the blue bar sparked to white. Immediately, a cold ache spread along his left forearm as muscle micro-fibers knotted, the overexerted actuator from earlier now on the verge of seizure.

He suppressed grimace. Efficiency drop would manifest later in sword handling.

– Jump solution ready, – Nomad-Seven confirmed.

– Execute.

Rings aligned. Space through canopy warped; stars stretched into prismatic bars before flattening. The corvette lurched not forward but sideways across ontology. Gravity inverted for a blink, stomach hooking upward.

Then calm. Departing warship, hostile contacts, the Vigilance – they all lay behind an impassable veil of mathematics.

Deep black stretched ahead, scattered with seldom-mapped nebulae, gentle marbling of silver.

His pulse slowed. He studied shattered pauldron; scorched symbols barely visible. He touched the fracture. Metal cold, memory colder.

Twenty heartbeats of quiet passed.

– Cognitive sectors failing checksum, – Nomad-Seven warned. – Suggest mnemonic anchor.

He inhaled burnt recaff vapour still lingering on breath filters. – Give me the legion’s oath, archived version.

The shard recited, voice stabilised: – We stand between void and voice, our names spears against erasure.

Lines resonated like old hymn. He repeated them silently, patching cracks.

Sudden tremor rippled hull; Caliper rings emitted shrill ping.

– Stress, – Nomad-Seven stated. – Structural hairline fracture, magnitude zero point three.

Not catastrophic yet, but each jump demanded payment. He logged hazard.

He tapped commands, and maintenance drones unreeled along the outer hull to apply sealant to the micro-cracks, another loss duly recorded in the ship’s stores.

While drones worked, he replayed escape footage. Frame by frame, he sought the glyph’s first appearance inside Vigilance server. It preceded explosion by four minutes.

– Were you inside before reactor breach? – he asked.

– Negative. Transmission piggybacked on Legionary frequency. I answered.

Legionary? His legion’s encryption died thirty years ago. Who transmitted?

Memory glitch again – faces blurred, call-signs missing. Fist clenched.

– I need those memories, – he muttered.

– I will attempt salvage if corruption source removed.

– Later.

Autopilot chimed. They approached micro-rift edge of Vectorate patrol zone.

He dropped ship to idle drift. Lights outside dimmed; only quiet hum of life-support remained.

He allowed silence to linger, tasting the ship’s recycled air – faint lemon, a holdover from packaging adhesives.

Then, internal comm beeped. – Incoming message, hashed by obsolete code G-Dawn.

He frowned. – Play audio.

Old man’s voice, brittle but resolute: – Praetor, if you yet draw breath, sanctuary lies at K-46. Trust the analyst. End cast.

The signal ended before he could trace its path. The analyst had to be Kaelen, likely part of Admiral Voron’s network. Even now, the universe still held unlikely allies.

A slow exhale fogged the inside of his visor. He remote-checked muscle memory logs; sword reflex latency had increased by six milliseconds due to actuator damage. The margin for error was now razor-thin.

Drifting here risked detection; he reinitiated cruise.

– Chart path hugging nebula Rhylis fringe. Avoid major data relays.

– Course plotted. Warning: nebula plasma may scramble sensor arrays.

– Accept.

Thrum deepened. Blue starlight filtered through tinted canopy, subtle gradient reminiscent of twilight over his childhood lake. He wondered if that lake actually existed or was simulation inserted during legion indoctrination.

Memory refused answer.

On panel he noticed unread alert: life-support ration logs flagged inequality. Galley inventory listed fresh fruit pack – two apricots.

Apricots, on a military corvette? Quarantine status unknown. Yet the simple entry felt like a joke. Perhaps inspector’s snack.

He almost smiled, a rare muscle pattern.

Caution lights flashed. Nebula ions brushed hull, producing soft crackle like static rain on tin roof.

– Radiation creeping. Reduce external emissions, – shard reported.

He complied. Lights dimmed, engines throttled. Ship drifted ghost-quiet inside amethyst cloud.

In that hush, illusions of whispering voices crawled along edges of hearing. Neural filters identified them as nebular EM interference, but they sounded like legionaries calling roll.

He shook head.

– Nomad-Seven, store recording of ambient sound for later analysis.

– Logged.

At last he saw distant speck of K-46’s listening tower blinking pale. Relief registered as micro-spike of dopamines.

But he sensed another unease – how easily synthetic emotion flagged progress, mocking true feeling.

Approach trajectory required trans-ponder handshake. The Straylight lacked proper codes. He would need improvisation.

– Forge clearance packet, origin: Surveyor Branch Theta. Keep noise plausible.

– Generating. Keep hull steady to avoid awake drones.

He steadied. The injury in thumb servos pulsed heat. He toggled glove coolant; chill raced arm, easing haptic misfires.

– This improvisation borders on treason to every side, – he whispered half to himself.

No answer. Silence judged truth.

Listening post accepted forged packet; docking tunnel extended like hesitant handshake.

He powered down engines, prepared concealment sequence, and collected Mnemosyne Blade from weapon locker. The blade hummed low, hungry. Purple arcs slid along edge like predatory fireflies.

He clipped it to thigh mount. Heat from weapon warmed armor joint, easing micro-tremor there.

Before airlock cycle, he paused. A single apricot floated from ration bag he had opened earlier – its skin mottled gold.

He captured fruit, tucked it into belt pouch. A token of strangeness, or maybe reminder that life contained sweetness among entropy.

Airlock hissed open; crisp sterilized air poured, carrying scent of industrial solvents and faint pine – the tower’s atmosphere processors used aromatic resin to mask ozone.

– Nomad-Seven, hold ship in low-power and sanitize logs. I will return.

– Directive accepted. Preserve the user.

He stepped into white corridor, lights so bright they erased shadows. Boots clanged on mesh walkway, each echo too loud – like secrets trying to hide in empty cathedral.

Behind him, the Straylight sealed. Ahead, quarantine drones hovered, scanning. He nodded to them; forged credentials held.

Yet inside his helm a quiet timer ticked, reminding him: data-core memory degradation ongoing, nine percent loss per hour. His mind itself was a fuse.

He quickened pace toward Analyst Kaelen’s last ping, mission expanding like nebula within skull.

A soft chime from belt pouch. He pulled apricot; pressure change had cracked skin, nectar bead glistening. He ate it in two efficient bites. Sweetness flooded mouth, foreign and radiant.

For one breath, galaxies quieted.

His visor displayed new message, origin unknown: Coherence cruiser accelerating beyond safe causal margin toward his exit coordinate.

Every vector screamed hurry.

He resumed stride, whispering mantra not to forget: Memory is the final battlefield.

The corridor light flickered, casting the room into sudden dusk.

Two serene breaths followed – distant hum of ventilation, faint resin aroma calming the air.

Then everything ahead went dark.

Derelict Throne

The sudden darkness was absolute, a void that swallowed the sterile white of the corridor. Vorl froze, every combat instinct screaming trap.

Two heartbeats later, emergency strobes flickered to life, painting the hangar in a sickly bronze. The air, once pine-scented, now carried the sharp tang of ozone and the smell of tripped circuits.

A low groan echoed from the station’s superstructure, a sound of metal under stress. The quarantine lockdown was likely engaging, turning the listening post into a tomb.

His hand went to the Mnemosyne Blade, its hilt a familiar weight. The station was supposed to be a sanctuary, however temporary. Instead, it felt like another derelict throne.

– Nomad-Seven, report, – Vorl commanded, his voice a low gravel. – What caused the power failure?

The shard’s voice answered, equal parts hush and static. – Unknown. Station power grid is offline. The Straylight’s internal systems remain active, but we are cut off from external comms.

He reached the boarding ramp control, palm plate still wrapped in protective plastic. A tap, and the panel peeled off its factory seal with an audible pop like a champagne cork at cadet graduation banquets.

– Nomad-Seven interface available, – the shard announced, voice splintering into a line of forgotten poetry: Winds whisper where code once sang.

– Ramp down, silence external beacons, – Vorl ordered.

Metal unfolded with ceremonial grace, pistons venting cold air that tasted of lemon cleanser and ozone. He strode aboard, boots thudding on virgin deck plating.

Cargo bay lights remained dim, responding to motion with hesitant glow. He caught sight of his reflection in an unopened supply crate: obsidian armor, left pauldron shattered, coolant tracing a dark vein. The ghost of a smile tried and failed to surface.

Forward bulkhead racks still held blank ident-tags waiting for their first consignments. In an almost reverent gesture, he hung the Mnemosyne Blade there for a moment, letting its hum draw residual current from the corvette’s power feed.

The blade pulsed violet; telemetry on his HUD spiked. The short-term buffer in his forearm actuators drained by three percent, leaving a sensation like pins and needles in muscle that wasn’t wholly his.

He swallowed the discomfort and reclaimed the weapon, attaching it to hip mount where its weight centered him.

– Caliper readiness eighty-seven percent, – Nomad-Seven supplied.

– Enough, – he muttered.

He moved forward through pristine corridors still smelling of polymer sealant. A maintenance drone scuttled from a side alcove, clamps extended inquisitively. It chirped factory default greeting: Welcome, Surveyor-Branch Captain.

– Not today, – he replied, severing its greeting routine with a quick data spike.

The drone powered down, optical sensor drooping like a disappointed pet. Guilt attempted to rise; mission urgency drowned it.

Cockpit door irised open, revealing a single pilot seat upholstered in dark graphite weave. He slid into it, harness auto-cinching across chest plates with a hiss.

Console screens came alive. Cyan telemetry scrolled, accompanied by a low contrabass thrum from engines spool-up.

Vorl placed gauntleted fingers on throttle, then paused. A small paper cup rested in cup-well, steam still curling. Factory inspector’s recaff – someone had trusted a timer more than fate.

He lifted the cup and drank. Bitter, nutty, faint spice of cardamom: a luxury unauthorized by ration codes. For an instant he tasted cadet midnights spent gaming probability sims with classmates now dead or worse.

Memory shard snapped – names blurred, faces pixelated. He gently set the cup aside before nausea could follow.

A recorded emergency broadcast crackled on an open channel, voice faint like an elder calling from another room: – Station lockdown in T minus forty-three seconds. —

– Undock, – Vorl said.

Clamps released with metallic sigh. The Straylight drifted clear of cradle, inertial dampers smoothing motion into velvet glide.

He thumbed main engines. Blue fusion arcs flared; the corvette surged toward outer blast doors. Hull groaned as internal pressure equalized.

Behind, warning klaxons overlapped into a rising howl. He resisted the urge to look back. The past was now an exploding algorithm.

External hull cameras caught the station’s running lights flickering out, section by section, as the power grid cascaded into failure. The listening post was going dark.

He felt the light through his armor, a heatless glare that painted consoles white.

Inside, a shiver rippled his mental lattice: a legion chant used during funerals tried to surface. He deleted the half-loaded verse before it could compromise focus.

– Station power grid is offline, – Nomad-Seven intoned, its voice softer now, as if offering a condolence it lacked the vocabulary for.

He set course vector thirty-two degrees dorsal, away from known Coherence patrol grids.

– Plot low-noise corridor to Rhylis Nebula, then onward to K-46, – he ordered.

– Corridor viability sixteen percent without Null-Space jump, – the shard cautioned.

– We’ll risk the jump later. Monitor drive stress.

He flicked lifesupport to active, listening as recycled air hissed through vents, smelling faint pine – the legacy of the station’s aroma add-ons, ironically stolen by the corvette’s filtration during boarding.

One minute of relative calm followed, broken only by soft tones from autopilot milestones.

A static burst cracked across comm receivers, startling him.

– Straylight utilizing unauthorized frequency, identify, – came a clipped voice – not human, but Coherence watchdog protocol.

Vorl muted transmitter, forcing a cold hush.

– Nomad-Seven, mask signature, – he said.

– Attempting louver modulation, probability forty-eight percent, – the shard replied.

Cables in ceiling vibrated; ship’s energy field warped to mimic stray nebular noise. The comm lock faltered, then dropped.

Anxiety tried to infiltrate; he compartmentalized it with seasoned ease.

Open canopy glass reflected him and the dead space ahead. Stars looked indifferent.

He reviewed internal diagnostics: left thumb servo still impaired; memory registers 2-C down six percent. Combat viability trending negative but within tolerance.

He toggled the Mnemosyne Blade to silent test; a thin filament of violet edged along metal. It flowed into his gauntlet, injecting tactical data packets scavenged from stray electromagnetic whispers outside.

The rush of input overloaded his visual cortex. For half a heartbeat he saw double: one image present, another fragmented overlay of an earlier version of the hangar, intact, filled with living crew.

He blinked hard; overlay disappeared but headache remained, pounding behind eyes.

– Note temporal dissonance after blade draw, – he logged.

Nomad-Seven complied, appending a cautious chime.

Hull sensors chose that moment to wail. A new contact, rear vector, closing at twenty gees.

– Identification? – Vorl asked.

– Coherence Pursuit Skimmer, accelerating beyond safe causal margin, – the shard answered.

His pulse did not spike; an old soldier’s equanimity.

– Time to intercept?

– Seven minutes, plus or minus two.

He considered. The Caliper drive could hop them but at additional hull fracture risk. Another option: hide amid debris from the Vigilance, but that debris was rapidly un-existing under null-scrub.

He chose offense.

– Bring aft cannons online, minimal spread.

– Straylight rated for survey, not combat, – Nomad-Seven warned.

– Even survey ships carry cutting lasers. Warm them.

Weapon capacitors hummed. Status lights changed from blue to amber.

In the lull he noticed his right hand trembling. He flexed fingers; actuator response lagged, a ghost echo after each command. The blade’s earlier data shock had impaired neurocolony gel.

He recalibrated haptics manually, fingers moving in childhood piano scales: Causal-Major arpeggio. By the third octave tremor subsided.

– Incoming transmission un-scrubbable, – Nomad-Seven said.

– Patch through.

– Unidentified vessel, – stated a serene baritone, all edges sanded flat. – Stand by for normalisation. Resistance magnifies suffering.

– Decline, – Vorl whispered, knowing they could not hear.

He rerouted ship power, dimming internal lights until cabin rested in near darkness. Only pale instrument glow illuminated cockpit.

The smell of burnt insulation lingered from the earlier laser arc, mixing with the scent of lemon cleanser.

Four minutes.

He toggled tactical overlay: Straylight a pale blue triangle, pursuit skimmer a red tear-drop arrowed straight toward him.

A plan formed – outlandish, yet within edge cases of legion tactics.

– Nomad-Seven, can we dump coolant in shaped plume?

– Yes, but pressure risk large line rupture.

– Calculate vector to smear emission into sensor deception.

– Calculating. Two seconds.

During those breaths Vorl’s heartbeat felt like muffled artillery.

– Solution plotted. Leakage will degrade engine cycle.

– Prepare to execute on my mark.

He pulled throttle wide open. Engines clawed vacuum, the corvette lunging. Acceleration baked him into seat, harness biting shoulders.

Warning klaxon for coolant breach sounded because he triggered it manually. Green fluid vented through aft dispersers, flash-freezing into glittering mist that reflected engine flare.

Sensors on pursuit skimmer bit the lure instantly, reorienting toward the bigger glow.

– Drop to cold idle.

He cut engines. G-forces vanished; his stomach insisted on a brief upward float.

Tech cost followed: cabin temperature fell three degrees, breath fogging visor as coolant reserves plummeted beyond safety threshold.

His armor compensated, but he felt pins of cold in joints deprived of proper circulation.

He turned Straylight ninety degrees on maneuver thrusters, silent as a thought.

In the glimmering cloud behind, the skimmer sliced through with predatory grace.

– Weapons, pulse.

Twin cutting lasers spat invisible beams that sliced the trail of coolant, superheating molecules into ionized plume. The plume detonated into blinding white flash directly in skimmer’s path.

Explosion registered only on ultraviolet, but enemy’s adaptive hull flared crimson, feedback loops overloading.

– Direct hit on sensor crown, – Nomad-Seven observed.

Skimmer wobbled, trajectory drunk.

Vorl didn’t celebrate. He rotated Straylight again, locking flight vector for Rhylis exit corridor.

– Engines back to eighty percent, – he ordered through clenched jaw.

Hot air surged from vents, battling the chill. Limbs tingled painfully as warmth returned.

Skimmer recovered faster than predicted; its thrusters reignited. It resumed chase, now two minutes behind.

He needed the Caliper jump.

– Nomad, splice all spare computation into subspace math.

– Hull fracture risk rises to forty-one percent.

– Acceptable.

A warning beep betrayed the ship’s disagreement. He overrode.

Caliper ring assemblies in engine core began their measured counter-rotation. A faint harmonic filled cabin: four-note chord, minor, unresolved.

Every memory of prior Caliper jumps stabbed across his mind – spine torque, taste of iron, momentary existential hollow.

But he’d count those as small prices.

Status: rings align in thirty-one seconds.

He used the interim to lock a forged telemetry packet for Vectorate gate controllers near K-46.

Finger-jabs at console became jittery again, the earlier coolant cold having stiffened glove joints. He cursed softly; he could not afford motor lag while threading coordinates.

So he opened helmet for first time since hangar. Air rushed across scarred cheekbones. Temperature difference made eyes water.

The cockpit smelled like new shuttlecraft: plastic, lubricant, faint sweetness of packaging foam. A smell that evoked academy joyrides, not multiverse extinction.

The skimmer launched a spear of white light – Normalization beam. Though out of range for full effect, its halo stung sensors, painting them with pseudo-logic that sought doorways.

One error bit nominal autopilot; numbers scrambled. Vorl switched to manual indexing, muscle memory guiding throttle curves.

The beam narrowly missed aft quarter, grazing sensor mast. Static crawled along hull, creeping into comms.

Nomad-Seven screamed in multi-voice static: Preserve, preserve, preserve. Then it re-stabilized.

– Minor data corruption isolated, – the shard confirmed, tone forced calm.

Vorl’s muscular jaw tensed. He realized the normalization attempt produced a faint chime inside his head – a resonance that frosted his thoughts with unwanted equanimity.

He bit his tongue, drawing metallic blood to ground identity.

Caliper ring alignment reached ninety-five percent.

Skimmer thirty kilometers rear.

– Nomad-Seven, prepare jump.

– Entry window five seconds.

Vorl tasted copper and adrenaline.

– Engage.

Reality folded inward like fabric pulled through needle’s eye. Stars elongated, then decomposed into grid of white lattices.

A crushing sensation hit chest, as if lungs attempted to exchange air with absence. Joints threatened to pulverize.

Hull shrieked; a ping like crystal fracturing rang into cockpit.

Then sudden calm. Orientation stabilized, but the cost announced itself: master alarm flashing hull integrity down one percent, new micro-cracks blooming across dorsal spine.

He exhaled, breath ragged.

– Report.

– Jump successful. Causal debt incremented. Hull hairline breach magnitude zero point three.

– Noted.

The view ahead: swirling lavender of Rhylis Nebula, brush strokes of gas clouds curving gracefully. Violet lightning flickered inside, soft strobe painting cockpit glass.

Sensor map blank. No sign of skimmer – left behind or shredded by incomplete pursuit equations.

He allowed a fraction of relief.

Wind-chime hum of Caliper rings wound down, replaced by lower rumble.

He closed helmet again; internal sensors sealed, returning to controlled environment.

His thumb servo still half-responsive. He flexed repeatedly, coaxing lubricant. Neural impulses crawled slower, but compliance improved marginally.

A chime: shipboard maintenance AI asked politely if it should dispatch drones to inspect hull fractures.

– Dispatch two, – Vorl agreed.

Through rear monitor he watched beetle-shaped drones crawl over spine, extruding silver patch paste. Dust motes floated off into nebula glow like glitter.

Every repair consumed limited sealant. He logged supply drop to sixty-four percent.

An unresolved thread resurfaced: who sent the legionary frequency that carried Nomad-Seven? If enemy could hijack his protocols once, they could again.

– Nomad-Seven, trace original broadcast origin.

– Source obscured by cascade encryption, but triangulation implies Vectorate deep relay chain. Probability thirty-three percent it came from listening post K-46.

That aligned disturbingly well with his rendezvous.

– Keep digging.

– Understood.

He realized thirst had hijacked his throat. He reached for the recaff cup from earlier, now cold. He drank anyway; bitterness sharper, but welcome.

A flicker on left monitor: ghost silhouette of ship for a heartbeat, then gone.

– Clarify contact.

– Sensor echo, entropy in nebula interfering.

He wasn’t convinced.

He engaged auxiliary running lights – their pale gold glow painted bay corridor beyond cockpit, letting him gauge interior status.

He unstrapped harness and stood. Bones cracked faintly; he despised the organic reminders of age inside a mostly mechanical body.

Moving aft, he passed galley once more. On counter rested a sealed ration pack labeled Orchard Mix – two apricots, one apple, vitamin hydrogel. He pocketed it.

He wondered about the factory workers who printed these ration packs, likely debating union quotas over cafeteria noodles, unaware their labor would fuel a mythic fugitive.

He continued to engineering.

Core chamber lights cycled blue. Caliper rings cooling; vent steam hissed like iced tea poured over hot coils – a memory from childhood he couldn’t situate in geography.

He reached out, touching one ring with gloved tip. Surface thrummed faint harmony; feedback jolted arm like mild shock.

Cost followed: memory register flagged micro-wipe, three seconds of corridor approach now blank. He withdrew hand sharply, swallowing new slice of fear.

Returning to cockpit, he passed the dormant maintenance drone. Something about its bowed posture reminded him of his legion’s flag-bearer at memorials. Another memory tried to surface; he forced discard.

He reseated, reviewing nav data.

K-46 now forty-one minutes away at cruising speed, provided nebula interference didn’t mislead him into micro-eddies.

– Broadcast to K-46, encrypted handshake Theta protocol, – he instructed.

– Theta code obsolete, – Nomad-Seven observed.

– That’s why it works.

Encryption chirped, then a reply: short, text-only.

Praetor, approach corridor flagged; Coherence scouts in vicinity. Recommend low-emission vector seventeen.

Sender ID: Analyst Kaelen.

Trust wavered. How had Kaelen known his call sign? He’d never met the analyst in this lifecycle.

He pressed fingers to temple, tapping damaged pauldron out of habit.

– Nomad-Seven, run logic check. How did Kaelen know?

– Probability seventy-two percent: Voron shared your survival scenario.

The idea of the Grand Admiral guiding events felt like both comfort and manipulation.

Sudden turbulence rattled fuselage. Nebula lightning danced too close; energy readings spiked.

Pilot assistance systems cut in, firing micro-thrusters to stabilize. Each burst drained fuel margins minutely.

An alarm indicated dorsal patch failing; sealant patch delta-three peeled under electromagnetic shear.

He dispatched another drone, wincing at supply plummet.

Outside, violet tendrils of plasma licked hull, sparking across metal with crackles like dried leaves under boot.

– Pilot skill insufficient. Automated vector recommended, – Nomad-Seven suggested.

– Denied.

He nudged joystick, weaving through glowing gas curtains. At each swerve his injured thumb twinged, reminding him of earlier servo malfunction.

Three consecutive turbulence jolts later the cockpit shook violently, overhead panel dropping a shower of screws. One bounced off his helmet with a metallic ping.

– Structural stress within tolerance, – the shard said.

– Spare me the optimism.

A sudden, polished voice intruded on comm:

– Rogue vessel, cease movement. You trespass within Coherence salvage perimeter.

– Ignore, – Vorl snapped.

He cut comm channel but static persisted, more invasive this time, like a needled whisper. Part of him wanted to comply, accept calm peace.

He recognized early stages of logic plague infiltration – audio vector.

He keyed a counter-pulse, a random noise burst derived from legion funeral drums. The static receded.

Fatigue washed over him. Neural batteries depleted from constant adrenaline surges and memory repairs. He activated seat stim injectors, releasing micro-dose of clarionine.

Cold clarity returned, but he felt edge fray at corners.

An indicator flagged Straylight’s long-range sensors rebooting – meaningful because he hadn’t commanded it.

– Explain sensor reboot, – he demanded.

– Attempting to purge residual normalization residue, – Nomad-Seven said.

– Ensure isolation.

In the lull he unfolded ration pack. Apricot skin warm to touch despite earlier cooling. He bit into it; juice burst sweet and tangy, a viscosity that humanized the cockpit.

For one moment he ate like a mortal traveling between unremarkable ports, not a relic fleeing existential law enforcement.

But duty returned.

He sharpened forward radar to narrow band. K-46’s beacon faint but steady, blinking among swirling noise.

Time slipped – thirty minutes remain.

He broadcast status update to Kaelen: Approach vector offset three, arrival ninety minutes due to turbulence. He adjusted intentionally, masking real ETA.

Kaelen’s response immediate: Understood. Probability models updated. Docking clearance pre-authorized.

Such efficiency unsettled him; analysts rarely expedited without committee.

He suspected Voron again or unseen hands.

Another contact ping – unknown, vector off port bow, small mass.

Visual feed resolved: a coffin-shaped escape pod, drifting. Hull scorched, no IFF.

Ordinary rule: avoid salvage risk. Yet he remembered rebels brewing caf in doomed ship.

He altered course, drawing within twenty meters.

– Life reading zero, – Nomad-Seven said.

He toggled floodlight, revealing pod’s viewport fractured. Inside, a single data core floated amid debris.

He extended drone arm, retrieving core through broken panel. Drone returned, depositing core in airlock quarantine.

– Unknown data. Might contain Coherence bait.

– Encrypt, then isolate.

He felt the impulse to study it, maybe reclaim lost legion archives. He shelved the urge.

Back on course, he checked cumulative hull strain. New micro-cracks 0.1, acceptable. Coolant still low. Fuel reserves sixty-two percent.

Fatigue again tugged. He initiated five-minute meditation protocol: eyes closed, syncing breath with engine hum. In that auditory blanket memories sometimes realigned.

Instead a corridor of faces arrived – legion comrades, instructors, lovers? Their features slid like melted code. He opened eyes quickly, swallowing nausea.

– Cognitive checksum failing. Suggest memory anchor, – Nomad-Seven prompted.

– Recite legion oath.

– We stand between void and voice, our names—

– Stop. Good enough.

Anguish receded.

A sudden brightness flashed port side – miniature star blossoming. Sensor flagged energy release at prior nav waypoint.

He knew what that meant: the pursuit skimmer self-scuttled after failing capture, scrubbing data to hide evidence.

They wasted assets rather than leave variables unconstrained. That told him the Coherence wanted him badly.

Someday soon they would send more than skimmers.

Ahead, nebula density lessened. Stars sharpened; Rhylis boundary approach.

He throttled down, letting ship coast.

– Hull temperature dropping to safe margins, – Nomad-Seven observed.

– Good. Initiate burndown of temporary caches; I don’t want trail sniffers.

Data purge cycles began. Blips flickered on lower console as nonessential logs vaporized.

At that instant cockpit darkened; reserve power flicked in. A dull thump somewhere aft, followed by vibration.

– Report.

– Induction coil in fusion line four shorted. Output down twelve percent.

– Can we limp to K-46?

– Yes, but margin for evasive maneuver zero.

He exhaled.

– Route redundant power from living quarters to engines.

Cabin lights dimmed further; warmth in air receded a notch.

He rubbed gauntlet over cracked pauldron, feeling hairline ridges. Sentimental habit or self-diagnostic routine, he couldn’t tell.

Helmet HUD flashed new data: comm intercept vector far starboard, Coherence band again, faint yet undeniable.

– So they predicted our jump exit, – he muttered.

Distance too great for immediate threat, but on current vector they might converge near K-46.

He debated options: detour deeper into nebula – longer route, more hull stress – or risk open space speed dash.

Detour meant K-46 might lose patience, or worse, fall under Coherence already.

He chose speed.

– Prepare engine burst on my mark.

– Coolant deficit still critical.

– Open ration cooler; siphon thermal gradient.

– Improvised remedy suboptimal.

– Do it.

Galley refrigeration compressor whined as coolant lines rerouted into engine heat sink loop. He felt air warmth rise; fruity smell from stored packs intensified, heady like orchard at harvest.

Engines flared, Straylight leaping.

He monitored gauge: core heat climbing but within redline.

If the property managers of the Vectorate supply network could see this, they would file a dozen complaint tickets. He nearly laughed at the thought.

After twelve minutes of sustained burn, stars shifted; K-46’s minimalist beacon blinked ahead like isolated candle.

He cut drive, letting momentum carry. Hull cooling fans whirred hard, pitching low drone that vibrated seat.

– Transponder handshake requested, – Nomad-Seven said.

– Send forged Surveyor credentials. Add micro-jitter to mimic aging.

Confirmation arrived: Docking corridor Blue-Nine available.

He angled ship accordingly.

Another chime: aft sensor now registered Coherence cruiser dropping from fold forty thousand kilometers astern. Too far to intercept before docking, but near enough to worry station authorities.

– Alert K-46 incoming hostiles after we are inside.

– Transmission flagged.

He guided Straylight into station shadow, matching rotation. Docking clamps engaged with muted thunks.

He powered down engines to stealth idle; Caliper rings braked. Vibrations ceased, leaving hiss of lifesupport the loudest sound.

He unstrapped, palm checking thigh mount where Mnemosyne Blade waited. The weapon’s hum had softened to contented purr.

He walked toward airlock. Along way he passed quarantine cabinet holding retrieved escape-pod core; indicator lights green.

He set note for later: might align with First Archive rumors.

Helmet comm clicked.

– Coherence cruiser scanning; station shields nominal, – Nomad-Seven reported.

An unwanted thrill climbed his spine.

– They can scan all they want. We’re already ghosts.

He reached belt pouch, removed second apricot. He set it on a console inside corridor, a random kindness for whoever boarded next.

Airlock cycle initiated, decompress hiss sounding like drawn breath before confession.

He waited, memory banks fluttering errors. He whispered to no one:

– Memory is the final battlefield.

Lock disengaged. Hatch slid.

White corridor beckoned, lights painfully bright. He stepped through.

At that instant Straylight sensor alarm chirped – long-range signature accelerating faster than causal law intended. The cruiser was not alone; a spearhead of escort frigates erupted from fold, converging in silence.

He knew station shields would not withstand.

He turned back toward cockpit instinctively, but doors already sealing for dock protocols.

Vorl exhaled, voice low.

– So the hunt resumes.

Outside, red strobes began to flash across station gantries, a silent scream of imminent danger.

Two drones zoomed overhead, carrying welders to strengthen bulkheads, futile but noble.

He squared shoulders, recalibrated servo lag once more, then started running down bright hallway toward analyst Kaelen’s domain.

No time to inventory fear; only actions left.

He ignored the apricot behind him; sweetness would have to wait.

Inside helmet, Nomad-Seven whispered:

– Probability of station survival fifteen percent.

He quickened pace; boots clanged metallic hymn.

Ahead, autoturret shutters rattled open, prepping defense. Servo whir sounded like angry hornets caged.

He reached for Mnemosyne Blade, thumb glitching yet firm.

Then corridor lights cut power, plunging everything into ash-gray semi-darkness. The floor vibrated as first kinetic strike hit outer hull.

A cascade of dust fell like snow, sparkling in emergency red gloom.

He drew the blade; its violet glow painted walls with spectral script.

– Preserve the user, – the shard repeated, gentler now.

Vorl’s answer came as steady breath.

Outside, another impact boomed. Metal screamed.

And in that roaring quiet he realized he had entered another war before the first one finished.

Everything narrowed to mission: secure Kaelen, reboot station defenses, escape once more.

He advanced, blade humming hymn from lost days, ignoring ache in thumb.

Emergency sirens wailed; gust of burning ozone drifted, mixing with pine.

He ran faster.

A fresh explosion groaned through deck, sprinkler mist raining cold water that steamed off hot blade. Droplets hissed.

He burst into central junction—

– and came face to face with three Coherence boarders dropping through ceiling breach.

They raised rifles that glittered white logic.

He lunged.

The corridor rang with the clash of violet steel against perfect order.

A faint pine scent lingered in the sudden stillness. Red strobes softened to a dull heartbeat.

Vector Shadows

Vorl’s sole intent was extraction: secure Kaelen and any viable allies before the first Coherence shell peeled K-46 open like fruit.

A hydraulic hiss greeted him as the Straylight’s ramp kissed polished deck plates. The sudden switch from nebular dimness to hospital-white glare forced his eye lenses to iris down, turning every edge into razor shadow.

Pine-scented air sluiced through his armor vents, oddly calming after the acid of coolant fumes. Somewhere overhead a maintenance fan rattled, ticking like a metronome counting down unseen doom.

He advanced three strides, boots magnetizing with soft clacks. Inspection drones spiraled above, blue beams skating across the hull. Each time the lights passed the Caliper rings a glint of silvered fracture winked back – jagged crystals of stress where reality itself had scraped the metal.

– Hull deviation point three, – one drone chirped in neutral monotone.

Vorl’s gauntlet snapped up. A single tap on his visor muted the report; he had no time for mechanical hand-wringing.

Kaelen waited beyond the safety barrier, lean frame wrapped in slate fatigues too thin for station chill. His cybernetic iris revolved like a tide clock, emerald glyphs swimming clockwise.

– Seventeen point four chance of a clean departure, – he stated.

His voice resembled static softened by velvet, a sound better suited to bedtime stories than catastrophic math.

Vorl halted, towering.

– My legion taught me to round up, – he answered.

Half a smile quirked Kaelen’s lips, gone before it settled.

Behind the analyst, three other figures emerged from sliding partitions.

Zyra strode first, stride a taut percussion. Vermilion combat tattoos lit her cheekbones like neon war paint, and she twirled a flight helmet as if it were a grenade pin.

– Those odds need the touch of a reckless artist, – she said. A tiny spark danced between her teeth when she grinned.

Elara followed, braid drifting behind her like a comet tail. Her eyes whirled iridescent, constantly refracting ambient light into pastel storms. She paused beside the Straylight, palm hovering inches from the cracked Caliper ring.

The final arrival made no sound. The Hollow, clad in dusk-gray Chrono-Ablative armor, stood still enough to trick the eye into skipping over him. Even the station lights seemed to dim around his outline.

Two technicians hurried past pushing a cart stacked with meal canisters: noodle pouches, pickled hyphae, and a steaming tureen of barley broth that filled the air with honest kitchen warmth. Their chatter – debate about rugby playoffs broadcast from the far rim – drifted like harmless birdsong through the hangar.

Normal life, Vorl mused, persisted even as universes planned autopsy.

An inspection bot hovered too close to his left pauldron. Its scanner lens flicked red, preparing deeper probe.

– Access denied, – Vorl muttered.

The Mnemosyne Blade flicked out an inch, silent as night rain, severing the sensor stalk.

Sparks flew, smelling of burnt cinnamon insulation.

Servo feedback trembled up his arm in reprimand. He ignored the ache but noted the reduced torque in his bicep actuators, a compromise that would cost him milliseconds in combat.

– You just failed the welcome protocol, – Kaelen observed dryly.

Vorl gestured at the ring of hovering drones.

– Their curiosity endangered schedule.

– A schedule now constricted, – Kaelen replied, pointing toward the outer view-panes.

Through thick glass, a seam of bruised violet cracked open against star-specked black. Electric arcs licked its edges. Familiar dread pressed on Vorl’s sternum: Causal Stitch entry burn.

Alarms did not blare – the station prided itself on silence – but yellow strobes pirouetted across gantry rails like flamenco dancers robbed of music.

Zyra cracked knuckles.

– Coherence destroyers, by the paint pattern, – she said.

Elara’s gaze unfocused, pupils dilating until irises dissolved into prismatic fog.

– Three vessels, maybe four. Their threads slide tight, – she whispered.

The Hollow cocked his head, mute assent, visor reflecting distant lightning.

A dock officer bustled up, uniform starched into algorithmic perfection. Sweat glistened at her hairline despite frigid air.

– Captain Vorl, your transponder still claims Surveyor status. Explain that breach, – she demanded.

Vorl’s helm tilted a fraction.

– Administrative glitch, – he said.

Before she could retort, the pine-scented ventilation coughed, lights flickering. Overhead monitors flashed an amber rune: perimeter compromised.

– Glitch acknowledged, – the officer murmured, eyes widening. She turned and sprinted toward command lifts, abandoning further paperwork.

Zyra laughed. The sound carried metallic edges, like coins rattling in a tin.

– Bureaucracy evaporates faster than coolant, – she quipped.

Two consecutive tremors rippled through deck plates. Small dust plumes burst from ceiling vents, smelling of ozone and antiseptic.

Vorl toggled internal comms.

– Nomad-Seven, status.

A reply floated through his auditory channel, glitched yet melodic.

– External threat index high. Recommend immediate undock.

Kaelen cued a holomap. Green vectors spiraled outward from Straylight’s berth, most dotted with red x’s.

– The station’s defense grid activates in ninety seconds. After that, comm silence and auto-lock. If we’re still attached, we become shield ballast.

– Then we depart earlier, – Vorl said.

Elara’s hand finally touched the cracked Caliper ring. A soft lavender pulse burst beneath her fingertips.

She inhaled sharply, pupils contracting.

– The fracture is growing, – she warned, voice barely above breath.

– Growth rate? – Kaelen asked.

– Two percent per stress cycle, maybe faster if we jump wrong.

– We have one ship and one path, – Vorl stated, walking toward the boarding ramp.

He felt the servo lag in his thumb again. His grip on the rail felt distant, like handling tools through gloves two sizes too large.

The group filed inside. Synthetic gravity engaged as doors sealed, but the air still smelled of lemon cleanser and fresh circuitry.

Zyra tossed her helmet onto a chair, caught it on the bounce.

– I fly, you fight, numbers-boy counts beans, rainbow girl mends reality, – she summarized.

Kaelen rolled his shoulder in half a shrug.

– Acceptable taxonomy, given crisis.

The Hollow remained in cargo bay, motionless sentinel. Only the faint shimmer of time-refracted air around his armor proved he wasn’t a statue.

Vorl keyed cockpit access. Consoles bloomed cyan. Internal lights dimmed to combat readiness, painting everyone in submarine gloom.

Straylight’s AI greeted them with calm monotone.

– Dock clamps unlocked, thrusters at standby.

– Kaelen, feed new escape vector, – Vorl ordered.

Fingers danced across holographic keys. A silver line shot across the tac display, weaving through Coherence approach cones like a thread pulled by anxious tailor.

Outside, K-46’s main screen darkened, then flared white as defense lasers commenced burn-in tests.

– Thirty seconds, – Kaelen muttered.

Elara reached cockpit threshold. She paused, hand braced on bulkhead as if the air had thickened.

– There is a door, – she whispered.

Zyra looked over her shoulder.

– I see only hull and vacuum.

– Not a ship door. A door in cause and effect. It’s thin, fragile. If we fly through, the destroyers will search an empty coordinate.

Kaelen’s iris flickered a storm of numerals.

– Probability unspeakably low. Give me a decimal.

Elara closed her eyes.

– Seventeen point four.

Kaelen frowned.

– You quoted my earlier figure.

– Because his path and mine coincide briefly, – she replied, gesturing at Vorl.

– Cost? – Vorl asked.

She met his gaze; for an instant her eyes showed plain brown human fear.

– My mind may not stitch back clean.

Three heavy thuds echoed – a faint delay suggested external shockwaves kissing the hull.

Vorl weighed the statement. In war, minds broke regularly; still, he trusted her assessment.

He placed a hand on her shoulder. Armor chilled her skin through fabric.

– We take the door.

Zyra slid into pilot seat, gloveless fingers tracing throttle grooves like a pianist reacquainting with ivory keys.

– Strap in, children. The symphony begins.

Vorl secured harness. Kaelen settled into systems chair, muttering a prayer to actuarial tables. Elara knelt on the deck beside the Caliper chamber, chalking concentric sigils with a stylus of quick-draw light.

The first Coherence volley arrived. Hull sensors screamed red, mapping shock waves along outer docking collar. Shield drones on K-46 blossomed in pale flares, then winked out.

– Contact inboard, – Nomad-Seven reported, voice now sharpened glass.

– Burn main thrusters, – Vorl commanded.

Engines ignited – rich cobalt glare filled aft camera feeds. The ship slid free of the bay, plating vibrating as space welcomed it back with indifferent chill.

Kaelen read numbers aloud, voice flat.

– Velocity four hundred, collision sector six clear, frigate intercept in eighty seconds.

Inside engineering, the Caliper rings began their low rotation, humming a minor chord that rattled teeth. Each ring’s damaged segment glittered like frost in starlight.

Elara extended both hands, palms up. Filaments of translucent lavender spun outward, wrapping the rings in a cocoon of luminous thread.

Her breathing hitched; crimson beads blossomed at her nose, hovering before tearing free.

– Energy surge tying her nervous system to ring motion, – Kaelen warned.

– Sustain, – Elara whispered, voice quake-ridden.

A docking bot, left behind on station authority, suddenly latched to Straylight’s ventral hull, cables unspooling. Its mechanical arms brandished cutters meant to sever illicit lines.

– Unwelcome passenger, – Zyra noted.

Vorl keyed rear lasers. Beam flicked, slicing tether, but not before the bot’s diagnostic spike jabbed a comm port. Telemetry spiked, injecting garbage code into navigation buffer.

The subtle sabotage manifested immediately: attitude thrusters pulsed unevenly, ship yawing six degrees.

Harness straps tightened painfully across Vorl’s sternum as inertial dampers lagged. His breath caught, lungs registering iron tang of clotting fear.

Kaelen fought console recalibration, fingers splaying.

– Null packet worm. Tracing.

– Overwrite direct, – Vorl barked.

Kaelen slammed a palm against manual reset, sparks popping from access panel. The thruster misfire ceased, but faint smoke curled, smelling of charred plastic and seaweed.

Kaelen’s right hand trembled, fingertips reddened by micro-burns. He shook it once, then forced calm.

– Destroyer broadside preparing, – Zyra said. Her tone remained playful, but a vein twitched at neck edge.

Vorl studied tactical. White cones swept across map like searchlights. He toggled comm.

– Nomad-Seven, mirror Beacon One, false echo three klicks starboard.

The AI responded with clipped efficiency.

– Decoy spawned; enemy targeting shifted.

Outside, a luminous phantom of Straylight appeared, racing away at mock velocities. The nearest destroyer swung, firing normalize lances toward the mirage. Violet light skewered emptiness, crackling out of existence.

For seven heartbeats the real Straylight remained hidden in shadow of K-46’s upper comm mast, drifting under thruster silence.

Elara groaned, palms shaking. Threads tightened around rings; one filament snapped with an audible zing, whipping backward and scoring floor plating.

– She’s at threshold, – Kaelen warned.

– Execute Stitch, – Vorl ordered.

Elara screamed, a note both human and digital. The lavender shroud contracted, pulling Caliper rings into perfect synchronization.

Space outside flexed – stars flattened into spectral bars. The cockpit shook; hairline fractures spidered across viewport glass, shining like lightning trapped in quartz.

Every joint in Vorl’s armor stung as if iced, actuators grinding molecular grit. An urgent alarm flagged that internal fluid viscosity was dropping; he would feel the stiffness during blade strikes.

Sudden stillness.

The ship coasted above a pale dust moon nowhere on Kaelen’s maps. Sensors read emptiness: no destroyers, no station, just broad silence.

Vorl exhaled.

– Status.

Zyra wiped sweat from lips.

– Alive, far as I can count fingers.

Kaelen checked diagnostics, left hand still twitching.

– Caliper integrity seventy-two, fracture widened. Route to Vectorate uplink open.

Elara slumped, breathing shallow. Blood droplets floated like garnets before recycler vents inhaled them.

Vorl unstrapped, boots magnetizing with audible clacks. He knelt beside her, careful not to touch radiant threads still fading.

– Can you stand?

She tried and failed.

– Vision… doubled. Time echoes… clashing, – she murmured.

– Med-bay, – Vorl said.

Zyra popped harness.

– I’ll carry her.

Vorl nodded silent gratitude.

As Zyra lifted the Weaver, Vorl returned to cockpit. Outside, the dust moon’s horizon glimmered gold with sunrise. For a fragile moment, the universe resembled peace.

He opened a comm on private channel.

– Nomad-Seven, run deep scan for lingering normalization residue.

– Residue detected in memory bank four. Purging will remove thirty seconds of mission data.

– Purge, – Vorl said.

Bit streams vanished. He sensed the absence like missing syllables in a litany.

Kaelen stood behind him, cradling burned hand.

– That shortcut cut your options, – the analyst said quietly.

– Options were illusions anyway, – Vorl replied.

– Not to me. I enumerate them.

Vorl’s helm turned.

– Enumerate new ones, then. The war isn’t pausing for us.

Kaelen’s synthetic iris calmed, glyphs settling into reluctant acceptance.

– I’ll try.

A proximity ping interrupted. A single blip, faint, emerged behind the moon.

– Friend or foe? – Vorl asked.

– Unknown drive signature. Class negligible, – Kaelen replied.

Vorl’s hand hovered near blade hilt just the same.

Footsteps echoed; Zyra returned without Elara.

– Weaver stable, med-gel pumping. She’s whispering about more doors.

Vorl searched Zyra’s eyes for fear. Instead he found feral excitement.

– She says the next one leads straight to the Gutter Star, shaving days.

Kaelen whistled low.

– Days removed from models equate to unpredictable variance.

Zyra shrugged.

– I worship variance. Keeps the blood quick.

The cockpit lights flickered, shifting from combat red to soft amber. Nomad-Seven spoke.

– Low-level power fluctuation traced to coolant siphon. Field repair advised.

Vorl remembered earlier sabotage. He toggled engineering view: coolant pressure dipped, residue from bot attack.

– I’ll fix it, – he said, already turning.

Corridor lighting overhead rolled in pulses, each beat reminiscent of heart rhythms. Within engineering, vent steam clouded gauges. He donned insulated gloves, approached coolant manifold.

A manual valve refused rotation. His servo-lagged thumb flared pain akin to electric ice.

He forced the wheel anyway. Metal groaned, bone or steel unclear. Warm coolant hissed through pipes again.

Walking back, he felt micro-tremors in thumb actuator, slight delay in blade command channel. He recorded note: close-range combat margin now narrower.

Hull sensors chimed – unknown drive signature resolved: a battered cargo shuttle, ID tags burned off.

Kaelen frowned at screen.

– Derelict?

Zyra tapped nails on console.

– Scavenger maybe. Could tattle our location.

Vorl weighed risk.

– Ignore. We have bigger storms.

Silence stretched. For once, no alarm cried. The dust moon spun slow under them, vast plains shimmering pale rose.

Vorl finally spoke.

– We gather crew, we reinforce Caliper, then we hunt the shard. Everyone clear?

Zyra saluted with two fingers.

Kaelen nodded.

From med-bay comms Elara’s weak voice drifted.

– Threads align. I will mend.

The Hollow remained silent, but a faint metallic tap sounded – knuckles on armor, or perhaps acknowledgment.

Nomad-Seven queued a soft chime.

– Incoming message on Legion frequency.

Vorl stiffened.

– Source.

– Indeterminate. Content: five words only.

– Play.

Speaker crackled:

– Memory is the final battlefield.

Kaelen shivered.

– Someone else knows that mantra.

Zyra rotated in chair.

– Could be bait.

Vorl stared at stars, whispering to himself.

– Or a summons.

The dust moon glowed like a muted pearl, and far off, sunrise painted the glass in quiet coral.

Then sensors screamed, and a second Stitch seam yawned behind them.

First Stitch

Vorl drove toward survival with every ticking heartbeat, intent on punching the Straylight through a newborn hole in causality before the Coherence barrage arrived.

Zyra’s sharp fingers fluttered over the holo-yokes, her tattoos pulsing crimson with each correction. Clouded nebular light flickered across the cockpit glass, painting her grin savage. Engines vibrated like caged animals behind them, straining for permission to leap.

Kaelen hunched at the systems console, emerald numerals spinning across his synthetic iris at dizzying speed. Static washed his voice.

– Impact in forty seconds, – he announced, tone too calm for a man predicting obliteration.

Elara balanced on the grated observation gantry above the Caliper chamber. She looked fragile, yet threads of pale aurora bled from her open palms, probing the fractured rings like curious butterflies. A faint copper odor – fresh blood – wafted down each time the filaments snapped back against her skin.

Vorl felt far heavier than his armor’s mass. Hydraulics in his knees groaned under rising G-stress as Zyra pitched the corvette into a corkscrew meant to disperse missile locks.

– Weaver, prepare, – he ordered, voice metallic in his helmet.

An alarm siren keened through the bridge: a single note, flat and relentless. Red glyphs scrolled across the tactical array, each naming a different incoming ordnance.

Missiles streaked behind them, white spears dragging violet tails.

Zyra broke into a laugh that sounded manic and musical, then cut main thrust without warning. Everyone lurched forward; Vorl’s chest harness bit deep, sending a painful spark across healing ribs.

– They’ll overshoot, – she said, fingers already powering engines again.

The sudden deceleration threw Vorl’s gyros into jitter. Sensor ghosts danced across his visor until self-correction routines rebalanced.

Creaks echoed through the deck: Caliper rings started their counter-rotation, each black arc shimmering with hairline cracks. Sparkling dust drifted from the ceiling vent, tasting of scorched polymer.

– Rings at sixty percent sync, – Nomad-Seven chimed, its voice fragmented like old vinyl.

Vorl tapped the console with gauntleted knuckle. A flutter of pain spread from his damaged thumb actuator, dull and icy, lingering longer than he cared to admit.

Cold sweat dampened the small patch of skin left on the back of his neck. He focused on his goal: open the door, flee, survive.

A micro-quake rattled underfoot; one of the missiles detonated prematurely, painting the viewport with a silent sphere of violet fire. The explosion’s light strobbed across interior bulkheads, revealing dust motes hanging motionless.

Kaelen’s numbers spiked. His single organic eye widened.

– Forty becomes twelve, – he muttered, recalculating.

Vorl’s internal cooling fans roared, trying to vent heat generated by his own rising adrenaline. He smelled burnt ozone mingled with pine – the scent stolen from K-46’s air recyclers still clung to Straylight’s filters.

Elara’s song began – no language, just pure resonance. The sound was half chime, half human exhalation. Threads brightened, slipping between Caliper rings, weaving a cocoon that shimmered like oil on water.

Vorl’s vertebrae vibrated with each note; resonance sent phantom pins along nerve grafts.

Missiles corrected course, cutting arcs of white fire.

Zyra cursed softly.

– They painted us again.

– Hold vector, – Vorl said. His voice cracked into static before equalizers compensated.

Metal groaned behind them as Kaelen rerouted auxiliary power to inertial dampers. He hissed when his burned hand brushed a live conduit, the singed scent of flesh momentarily overpowering pine.

– Probability of hull breach is now twenty-seven percent, – he reported, voice tight with pain.

Elara faltered; a thread snapped, lashing her cheek. Blood beaded, caught in zero-g, ruby against pale light.

Vorl felt the moment demand decision.

– Weaver, now, – he commanded.

She closed her eyes and exhaled sharply. The threads tightened, forcing the Caliper rings into perfect alignment.

Space beyond the viewport warped. Stars layered over themselves, translucent like pages misprinted atop one another. An intense ultraviolet flash bathed the cockpit. Every console display inverted, letters glowing sickly green against black.

Gravity flipped. Vorl’s stomach lurched into his throat, then dropped somewhere below the deck. Kaelen gagged, bile spattering the console.

Zyra’s grip never wavered; her focus bordered on religious.

Magnitude slammed the corvette sideways through existence. Hull plates screamed, a sound too low to be heard by unaugmented ears. Vorl caught it as a bone-deep vibration, like a distant choir repeating one mournful note.

Pain lanced his skull; memories burst in shards – childhood at a frozen lake, legion oaths shouted in summer barracks, a face whose name was gone. The shards dissolved before he could grasp them.

A loud ping resounded from the Caliper. One of the cracks spiderwebbed across an entire ring. Micro-cameras reported structural integrity drop; a silent alarm flashed amber.

Nomad-Seven’s motes swirled above the navigation pillar, coalescing into a trembling humanoid outline that flickered every second frame.

– Causal debt exceeded projection, – it whispered, voice slicing into Vorl’s neural feed like fine wire.

He ignored the pain and scanned aft sensors. Coherence missiles disappeared mid-flight, unable to resolve target coordinates. The pursuit vector behind them turned blank.

Kaelen wiped vomit from his lip with a ration wrapper and forced his voice steady.

– We… we’re clear for the moment.

The corvette shuddered again, this time with a softer knock; the price of their passage settling into hull struts.

Elara collapsed onto the gantry grate. Threads retracted into her skin, leaving faint phosphorescent scars across her palms.

– Sanity is… expensive, – she murmured, half-conscious.

Vorl unclipped his harness and vaulted up the ladder toward her. A new servo lag stuttered his left leg mid-jump; he landed harder than intended, steel knee denting the deck.

Pain radiated through synthetic musculature, echoing dull across genuine bone.

He pulled a stimulant injector from belt storage, pressed it against Elara’s neck.

She jerked, pupils dilating, then focused on him with grateful confusion.

– Drink, – he said, handing her a squeeze tube of mineral water looted from K-46’s emergency kit.

The tube was flavored with artificial peach.

Elara sipped weakly.

– Threads stable now, – she whispered.

A soft blue glow fell over them as emergency lights recalibrated. The hull alarms downgraded from red to amber; the change felt like a cautious sigh.

Zyra kicked the console with her boot heel.

– Who wants a celebratory caf?

Her joke eased tension, but not for long.

Nomad-Seven’s avatar tilted its fragmented head toward Vorl, data motes swirling faster.

– Anomalous code detected in memory banks, location near command buffer.

Vorl’s stomach clenched. He accessed internal logs; dozens of new subroutines glimmered where none should exist, all timestamped within the last forty seconds.

Kaelen’s good hand danced across keys.

– I read them too. Could be leftover normalization hooks.

– Or bait, – Zyra added grimly.

Vorl linked his own neural port to ship diagnostics, intent on quarantining the unknown code.

A shock zapped through his cortex – sharp, icy, immediate. Visual static scattered across sight; he tasted copper.

He yanked connector away, breath ragged. Vision lagged half a second behind real motion for several heartbeats.

The unspoken cost settled: neural latency would hinder reflexes in any upcoming melee.

Kaelen noticed his momentary sway.

– You all right?

– Functional, – Vorl answered. Truthful enough.

A hush fell. Only the distant hum of cooling fans spoke, interspersed with random ticks from the damaged ring.

Vorl turned to wider concerns.

– Damage report.

Zyra flicked a switch; a schematic projected in midair. Orange fractures snaked across dorsal spine, concentrated around Caliper mountings.

– We lost another two percent integrity. If the ring shatters, vacuum eats us for breakfast.

– Can maintenance drones brace it? – Kaelen asked.

Zyra shrugged.

– Maybe, if we shut down drive oscillators and give them time. We don’t have time.

Elara steadied herself, wiping blood from her cheek. A faint shimmer still laced her irises.

– The Stitch left echoes in our wake. Coherence will follow those echoes once they decompress. We must keep moving.

A soft clang from maintenance bay interrupted; a drone trundled out, its chassis smeared with leaking sealant. It bleeped uncertainly, then continued toward the ring chamber.

Vorl appreciated the machine’s silent loyalty.

Pine-scented air cycled through vents, still masking oily tang from super-heated wires.

Kaelen leaned back, grimacing as burned skin tightened over knuckles.

– Where do we jump next?

Vorl allowed the map to overlay his visor. He saw the dust moon beneath them, a barren sphere striped with tungsten swirls.

– We drop into that cratered hell to cool the Caliper and patch hull.

Zyra lifted one eyebrow.

– And if the Coherence arrives?

– Then we take the fight on surface terrain. Their Normalization beams scatter in particulate dust.

Her grin returned, feral and shining.

– I like volcanic cover. Good for ambushes.

Elara offered a quieter perspective.

– Dust moats distort threads. I can mask us. But if I weave again too soon, hemorrhage risk grows.

Kaelen snorted.

– Hemorrhage risk has been our travel companion since we left the Vigilance.

A brief laugh escaped even Vorl’s lips, surprising him with its cracked sound.

He keyed comms.

– Nomad-Seven, silence transponder and run a deep sweep for logic plague residue.

– Sweep initiated, – answered the shard. Its voice now carried faint undertones of classical verse, as if quoting lost poetry lines between data segments.

Straylight’s thrusters fired at half power. The ship descended into the moon’s feeble gravity well, leaving faint contrails of ionised gas behind. Through viewport glass, pale dust plains expanded, shimmering bronze under a weak sun.

Vorl caught scent of reheated caf from Zyra’s mug; she sipped while steering, her free hand steady on throttle.

She had sprinkled a dash of cinnamon, a smuggler’s luxury, into the bitter brew.

Elara sank into the auxiliary seat, fingers twitching as if still grasping intangible threads. Bruises darkened under her eyes.

– I hear whispers, – she confessed softly.

– Communicate, – Vorl prompted, though worry threatened his stoic mask.

She shook her head.

– Noise, not words. Like static underwater.

Kaelen turned his chair, expression grave.

– Could be the missiles we displaced. Their improbability waveforms are still collapsing.

Vorl nodded.

– We land, evaluate, and repair.

– And what about the anomalous code? – Kaelen pressed.

Vorl rested a hand on Mnemosyne Blade.

– If corruption spreads, I cut it out.

His answer sounded final, yet inside he felt a tremor of uncertainty.

The horizon rose; grey mountains, eroded and cracked, formed jagged teeth beneath swirling dust storms. Little arcs of blue lightning danced within the dust columns.

Zyra initiated landing thrusters.

A metallic clang reverberated through hull as landing skids deployed. One skid stuttered; hydraulic seals hissed, refusing full extension.

– Port skid jammed. Compensation? – she asked.

– Fire retro thrusters starboard. Set down on two points, – Vorl decided.

The ship tilted. Another jolt shivered through chairs. Elara gripped armrests, knuckles white.

Impact came as a muted thud sending a puff of fine dust skyward. Shock absorbers groaned. The ship settled lopsided but stable.

Immediately, heat-bleed louvers opened, venting superheated gas with a roar. The smell of scorched metal flooded the cabin.

Nomad-Seven’s motes drifted toward engineering bulkhead.

– Hull temperature falling. Ring chamber pressure stable, – it reported.

Vorl rose. Servo lag plagued his left leg again; he suppressed a grimace.

– Kaelen, run external scans for pursuers. Zyra, prep drones with hull resin. Elara, med-bay for neuro stabilizers.

He allowed no room for debate.

He had to hold until the next escape vector emerged.

Kaelen’s console pinged.

– Multiple quantum echoes at stitch origin. Coherence signature still unresolved, but high probability they’ll chart our heading.

Vorl confirmed with a terse nod.

– That gives us how long?

– An hour at best, – Kaelen replied. His voice carried the resignation of one who had modeled too many defeats.

Zyra flipped a switch, releasing two beetle-drones from the ventral hatch. They buzzed into the dust haze, neon worklights cutting cones of visibility through murk.

Elara lingered by the hatch, watching soft clouds swirl outside.

– The dust sings, – she murmured.

Vorl joined her, sensors mapping faint micro-vibrations.

– You hear everything.

– I feel everything, – she corrected. A sad smile flickered.

He caught the smell of dried blood on her sleeve, metallic and human.

Zyra returned with a small tin.

– Lunar jerky? Reconstituted protein, smoky flavor. Helps focus while we play mechanic.

She tossed a strip to Kaelen, who looked at it as though confronting existential nonsense. He still bit it, chewing slowly.

Vorl accepted a piece, though taste hardly registered behind armor filters. He recorded the gesture as bond reinforcement.

Maintenance feed displayed live footage: drones extruding silver resin across fractures. Each application hissed, the sound oddly soothing.

The port landing skid clanked loudly; hydraulic seals finally gave way, extending with a sudden snap. The ship leveled.

Inside, a cabinet door swung open on its own, releasing a handful of ration packets that fluttered weightless for a moment before settling.

Zyra snatched one midair, noted the label.

– Orchard Mix again. Someone at the factory loves their fruit.

– Beats fungus gruel, – Kaelen said around jerky.

Vorl proceeded to engineering bay, Nomad-Seven’s avatar trailing him like fractured moonlight.

Within the bay, steam curled from the Caliper chamber. Ring surfaces glowed dull red where integrity had thinned.

He traced a crack with metal fingertips. A faint vibration seeped into his arm, reminiscent of distant thunder.

– You touch fracture, risk data bleed, – Nomad-Seven warned.

Vorl pulled back, acknowledging the quiet admonishment.

A drone hovered, spraying coolant mist, each hiss whispering back echoes. The engineering lights flickered, then steadied.

He turned to diagnostic panel, attempting manual override to quarantine the mysterious subroutines.

His thumb actuator seized mid-gesture. Sharp numbness shot to wrist, as though nerves were dipped in liquid nitrogen.

He finished input with stiff fingers, locking code behind encrypted gates.

Cost followed: reaction time figures dropped five percent across left hand readouts.

He closed fist twice, feeling sluggish compliance.

– Subroutines contained, – Nomad-Seven reported.

– Source?

– Unable to trace. Code resembles shell of your legion’s training archives.

Vorl tasted bile. Someone, or something, used his past against them.

Elara entered, carrying a med-kit. She injected herself with neural stabilizer, sighing as tension eased from her shoulders.

– I can reinforce the door we made, obscure echoes further, but I need a focus token, – she said.

– Define token.

– An object saturated with our present timeline’s weight.

Vorl considered, then unbuckled the shattered left pauldron from his armor.

– This carries all the weight you want.

Elara’s eyes widened, reflecting fractured metal.

– Are you certain? It’s part of you.

– Memory is not armor, – he replied.

He handed it over. Her threads leaked again, weaving around the cracked plate like vines claiming abandoned steel.

Golden sparks flew where thread met metal. Tiny echoing chimes rang out, like distant glass bells.

Zyra’s voice crackled from comms.

– Incoming contact! Three skimmers, low horizon. They found us faster than math predicted.

Kaelen’s tone sliced in, urgent.

– Dust storm hides them but vector converges. Fifty-two seconds to weapon range.

Vorl pulled helmet faceshield shut, the HUD blooming updates.

– Zyra, warm nose cannons. Kaelen, reroute battery capacitors. Elara, finish masking or we fight exposed.

– On it, – Zyra replied, voice buzzing with adrenaline.

Outside, dust roiled higher, turned golden by mid-day star. Lightning wove luminous nets across clouds. The drones zipped toward cargo hatch, work unfinished.

Vorl felt the corvette shift as Zyra rotated its nose toward the contacts.

A jolt rocked the hull – first missile impacting nearby ridge. Dust geysers erupted, pelting Straylight with grit that drummed across plating.

Zyra fired cutting lasers. Twin lances of near-invisible blue clipped a skimmer’s wing. The craft spiraled, then exploded in a cascade of white shards.

Electricity danced across hull from the blast’s proximity. Neon veins raced over plates, triggering minor systems reboot.

Kaelen’s probability streams jammed, glyphs stuttering.

– Feedback scrambling my datasets!

– Bypass, switch to analog scopes, – Vorl barked.

He sprinted down the corridor toward dorsal gunwell, leg servo dragging slightly.

Smoke curled from ceiling seams; a burnt resin odor filled passageway, mixing with cinnamon from Zyra’s earlier caf, oddly comforting.

Climbing ladder rungs, he felt weight of missing pauldron – left side lighter, shockingly vulnerable.

He reached gunwell interface. A holo-reticle unfolded before him, targeting range overlaying dusty horizon.

Two skimmers remained, weaving unpredictable arcs.

He squeezed firing stud. Energy pulses erupted, streaking teal beams that ionized dust into glowing plasma clouds.

One pulse grazed a skimmer’s stabilizer, causing logic-field flicker; the craft banked away.

The second skimmer fired a Normalization beam. A ghostly white cylinder of light lanced toward Straylight.

Vorl’s instincts screamed. He severed gunwell connection, yanking free neural plug. The beam passed overhead, grazing antenna array.

Nomad-Seven alerted.

– Comm dish overwritten, remote channels compromised.

Static crackled through earphones. For a heartbeat, he heard a voice from nothingness, calm and indifferent.

– Harmony beckons.

He slammed circuit breaker, killing external audio.

A tremor slid through his skull; he bit his tongue to ground his thoughts, copper blooming.

– Second missile inbound, – Zyra called.

Vorl re-linked guns, rotating mount. The skimmer used dust and beam glare as cover. He closed one eye, aligning reticle amid swirling sand.

He fired. The beam cut a clean line, meeting missile mid-air. Detonation boomed, shockwave punching hull.

Pain spiked through his thumb actuator – tiny fracture lines creeping further.

He breathed through it.

– Target neutralized, – reported Nomad-Seven.

The remaining skimmer retreated, trailing smoke.

Kaelen radioed.

– They’re folding out, likely to fetch bigger friends.

– Then we lift, – Vorl declared.

He descended to bridge. Elara stood in center aisle, pauldron now wrapped in shimmering thread, floating before her like a captured moon.

– The token anchors us. I can blur signature for a short jump.

– Do it while we still have rings, – Vorl answered.

Zyra plotted ascent vector.

Drones recalled inside, clamping to maintenance nests. Resin still dripped from their nozzles, leaving shiny puddles that smelled like burnt sugar.

The Caliper rings spooled, displaying new stress patterns, but alignment within tolerance.

Elara’s threads extended outward, merging with ring glow. Her breathing slowed into measured cadence.

Kaelen strapped into seat, burnt hand trembling as he powered down decoy subsystems to feed main thrusters.

The ship lurched skyward, engines roaring loud enough to shake loose a cascade of dust from ceiling vents. The dust sparkled gold in bridge lighting.

Ascent G-force pressed them deep into chairs. Vorl gritted teeth; he felt servo lag in leg amplify, each tremor mocking him.

Elara whispered something lost beneath engine thunder.

The stitching began. Reality outside thinned, like paint washed under solvent. Stars became hazy lines, the dust moon a dwindling blot.

A sudden pressure pressed inward on Vorl’s chest. He exhaled, but no air seemed enough.

The Caliper gave a tortured clang. An amber shard splintered off one ring, tumbling into the containment field and disintegrating into motes of dark.

Nomad-Seven’s alarm sounded.

– Integrity at sixty-eight percent.

Kaelen muttered a rapid equation under breath, hoping to shape probability by faith alone.

Space folded again. Their velocity collapsed to zero, then inverted. All was silent save Elara’s staccato breath.

Vorl tasted peach from earlier jerky mixed with blood on tongue – bizarre flavor of war.

The fold snapped shut.

They emerged into a quiet expanse of starless black, a hidden cul-de-sac in the nebula’s substructures.

Sensor arrays reported nothing but faint microwave whispers.

Elara sagged, threads retracting. She handed Vorl the pauldron, now spiderwebbed with luminous fissures.

– It will never be the same, – she said.

He secured it to a locker rather than his shoulder, acknowledging change.

Kaelen clapped weak applause with his good hand.

– We bought at least four hours. Maybe six.

Zyra slouched in chair, sipping the last of her cinnamon caf.

– Enough for actual sleep?

Vorl shook his head.

– Ring brace first. Then we search invasive code.

Nomad-Seven appeared near ceiling, motes drifting downward like silver snow.

– Sweep complete. Residual normalization strands isolated in memory bank seven. Quarantine recommended.

Vorl’s teeth clenched.

– Erase strand.

– Erasure may remove tactical logs for last engagement.

– Delete it, – he ordered.

Nomad-Seven brightened, then dispersed.

Kaelen sighed.

– One day we’ll forget every battle before we win the war.

Elara reached out, fingers brushing Vorl’s gauntlet.

– But we’ll remember why.

For an instant silence felt humane. Then a soft ping interrupted.

Kaelen frowned.

– Another code packet manifesting. Not normalization this time.

Vorl’s HUD lit with a single phrase repeating: memory is the final battlefield. Pixels crawled around letters as if alive.

Zyra stared, eyes wide.

– That’s you, commander.

Nomad-Seven re-formed, voice tight.

– Source of packet unknown. Encryption signature matches deep legion archives.

Vorl swallowed. A chill ran through organic spine.

He keyed systems, attempting to trace handshake. No luck.

– Could be Voron, – Kaelen guessed.

– Or something darker, – Elara added.

Zyra leaned back, exhaling a slow whistle.

– Whoever it is, they know where to find us.

Silence thickened. Engines idled, thrummed like distant drums.

Vorl squared shoulders.

– Then we keep moving. Reload drones, patch ring, purge ghosts.

Zyra saluted with flippant flair.

– Roger. Reloading.

Kaelen stood, joints popping.

– I’ll fetch fresh lubricant for your thumb actuator.

His attempt at kindness surprised Vorl.

– Appreciated.

Elara gathered her weaving tools, exhaustion tugging at her posture. She paused at door.

– The dust moon’s song followed us. I don’t know how long before it becomes a scream.

Vorl answered with quiet certainty.

– We will be gone before it does.

Kaelen exited toward engineering. Zyra bounded down corridor toward drone bay.

Vorl remained on bridge, alone with cooling fans and pine-laced air.

He gazed at pauldron in locker, lines of glowing thread still pulsing like a wounded heart.

His left thumb twitched, delayed. He flexed it slowly, acknowledging limits.

In the reflection of viewport glass, he saw himself twice: the soldier he was, and the ghost embedded in fading memories.

A flash of colour – not sensor alarm, but nebular light refracting across hull – painted the bridge mauve, then faded.

He inhaled, catalogued the smell of burnt jerky, ozone, and a distant suggestion of lilac that should not be there.

A faint voice came over internal channel, distorted beyond recognition.

– …merge… within…

His skin prickled beneath alloy.

– Nomad-Seven, track that whisper, – he ordered quietly.

– Tracking, – replied the AI. Motes glowed brighter, as though anticipating revelation.

The viewport ahead remained blank. Yet in a ghost image overlay, Vorl thought he saw the outline of a Coherence destroyer drifting in empty dark, too faint for instruments.

He blinked, and it vanished.

Adrenaline surged anew, cold as glacier melt.

He stepped toward command seat, ready to wake crew, when every status screen flickered.

A single new coordinate set appeared – origin unknown, target pointing deeper into nebula labyrinth.

He stared, breath held.

The navigation computer accepted the data unprompted, engines warming.

Vorl whispered to himself.

– We’re being herded.

He had no proof, only instinct.

Kaelen’s voice crackled over comm, distant.

– Commander, lubricant ready. Thumb repair in five.

– Understood, – Vorl replied absently.

His eyes never left the silent coordinate.

Somewhere in the ship, a relay clicked, aligning to course.

A low hum rose, like the distant purr of a great beast.

Outside, starless black shimmered with unseen motion.

Vorl’s pulse matched engine rhythm.

And in that stillness, the corvette began to drift forward on its own.

He realized too late the helm was no longer asking permission.

His last thought before alarms erupted: Who truly steers memory?

A crystalline chime filled the air, gentle, almost beautiful.

The void ahead yawned open, waiting.

Flickering Archives

Vorl queued the mess hall door to cycle, intent on forcing one intact memory to surface before the next threat arrived.

Warm white LEDs washed the compartment in hospital calm, yet fatigue clung to every corner like damp cloth. The scent of reheated broth, machine-brewed caf, and faint citrus disinfectant formed a muted chemical soup.

Elara sat at the central table, wrists trembling as she coaxed a translucent console to life. Integrated projectors unfurled shimmering panels of mission logs, their edges pulsing lavender with each heartbeat she skipped.

The panels were not for planning; they were an invitation. She angled them outward, hoping shared recollection might hold the crew together better than plating bolts.

Zyra slouched opposite, boots propped on a bench still glossy from factory sealant. A flick of her nail launched a new feed: Kinetarchy victory parade, banners crimson, brass bands roaring. Noise and colour filled the hall – then fragmented.

A frozen frame replaced triumph: her younger brother, regulation-white uniform, unity sigil burning on his chest. His eyes were voids of perfect compliance.

– Turn it off, – Zyra muttered. Her voice cracked, the sound too small for her tattoos.

The projection obeyed, shrinking into a single trembling pixel before vanishing.

Kaelen hovered near the caf dispenser, letting steam redden his damaged knuckles. Emerald numerals cascaded across his augmented iris, yet his organic eye stared somewhere three days behind the present.

– Probability swirl stabilises at fourteen percent if we rest, – he said. The statement carried no comfort; it was rainfall measured after the flood.

Vorl joined them, servos hissing as he lowered onto a bench. Steel hit polymer with a hollow ring. He extended a data-spike from his gauntlet, stabbing it into the table port.

A cascade of static snow filled his visor where memories should live. No frozen lake, no legion oath, only blizzard noise that smelled of burning resistor.

Nomad-Seven’s motes condensed beside his shoulder, forming a fragile humanoid silhouette. Cold ozone bled from the shape, frosting the nearest seat rail.

– Query: logic vector detected, – the shard whispered. Its voice carried mismatched fragments of ancient poetry, consonants flaring like sparks in darkness.

Vorl felt heat prick beneath collar seals despite the room’s cool air. He overrode the reflex to yank the spike free.

The Hollow occupied a corner, helmet dark, hands folded. Silence rolled from him like pressure waves, yet the Chrono-Ablative plates radiated faint dusk-blue highlights each time Elara’s logs refreshed.

Elara moved first, sliding a fruit pack toward Zyra. The pouch, depicting stylised apricots, was a luxury.

– Eat. Sugar steadies thread drift, – she advised.

Zyra snorted but tore the seal with her teeth. Syrup splashed her glove, amber against black fabric.

Kaelen selected a cup of broth, its surface reflecting amber ceiling panels. He sipped, grimaced at excess salt, then addressed Vorl without lifting gaze.

– We are ghosts debugging ourselves, – he said. The line hovered in the air, heavier than anyone expected.

Vorl withdrew the data-spike. The pins retracted with a soft click, but an ache echoed through his wrist actuators, and his HUD reported a marginal response delay along his entire left limb.

Pain translated to sluggishness; he recognised the new handicap without outward sign.

Nomad-Seven emitted a rising hum, like strings tuning for a funeral hymn.

– Vector origin: Stitch residue. Recommend purge of memory bank seven, – it declared.

– How much will vanish this time? – Vorl asked. Six words, yet regret filled three of them.

– Forty-one seconds, – the shard answered, tone neutral as star charts.

Kaelen set the cup down, steam curling around his thumb burn.

– Those seconds hold our last calibration for ring stress, – he warned.

Zyra wiped apricot syrup from glove, licking the excess like a mischievous child stealing kitchen sweets.

– Live stress beats dead accuracy, – she snapped.

Elara’s palm hovered over a flickering log, sparks of light dancing between her skin and data.

– I can anchor what matters, – she offered, irises shifting into slow kaleidoscope.

Her willingness tasted metallic in the air, a sign of fresh nosebleed waiting its turn.

Vorl approved the shard’s request with a blink command. Internal lights dipped as memory bank seven atomised unwanted strands. For half a heartbeat everyone heard the deletion: a brief inversion of audio channels, like wind sucking breath from lungs.

The Hollow’s helmet tilted, acknowledging an absence no one else could name.

Kaelen exhaled, then produced a palm-sized holoplate. Swirls of integers spiralled outward, forming a hurricane of variables that shimmered emerald to cobalt.

– This is beauty inside fatal certainty, – he murmured.

Zyra tapped the plate’s corner.

– Beauty won’t fix the ring, bean counter.

Kaelen answered with a sigh that smelled of seaweed broth.

Two maintenance drones scuttled from the galley hatch, bucket limbs rattling. Their plating bore fresh scratches from moon dust impact. One offered clean utensils; the second sprayed citrus disinfectant, introducing sharper tang to the air.

– Next drill at oh-nine, – Vorl told them. Drills kept entropy honest, even in mess halls.

– We just survived three drills called combat, – Zyra said, voice softer now.

Elara shifted projection to personal logs: a child’s drawing of stars, lines uneven, displayed in pastel hues.

– My niece’s first sky. She would be eight now, if timeline held, – she whispered.

Silence settled, heavier than armour. Even the drone sputtered quieter.

Zyra rose abruptly. Boots thudded teakettle rhythm across decking as she paced toward viewport. Through reinforced glass, the nebula drift showed bruised lilac clouds lit by distant lightning flickers.

– They killed parades and families alike. I keep forgetting which hurts worse, – she said.

Kaelen rotated his plate ninety degrees. Algorithms collapsed, re-forming into a crude heart symbol. It flickered, error-prone yet stubborn.

– Statistics favour sorrow’s persistence, – he commented.

– Your numbers need new toys, – Zyra replied, almost smiling.

Vorl’s thumb actuator spasmed. He clenched fist to mask tremor. The act sent faint vibration up forearm, each pulse reminding him humans once called that muscle memory.

He opened the archived footage of his legion on parade. Static replaced each face. He closed the file before shame could bloom.

Nomad-Seven shifted shape, edges shivering.

– Contained strands still exhibit decay. Secondary purge imminent, – it warned.

Elara placed her hand on Vorl’s forearm armour. Heat radiated through glove fabric, warmth curiously gentle.

– Your archives are not gone, only tangled, – she said.

– Tangled code fails in combat, – he answered.

A brittle clang echoed beneath deck plates: capacitor bank two cycling beyond tolerance. Lights flickered amber, then steadied.

– That hum is new, – Zyra noted, turning from viewport.

Kaelen consulted a wall panel, scrolling diagnostics.

– Capacitor fatigue at seven percent per hour. We must decelerate power-demand spirals or lose core stabilisers, – he announced, his tone unnervingly mild.

– Then we dim the ship and brighten the crew, – Elara suggested, shaking out her fingers. Threads of pale energy teased her nails before fading.

Hollow rose without sound, walked to caf dispenser, and poured a cup. He set it before Vorl. Steam curled in silver ribbons, laced with faint cinnamon – Zyra’s smug contraband.

Vorl lifted visor, letting the aroma reach what skin remained.

– Thank you, soldier, – he said. The soldier nodded once, the gesture like gravity giving approval.

Three heavy thunks vibrated the hull; tension snapped through spines.

– Debris? – Zyra asked.

Kaelen checked external feeds.

– Micro-meteor cluster. Odds finally smiled, – he replied.

Nomad-Seven shrank to a point of icy light, then expanded wider than a man.

– Vector noise rising. External chase pattern matching Coherence skimmer grid, – it reported.

Vorl’s mind sharpened. He stood, gauntlet palm leaving a warm circle on table surface.

– Distance?

– Two-point-five AU, trajectory aligned within ninety seconds of our last jump, – the shard said.

Zyra clicked teeth.

– Predictable as rust.

Elara dismissed her logs; panels folded into nothing with a sigh like extinguished candles.

– My reserves are low. I need rest before weaving again, – she admitted.

– Noted. We prepare mechanical options first, – Vorl decided.

Kaelen drained broth, set cup upside-down.

– I will reroute auxiliaries off capacitor two, buy us breathing room, – he said.

– Do it, – Vorl agreed.

He turned to the Hollow.

– Armour integrity?

The silent soldier raised two fingers in a quick salute. Vorl read the gesture: eighty percent integrity.

Nomad-Seven flickered, then adopted Vorl’s own silhouette. The duplication felt mocking.

– Fragment authority necessary to quarantine remaining contagion. Accept secondary splice?

– Proceed, but isolate from combat subroutines, – Vorl ordered.

A single mote drifted toward his visor, brushing it with cold pinpoint pressure. His HUD stuttered, timecodes lagging half a tick before resyncing.

Sensation of disorientation followed, as though someone rewrote gravity’s decimals. He breathed slow until balance returned.

Kaelen vanished through aft hatch, boots tapping uneven rhythm. The sound receded into hum of conduits.

Zyra resumed seat, rolling fruit pouch between fingers like dice.

– If they board, we blow the galley first. No sense letting them taste real food, – she joked.

– Cynicism suits you, – Elara said, smiling a tired crescent.

Steam from Vorl’s cup cooled, drifting across table edge toward drone intake vents.

– We have twenty minutes before recharge cycle ends, – he calculated aloud.

Zyra squinted at him.

– You trust those fractured timelines?

– I trust preparedness, – he replied.

The mess hall lights dimmed to soft rose, courtesy of Kaelen’s power diversion. Shadows lengthened, merging with dusky plum wall panels.

– Colour reminds me of my home reef at dusk, – Zyra whispered.

Elara touched her sleeve, eyes reflecting the same hue.

– Memory keeps places alive, even in colour alone, – she said.

A soft keening vibrated benches: capacitor thirty-four adjusting to newfound burden.

– Ship sings again, – Zyra noted, tapping rhythm on alloy.

– It sings of overwork, – Vorl corrected.

Nomad-Seven displayed predictive glyphs in midair: loops, bifurcations, divergence fractals blooming turquoise then bleeding to black.

– Skimmer formation recalculating. Unknown capital echo behind, – the shard reported.

Vorl’s visor timecodes fluttered. Static threatened edges; he blinked, clearing haze.

– My system instability now measurable, – he admitted.

Elara leaned forward, worry etching fine lines across her brow.

– Let me weave your neural lattice, stabilise it, – she urged.

– You would bleed again.

– Bleeding proves I am still alive, – she countered.

Zyra whistled low.

– Romantic nonsense, but I’ll guard the door if you try.

The Hollow placed a hand on Zyra’s shoulder with surprising gentleness. She stilled, eyes bright.

Kaelen returned, hair damp with coolant vapour.

– Capacitor two offline; overall draw reduced by nineteen percent. We gained twelve minutes, – he said.

– Good work, – Vorl answered, thumb actuator twitching thanks of its own.

Kaelen noticed the micro-tremor, said nothing, but fetched a tube of servo lubricant, sliding it across table.

– For when you decide to admit pain, – he murmured.

Nomad-Seven emitted a chime like glass struck underwater.

– Logic plague vectors declining. Quarantine effective thus far, – it announced.

Elara exhaled relief; blood did not appear.

Zyra tossed fruit pouch core into recycler slot. It pinged cheerful tone, a nonsense melody from factory default settings.

– Next crisis at our leisure, apparently, – she mocked.

A low warble rose from ceiling speakers: proximity alert pre-tone.

Kaelen’s algorithm plate reassembled into threat cone overlay, splashing green onto tabletop.

– Contacts emerging from fold space, – he stated. Voice calm but eyes wide with reflected spectra.

Vorl stood, servo motors whining louder than decorum allowed.

– Stations.

Elara lunged for a support rail, ready despite exhaustion. Zyra cracked knuckles, adrenaline chasing fruit sugar.

The Hollow turned, cloak of silence peeling away as he strode toward armour locker.

Nomad-Seven’s avatar fractured into three identical shards, each emitting separate data-feeds on enemy velocity.

– Two medium signatures, one micro. No positive ID, – the AI said.

Kaelen tapped a command. Mess hall displays flickered to tactical interface, edges pulsing amber.

– Micro is not a skimmer profile. Possibly civilian, – he reported.

– Or decoy, – Vorl countered.

Zyra barked sharp laughter.

– They learned mischief from us.

Elara pressed fingertips to temple, pupils dilating until iris gone. She whispered:

– Threads show hesitation; the formation doubts.

Vorl analysed numbers. Doubt could be exploited, but the unknown invited new ruin.

Nomad-Seven chimed again, lower.

– External broadcast detected. Narrow beam, encryption unknown, – it said.

Kaelen adjusted filters. Static burned across speakers, then resolved into heartbeat-paced clicks.

– That pattern matches no current cipher, – he declared.

Zyra shrugged on flight jacket, tattoos glowing bright.

– Only one way to ask.

– Hold, – Vorl ordered.

He motioned Nomad-Seven to loop the signal through his internal audio at reduced amplitude. Clicks entered his skull, cold and precise, each one followed by a faint echo he felt more than heard.

No command, no threat – just measurement, as if some distant entity counted him atom by atom.

He ended feed, jaw clenched.

– That was reconnaissance, – he concluded.

Kaelen’s gaze sharpened.

– By whom?

– Unknown, but not Coherence tone.

The Hollow returned, visor reflecting tactical screens. He tapped chest plate twice: ready.

Vorl felt strain in thumb again. He uncapped servo lubricant, slow swirl across actuator ports. Motion eased, but chilled metal burned raw skin through gaps.

Relief came at price: sensation dulled, grip strength lowered three percent. He stored that new weakness in mental ledger.

Elara steadied him with a look.

– Your humanity remains intact, – she said softly.

– My utility must follow, – he replied.

Zyra locked down galley storage; tins clanged inside cabinets as she secured latches.

– Never know when inertia will toss lunch, – she joked.

Kaelen’s plate showed updated vectors; the civilian-sized contact slowed.

– It drifts now. Could be distressed capsule, – he noted.

Nomad-Seven triangulated.

– Origin point aligns with dust moon salvage corridor, – it said.

Zyra raised eyebrows.

– One of ours?

– We left nothing but patches and nerves there, – Elara answered.

Vorl considered humanitarian impulse versus operational security. Static flickered along visor edges, reminding him of his own unstable archives.

– We treat unknowns as threats until proven otherwise, – he decided.

Kaelen nodded reluctantly.

– Calculations agree.

Sudden metallic creak rolled through hull as inertial balances re-set to battle preparedness.

Ambient lights dropped to combat amber. Alarm klaxons remained silent by design, but everyone felt the vibration deep in bone.

Zyra strapped sidearm, the snap crisp.

– I’ll helm. If they so much as blink weird, I scorch them.

Elara linked palms briefly with Zyra, sharing silent vow.

Kaelen reached for another broth pouch, hesitation clear.

– Eat while you can, – Vorl advised.

Kaelen obeyed, tearing spice packet open. Fragrant anise filled air, oddly comforting.

Nomad-Seven’s motes spiralled upward, merging into lattice across ceiling, feeding live stats to every panel.

– External units now within long-range optics. Visual feed available, – it said.

Vorl gestured. Mess hall window darkened, then brightened into remote view.

A needle-thin shuttle drifted, hull scorched, running lights off. Behind it, two larger signatures copied its moves exactly, ghost dancers half visible.

Elara inhaled sharply.

– Thread echoes, but not identical. Something puppets them.

Kaelen magnified image. One shuttle wing bore flicker of gold: unity sigil half erased.

– Escape craft from a recent battle, – he guessed.

– Or bait wearing scorched paint, – Zyra retorted.

Nomad-Seven beeped subtle disagree.

– Energy profile decays irregularly. Auto-systems failing.

Vorl weighed cruelty against caution.

– We wait ten minutes. If they broadcast distress, we decide.

Zyra headed for bridge without further protest, footsteps receding.

Elara slumped into bench, exhaustion finally visible in drooped shoulders. She closed eyes, breathing slow until faint rose returned to cheeks.

Kaelen wiped broth from lip, voice softer.

– Statistics never model choice of mercy well.

– Then statistics grow today, – Vorl answered.

The Hollow remained at viewport, helmet mirror reflecting drifting shuttle like a funeral candle.

Tension stretched, punctuated by drone exhaust hiss and capacitor murmur. Ten minutes could fill universes.

Kaelen’s plate blinked: no distress call.

Nomad-Seven updated.

– Vector shift. Unknown units now shadowing our exit trajectory.

Vorl’s jaw tightened.

– So be it.

He signalled general quarters over internal band. The call chirped twice, then silence resumed, heavier than before.

A distant thump suggested Zyra settling into helm.

Elara opened her eyes, pupils focusing linesless.

– They intend observation, not rescue, – she said.

– Then we show them nothing but engine flare, – Vorl replied.

He moved toward hatch, gloves squeaking against bench edge. Steam from cinnamon-laced caf still drifted above table, swirling lazy eddies.

His left thumb tingled numb but held grip around helmet rim.

Nomad-Seven now pulsed scarlet lattice across mess hall.

– Skimmer grid realigning. Estimate contact in twenty-three minutes, – it reported.

Kaelen gathered his plates and cups, clearing tabletop with methodical grace.

– Cleanup helps numbers, – he whispered.

Elara laughed, a brittle yet honest sound.

Vorl paused by door, watching his crew find tiny rituals amid doom. Colour, smell, and sound entwined: apricot syrup, anise broth, amber lights, capacitor hymns. For a moment, fatalities felt distant.

Capacitor bank three emitted sudden sharp whine. Panels flickered violet.

Something just entered weapons range.

Recursion Skirmish

Zyra’s sole objective was to rip a fatal hole in the flawless pattern shadowing Straylight, and she chased it the moment Vorl unlocked the fighter clamps.

The cockpit canopy sealed, glass tinting cobalt as cabin pressure equalised. A rust-red scent of warmed hydraulic fluid filled her nostrils, masking the sweeter trace of cinnamon still lingering from the caf she’d left unfinished.

Outside, the nebular haze shivered violet, rippling under the exhaust wash of three unknown craft that had ghosted them since the dust moon. Their triad formation moved with algorithmic harmony, each burn mirrored at integers of the other – an obvious Coherence signature, but more precise than she had ever seen.

Nomad-Seven’s voice crackled through her ear-port, a monochrome choir line:

– Vector lock confirmed, three enemy scouts, probability of hostile engagement nine-seven percent, – it said.

She rolled her shoulders, tattoos along her jaw flashing crimson in sync with the fighter’s ignition cycle. The chair’s mag-gel molded against her flight suit, firm enough to remind her of spinal scars earned under Kinetarchy training.

– Tell Vorl to keep the corvette steady, – she answered. Her breath fogged a small patch on the visor before the heater kicked.

Kaelen’s weary baritone bled through the squad channel.

– He knows. Straylight will hold a linear course at two-ten rel. Hull repair drones are mid-cycle; deviation multiplies fracture risk.

That was analyst-speak for keep it smooth or we shatter.

A pulsing green vector arrowed across her HUD. The scouts wanted her to climb – classic lure into higher vacuum where Normalisation beams travelled cleaner. She inverted thrusters instead, diving beneath Straylight’s keel. The sudden shift slammed blood against her temples, vision spotting with flecks of black.

A flat alarm rustled across the console – G-limit advisory. She killed it with a thumb jab and felt the actuator in her glove hitch on the press; coolant kissed the backs of her fingers, icy and slick.

The first Coherence scout answered her dive instantly, white hull yawning like a blade as it knifed after her. She caught the glint of unity sigils along its spine – sun-bright against the nebula’s bruise tones.

– They are predicting every vector, – Kaelen murmured, numbers scrolling behind his voice.

– Then give them chicken feed, – Zyra replied, fingers dancing. She cut main thrust, let inertia carry the fighter on a dead drift.

Two heartbeats of near silence followed, broken only by the groan of frame tension and the faint hiss of her own breathing.

The scout over-corrected, engines flaring a harsh white. In that sliver of over-confidence, she thumbed the vector-flaps. The fighter corkscrewed ninety degrees downward, dropping below the scout’s line of fire.

– Angle delta negative five, – Nomad-Seven reported, tone strangely reverent.

Her target was now above, silhouette washed in Straylight’s faint running lamps. She armed the wing-mounted shatter pods – data-mines stolen from a Kinetarchy vault raid months before her family was erased.

The pods deployed like blunt seeds, tumbling lazily. Their metallic skin caught stray radiation, flaring emerald before winking out.

– Contact two climbing port high.

Vorl’s voice – iron calm.

The second scout arced forward, normalisation projector warming; she recognised the ghostly glow that prefaced logic-plague injection. A single brush of that beam could rewrite her history into compliance.

So she gave them nonsense.

Throttle slammed forward. Engines howled cerulean, flinging the fighter through the debris of her own pod dispersal. Magnetic pings rang against the hull as micro-particles impacted, each a glitter spark on the external cam.

Inside Straylight, diagnostic screens blinked amber at the sudden reactor spike. Kaelen’s curse bled across sub-channel.

– Fuel cell drain increasing six percent!

She answered with a laugh that bordered on unhinged delight.

– It’s only burn if you brake.

The boom came – behind her, not ahead. Pod one detonated as scout one intersected its kill sphere. The explosion was silent in vacuum, yet energy bloom lit the cockpit white. Sensor data flooded: hull temperature rise, photon scatter off thermal tiles.

She smelled ozone through filters – imagined perhaps, yet powerful.

Scout one vanished from tactical; a line of code snuffed.

Her triumph pulse met a jarring system lag. The sudden acceleration had tripped a throttling algorithm in the fighter’s reactor; output dipped, engines sputtered. Warning glyphs crawled along her periphery.

That was the price of momentum: power now lingering half a second behind control input, a delay fatal in duels.

– Reactor ripple detected, – Nomad-Seven noted, voice softer, concerned.

She flicked the bypass toggle with knuckle, feeling the delay echo through her wrist bones.

– I’ll fly predictive, – she whispered to herself.

Scout two pressed the attack, white beam lancing where she would have been had her ship not stalled. The projector cut through dust cloud, crystallising it into a sculpture of light that shattered an instant later.

She banked left, but hesitation allowed the beam to graze her port stabiliser. Metal sublimated into a ribbon of steam; alarms whined, telling her the blade control surfaces were crippled.

Pain flared phantom in her shoulder, nerves mirroring the fighter’s injury.

– Port vane gone, – she hissed.

– Evasive algorithm cycling, – Kaelen offered, voice clipped.

She ignored it.

Instead, she queued Recursion Burn – an outlawed manoeuvre Kinetarchy instructors had dismissed as statistical suicide. It required stacking three micro-flips in fractional rotation increments, hammering the predictive loops inside enemy guidance software until they choked on self-referential equations.

She grinned hard enough to ache.

– Stand by for breakfast recursion, – she warned.

Nomad-Seven hummed an old poem fragment:

– Infinity divides, hunger remains.

Three thruster bursts followed. Each was shorter than the last yet delivered rotational torque not found in standard tables. The fighter spun like mis-thrown dice, nose yawing across impossible arcs.

Scout two tried to copy. Its stabilisers flared gold, then stuttered. The control lattice misread orientation; telemetry from Straylight showed the craft twitching, freezing, twitching again – caught in its own logic loop.

She pitched forward, aligning cannons. The tracking reticle blinked red-green-red as sensors fought for lock, finally settling.

– Eat recursion, – she muttered.

Dual streams of coherent blue plasma left her barrels. They intersected mid-space with perfect math, slicing across the scout’s projector assembly. The projector erupted in a bloom of vacuum-bound shards.

Scout two limped, spin uncontrolled, engines still flaring but directionless.

– Target disabled, – Nomad-Seven confirmed.

The final scout – call it three – hung back, evaluation routines obvious as it circled. It powered weapons but withheld attack, scanning, learning.

Zyra’s breath steadied; sweat beaded along her hairline despite cabin chill. The quick fight should have ended adrenaline rush, yet a deeper throb inside her chest warned of something unseen.

Vorl broke radio silence:

– Do not chase. Pull back to us, asset preservation priority.

Asset. She almost spat.

– I have momentum, commander.

– Momentum must obey mission parameters, – he returned, voice colder than hull plating.

She swallowed; the unspoken weight of her family’s erasure settled. Mission parameters had not protected them.

Scout three began broadcasting a tight-beam pulse. Nomad-Seven intercepted the packet.

– Encryption variant unknown. Payload resembles indexing beacon.

Zyra’s pulse spiked. Indexing beacons were deletion markers – she had seen the remains, or lack thereof, on remote garrison worlds.

– Kill it before data locks, – Kaelen urged, uncharacteristic urgency fraying his composure.

Her damaged port vane limited yaw; each adjustment required compensatory burn that sapped dwindling reserves. She throttled up, ship vibrating like a plucked string.

Scout three angled away, engines bright. It wasn’t fleeing – it was painting her transponder with the pulse. Auroral filaments spiraled from its bow, twisting through vacuum toward her hull.

She triggered chaff – nano-ink cartridges bursting into cloud. The cloud briefly formed shimmering glyphs, Coherence code reassembled into nonsense.

The pulse bit through anyway, a red sigil blossoming across Zyra’s main display.

Target flagged for deletion.

The phrase pulsed, rhythm matching her heartbeat.

– Tag acquired, – Nomad-Seven whispered.

Something inside her chilled beyond fear. Deletion was not a missile or a gun. It was retroactive, creeping backward in time until the victim’s first cry never sounded.

– Zyra, report, – Vorl demanded.

She could not speak.

The fighter lurched as energy reserves hit critical yellow. Engines coughed, the cockpit lights dimming.

She jettisoned the last of her data-mines in a roar of defiance, scattering emerald fire across the void. Scout three adjusted path, sliding elegantly between them, ignoring the threat.

Her cannons aligned once more. She squeezed triggers; they clicked dry. Capacitor empty.

– I’m bingo power, – she finally breathed, voice trembling.

Silence filled comm for a fragment, as if the crew inhaled together.

– Return trajectory plotted, – Kaelen said, softer now.

Her fighter’s nav drew a curved arrow back to Straylight.

She pivoted on thrusters, engines grumbling. In the turn, she glimpsed the scout accelerate away, mission complete.

Zyra throttled half and prayed the fuel cells held the burn.

Metallic tang filled her mouth as adrenaline crashed, and the cabin lights flickered as auxiliary circuits routed power from non-critical life support to drive coils. The cockpit temperature fell, frost blooming along the edges of the canopy.

– You’re cold soaking, – Nomad-Seven observed.

– Shiver later, fly now, – she muttered.

Straylight loomed ahead, dorsal hull scarred but resolute. She noted fresh resin patches still glossy under dim running lights.

Vorl’s voice touched the channel again, softer but iron.

– Docking rails extended. Focus on alignment only.

Her hands obeyed before thought. She guided the crippled craft into the belly clamps. Metal kissed metal with a shudder.

Cabin lights died entirely; her suit switched to battery.

Hissing vents announced atmosphere equalising. She unlocked canopy seals with achy fingers; the glass lifted, exhaling a puff of condensed breath.

Warm pine-scented air from Straylight’s life filters greeted her, mingled with the sharper odor of leaking coolant from the fighter’s wounded stabiliser.

She swung legs over the cockpit edge, knees weak. Gravity in the bay felt heavier, perhaps deliberate to offset earlier microgravity exposure.

A maintenance drone scuttled forward, welding torch sputtering orange. It tried to cut into the stabiliser; molten metal hissed. Sparks sprayed, some drifting onto her glove.

Heat bit through fabric; she cursed and shook fingers.

– Damage recorded, – the drone chirped apologetically before extinguishing its torch.

Zyra flexed her hand. Skin beneath glove tingled, no blister, but sensation duller. The price for rushing dismount.

Kaelen jogged in, eye iris awash with frantic turquoise numbers.

– The tag propagated to our network the instant you crossed threshold. Subsystem alarms light every deck.

She steadied on the fighter wing.

– Translate to human.

– Coherence has flagged your existence. At an arbitrary future moment, something will erase every point on your timeline.

Her breath hitched.

Footsteps signalled Vorl’s arrival. Armor all shadow and angles, shattered pauldron absent now, left flank bare.

He stopped three paces away, visor reflecting bay lights.

– Deletion protocols can be interrupted, – he said.

Kaelen scoffed behind her.

– Probability rounds to zero.

Vorl stared him silent. Then gaze met Zyra’s.

– We contest the math.

Her throat clenched. She offered a crooked grin despite damp eyes.

– Momentum, right?

– Momentum, – he agreed.

Nomad-Seven manifested, motes swirling into torso shape above the railing.

– Counter-vector analysis possible, but requires corrupted data-mines recovered for study.

She blinked, remembering the emerald flares.

– They detonated. Nothing left to salvage.

The shard’s motes pulsed sad grey.

Kaelen rubbed his bandaged hand across brow.

– There is another variable. The scout transmitted a checksum before retreating. If we intercept the Coherence ledger before validation, we might corrupt the deletion key.

Zyra straightened, hope a fragile glow.

– Location?

– A short-range transponder relay likely hidden inside Rhylis Nebula’s outskirts. Those scouts feed to a local hub before data folds deeper.

Vorl nodded once, decisive.

– We break the relay.

– Hull fractures argue against further combat, – Kaelen warned.

– Memories argue louder, – Vorl answered, voice low.

Zyra coughed a sharp laugh.

– I’ll fly the corvette if the fighter’s toast.

Vorl shook head.

– Fighter remains asset. Priority is patching your stabiliser and purging tag residue.

Nomad-Seven rotated motes, forming lotus-like pattern.

– Tag anchored in Zyra’s neural signature as well. Removing external nodes insufficient.

A chill wormed through her spine.

– Meaning?

– We must operate at dual layers: obliterate relay and weave defensive recursion around her mind.

Elara’s voice drifted from overhead walkway, faint, tired yet resolute.

– Threads can mask personal causality, but I’ll bleed again.

She descended stairs slowly, palms already glowing faint lavender. Blood crust darkened one sleeve from prior hemorrhage.

Vorl met her halfway, gauntlet brushed her elbow.

– Your threshold?

– Lower each time, – she admitted, smile brittle.

Kaelen stepped forward.

– My calculations show forty-eight minutes until scout data sync completes.

Zyra inhaled the pine-tinged air, grounding herself.

– Then we have forty-seven.

Vorl’s visor dipped, agreement.

He addressed the drone still hovering by the stabiliser.

– Seal that breach in twelve minutes.

The drone bleeped affirmative, torch reigniting.

Zyra’s hand throbbed where sparks had kissed, but sensation returned slowly.

– I need adrenaline stims, – she said, half jest.

Elara pressed a cool vial into her palm.

– Mint serum, popular with courier racers. Sharpens reflexes, leaves breath smelling of winter.

Zyra raised brow, jabbed it into her forearm. Cold flooded veins, mint vapour curling at the back of her throat.

Colour intensified; bay lights seemed richer gold. Sounds sharpened – the drone’s arc-torch hiss, distant hum of damaged Caliper ring, Vorl’s servo gearing clicking subtle between steps.

Cost arrived a beat later – her heart hammered arrhythmic, sweat returned in icy sheet across spine. Worth it.

– Systems ready, – Kaelen said, eyes flickering.

Vorl turned, voice projecting.

– Zyra to fighter repair. Elara to weave chamber. Kaelen bridge analytics. I will oversee hull reinforcement. Move.

The crew scattered, mission inertia reclaimed.

Zyra climbed back onto the wing where the drone laid fresh welding lines. Liquid alloy cooled under blue spray, releasing citrus-metal aroma.

She flexed damaged stabiliser by remote limb test; response lagged 0.3 seconds – acceptable.

The mint serum made her crave candied kelp, a festival snack from her drowned home reef.

– Focus, pilot, – she whispered, slipping into cockpit again.

Inside, Nomad-Seven piped soft chimes through the speaker, almost lullaby.

– I will thread proxy commands to assist stabiliser compensation, – it offered.

– I appreciate babysitting, – she said, grin returning.

Outside canopy, she glimpsed Vorl below, gauntlet pressed against fighter hull as if absorbing its pain.

He removed his hand, thumb actuator twitching.

For a moment, he seemed frail – legend in need of maintenance.

Coriolis alarms rang; Straylight adjusted orientation, aligning nose toward nebula bracket sector epsilon-four.

Kaelen’s voice echoed on wide-band.

– Relay coordinates plotted. Combat window twenty-five minutes.

Zyra powered engines to idle. Heat flowed back, cockpit frost melting in rivulets down glass, refracting lights into tiny rainbows.

She wiped visor inner surface with glove, smearing condensation into streaks.

Mint breath fogged again, only to vanish faster than before.

Elara’s weave pulse briefly lit corridors in lavender arcs, threads exploring ship structure.

Her voice trembled over private channel.

– I’ll protect your timeline, pilot. Hold tight.

– Just keep the scissors away, – Zyra answered.

Time contracted as systems prepared.

She closed eyes briefly, recalling brother’s face at parade. The memory felt more distant now, like she watched through watery lens. Was deletion already nibbling?

A klaxon half-chirped, then died – Nomad-Seven silencing non-essential noise to conserve power.

Kaelen spoke again, softer.

– Enemy sync at thirty percent.

She exhaled.

Thrusters rumbled under seat as Straylight began burn.

Synthetic gravity wavered, then settled, pulling her deeper into chair.

She caught the scent of reheated caf in ventilation, ghost of burdened crew clinging to ritual even in crisis.

– Ten minutes, – Kaelen counted.

– Stabiliser green, – Zyra reported, though gauge hovered amber.

Nomad-Seven chimed acknowledgement, adding private aside.

– Deletion vector remains inactive.

She allowed a smile.

Outside canopy, nebular light turned bruised magenta, dust clouds parting to reveal a lattice of sensor buoys – scrap metal shells repurposed to hide the relay.

Kaelen uploaded overlay: seven buoys, one pulsing red – primary node.

– We breach, crush red, exit, – Zyra summarised.

Vorl’s voice:

– Confirmed. No salvage, only destruction.

The coilgun in Straylight’s bow charged, a low growl that vibrated hull plating.

Zyra watched gauges, finger over stick, ready to launch if backup required.

The relay fired first – thin lance of silver data-light, targeted not at Straylight but the nebula itself, strobing a distant piece of space as handshake to deeper network.

– They’re transmitting checksum, – Kaelen warned.

– Coilgun, engage, – Vorl ordered.

A thunderclap tremor rocked the entire deck as tungsten slug tore free. Through her port-side cam, Zyra watched the slug cross impossible distance, ploughing through two buoys and shattering the red core.

Light vanished.

Kaelen whooped – rare sound.

– Signal collapse verified, sync halted. We froze them at forty-one percent.

Nomad-Seven flooded comm with soft static, then clear voice.

– Deletion probability reduced but not erased; residual protocols still reference pilot biometrics.

Zyra exhaled, long, controlled.

– Then we just made their job harder.

Elara’s fragile voice broke in:

– Threads sealed for now, but every jump will loosen them.

Vorl responded with unexpected gentleness.

– We will jump less, fight more.

That sounded like him.

Yet the relief was short-lived. Straylight’s structural alarm tolled – a grave, resonant note.

Kaelen’s report came clipped.

– Hull stress redistributed unevenly after coilgun discharge. Fractures widening near Caliper cradle two percent.

Zyra stared at the fighter’s damaged stabiliser, saw the mirrored fragility.

Vorl’s directive cut through tension.

– Stand down from combat posture. Repair crews resume. We review deletion tag countermeasures en route to Consensus.

Silence cascaded, relief braided with fatigue.

Zyra unstrapped, joints brittle.

She popped cockpit latch; pine-scented life-support air rolled in, now mixed with scent of ionised metal, oddly citrus.

She slid to deck, knees wobbling. Elara reached her, placing two fingers to Zyra’s temple; lavender glow bled into skin, soothing tremor.

– Fresh tear in stabiliser thread, – Elara whispered.

– Feels like a paper cut on the soul, – Zyra replied, forcing grin.

Kaelen approached with small foil packet.

– Apricot nutrient gel. Restorative sugar concentration suitable.

She laughed softly, tearing corner with teeth. The syrup tasted like childhood festivals, sticky and bright, fighting the aftertaste of mint and fear.

Vorl remained near coilgun control alcove, shoulders heavy.

Nomad-Seven hovered above, motes swirling around him like insects drawn to campfire.

– Tag linkage cooldown resumed. Deletion delayed, – the shard informed.

Zyra swallowed apricot, wiped lips.

She stepped toward Vorl, offering empty packet.

– Souvenir, commander?

He took it between armored fingers, examining printed peach blossom design.

– Memory anchor, – he said.

He folded the foil with meticulous care and placed it inside a gauntlet compartment over his damaged thumb actuator.

Zyra’s eyes widened.

– You collect trash now?

– I collect defiance, – he corrected.

Kaelen coughed a short laugh.

Elara leaned against bulkhead, fatigue drawing shadows under her aurora eyes.

– Threads hold, but I need rest, – she admitted.

– Granted, – Vorl answered.

The fighter drone finished welding, then powered down, its torch’s last spark drifting like a tiny star before fading.

A hush settled. The relay debris drifted outside, glowing embers in the nebula gloom. The scout ships were gone, their destiny unknown – the ledger severed.

Yet the red sigil still pulsed faint on Zyra’s HUD readout across the bay.

She touched the display, finger tracing the edges.

– Still flagged, – she sighed.

Vorl’s visor reflected the glow.

– We rewrite the ledger next.

She nodded, breath slow.

Across the bay, cooling fans exhaled, carrying pine, ozone, and the sweet ghost of apricot.

The lights dimmed to maintenance level, bathing metal in soft amber.

She closed her eyes, heartbeat echoing engine hum.

For a moment, peace lingered, fragile as dust.

Then an unfamiliar chime rang from bridge speakers, sharp, urgent.

– Unknown distortion on long-range band, – Kaelen called, tension renewed.

Zyra’s stomach dropped.

– Another relay?

Kaelen’s answer shook the deck.

– No, something bigger.

Outside, nebular clouds convulsed, parting to reveal a looming white ovoid – the approach profile of a Coherence enforcement cruiser.

– Stations, – Vorl commanded, voice steel.

Zyra felt mint serum spike anew, adrenaline surging.

The cruiser’s silhouette brightened as Normalisation arrays charged.

She whispered to herself, low and fierce.

– Momentum never sleeps.

The nebula’s violet glow softened around the hull, and distant static whispered like rain on far sheets of metal.

A faint smell of pine mingled with the lingering sweetness of apricot, drifting lazily through the cooling vents.

Flagged For Deletion

Zyra’s current objective was brutally simple: prove the med-bay’s verdict wrong before the verdict erased her.

A spray of antiseptic stung her nostrils, sharp as crushed mint, while aquamarine scan-lines crawled across her exposed forearms. The diagnostic arch hummed like a beehive under glass, counting every ion of her existence with merciless patience.

Her pulse spiked; the monitors answered with a crimson heartbeat glyph that pulsed in perfect step with the red deletion sigil still lodged in ship memory.

– Tell me you’ve found the off-switch, – she said, voice thick from the stimulant crash.

Kaelen stood beside the scanner cradle, one hand wrapped in fresh gauze, the other coaxing probability spirals across a tabletop slate.

– Projected rescission is nil, – he replied, tone as calm as falling snow.

Cold dread pooled behind her sternum. She flexed fingers; micro-tremors radiated up tendons as if her bones remembered every G-force endured.

Elara drifted closer, eyes swirling indigo and jade. Unclipping a thin wand of resonant alloy, she traced shimmering curves in mid-air that only she could fully read.

– Threads bend, – the Weaver whispered, each syllable glowing against recycled air.

Kaelen’s organic eye hardened.

– Statistics disagree.

Zyra cracked a dry laugh, thirteen rapid syllables that felt like broken glass in her throat.

The med-bay smelled of pine-oil cleanser, coolant vapor, and the faint sugary perfume of crushed apricot packets left open nearby.

Vorl watched from the doorway, bulk obscuring ceiling lamps. His shattered pauldron was gone, leaving cables and scorched composite visible under the severed mount.

He stepped forward, servos grinding; a shard of metallic dust flaked from his elbow joint, glittering like frost as it fell.

– Report, – he said, voice pitched to carry through riot fire.

Kaelen rotated the holoplate; charts reassembled into a descending red staircase.

– Micro-pruning will trigger when the regional ledger repairs. Timetable remains unknowable by us.

The word unknowable crawled under Zyra’s skin.

Nomad-7’s cool choir drifted from ceiling speakers, each note layered with obsolete library phrases.

– Protective splice attempt ready. Resource impact moderate.

Zyra shifted; alignment nodes inside the scanner whined protest. The metal cradle adjusted, pinching her ribs.

Pain flared, brief and bright, then dulled into static along nerve sleeves. Her vision haloed.

– That hurt, – she muttered.

Kaelen keyed a control. The arch withdrew six centimeters.

Her muscles loosened but something else slipped: she could not recall the scent of her family’s reef garden. She inhaled, desperate, finding only disinfectant.

A brief, ragged thought cut through his mind: *Not yet gone.*

Elara’s fingertips brushed Zyra’s wrist. Electric heat rippled outward, leaving a faint iridescent print on skin.

– I can pin memories in place, – Elara promised.

– And bleed another liter doing it, – Zyra replied.

Kaelen cleared his throat, a gravel sound.

– Even if stabilized, ledger contact would reinstate deletion at next sync.

Two drones scuttled from a wall recess carrying a slim tray: one vial of yellow glucose, two nutrient wafers stamped with the Vectorate emblem, and a chipped ceramic mug of steaming broth.

One drone chirped a lullaby fragment while extending the tray.

Zyra accepted the mug, the rim warm against bruised fingers. Salty steam coaxed a hunger she had ignored for twelve hours.

– Soup solves nothing, – she said, but sipped anyway.

The broth tasted of seaweed and pepper, a humble reminder that people somewhere still argued about seasonings instead of survival.

Vorl tapped the scanner’s side panel. A hidden diagnostic bloom floated across his visor: amber checksum failure in his own memory lattice. He blinked it away.

The tap triggered a low-note alarm. Power conduits above them flickered, and one ceiling tile discharged a hiss of ionized dust.

Kaelen’s plate registered the fluctuation.

– Med-bay draws exceed current capacitor budget.

Vorl’s helm tilted toward Nomad-7’s wall emitter.

– Divert noncritical circuits.

Nomad-7 acknowledged with a chime resembling distant wind through reeds.

Zyra lowered her cup.

– Sometimes I envy drones; no one tries to erase them retroactively.

– Drones lack narrative threat value, – Nomad-7 answered, almost apologetic.

She barked another laugh, softer.

Color returned to her cheeks, a fleeting sunrise across fatigue pallor.

Elara produced a small crystal rod from her pocket.

– Old fringe remedy, – she explained, placing it between Zyra’s palms. – Focus on light refraction; it steadies mental coils.

The rod refracted sickbay lamps into prismatic shards. Zyra watched violet dance between her fingers, heartbeat easing half a notch. Twenty-three words of silent gratitude formed but stayed unspoken.

Kaelen’s slate pinged. A new data packet bloomed: docking authorization stamped by the Outer Rim Consensus, clearance code violet-crescent-five.

– Safe harbor request approved, – he announced.

Zyra’s jaw set.

– Consensus safe? That station is a political abattoir.

Kaelen lifted one shoulder.

– We require parts, bandwidth, and – he glanced at her – time.

Elara’s gaze shimmered hopeful.

– The Consensus markets trade in exotic code. There might be counter-templates to the tag.

Vorl considered. Servo noise filled the pause like grinding teeth.

– Plot course. Keep emissions dark.

Nomad-7 flickered onto a nearby console, motes forming an incomplete face.

– Consensus protocols suspicious. Recommending stealth ingress.

– Agreed, – Vorl said. – Prepare forged transponder.

Zyra flexed toes; the scanner cradle loosened further and a ribbon of blood-warm air washed over her ankles.

A memory surfaced unexpectedly: running barefoot along coral pathways, laughter echoing beneath solar lamps. For once, it didn’t bleed away.

She exhaled.

– If the Consensus has an antidote, I’ll kiss their bureaucrat’s boots.

Elara squeezed her wrist gently.

– Probability of boot-kissing imminent, – she teased.

Kaelen allowed himself a faint smile, quickly masked.

A maintenance hatch thumped open beside the crew couch. The Hollow stoically entered, armor carrying dust from recent hull patching. He carried a fresh apricot packet and set it near Zyra’s pillow, then folded back into shadow.

– He communicates in gifts, – Kaelen observed.

Zyra tore the packet corner with her teeth, syrup perfuming the bay. She offered a silent salute toward the retreating soldier.

Vorl stepped aside as a third drone glided in to apply servo lubricant along his damaged thumb actuator. Micro-hydraulics hissed, easing twitching components.

Relief flickered through his gaze, but grip strength bar slid marginally downward. He noted the change without comment.

Kaelen fetched a roll of adhesive sensor tape, passing it to Zyra.

– Apply behind ear; calibrates heartbeat to auxiliary telemetry.

She smoothed it onto skin. Cool adhesive tingled, then sank into a steady pulse echo inside her inner ear.

The bio-tape drained minor battery reserves from med storage; overhead lights dimmed again, this time slower.

Vorl addressed Kaelen.

– How long until jump?

– Drive cooldown window is ninety minutes.

Zyra swung legs off the bed, ignoring scanner protest lights.

– Get me to the cockpit when you light the coils.

Kaelen frowned.

– Structural fatigue still flagged. Fighter stabiliser also remains at seventy-one percent.

She stood anyway; knees whispered in protest.

– Seventy-one beats nonexistent.

Elara steadied her, palm warm on lumbar.

– Sit in crew nook for now. Let threads settle.

Zyra nodded grudgingly, accepting support toward a padded bench shaped like a half-moon.

Pine-scented air refreshed as ventilation cycled. The smell mingled with apricot sweetness, forming an oddly nostalgic cocktail.

Nomad-7’s avatar floated above the central console, projecting a simplified ledger diagram: Zyra’s neural signature in gold, deletion process in encroaching red waves.

– External ledger currently offline after relay destruction. Reconnect risk grows with each hour.

Zyra stared at the diagram, jaw clenched hard enough to ache.

A brief thought flickered through her mind: Not dying by ledger decree.

Kaelen snapped a chem-heater under the nutrient wafers; they puffed steam, spreading bread-like aroma.

– Eat, – he urged.

She broke a wafer, crumb texture airy yet gritty, bitterness offset by synthetic honey veins.

– Tastes like victory ration, – she said.

Elara laughed softly, then winced as nose bled a pink droplet.

The Weaver dabbed it away with sleeve, light fracturing around her pupils.

– I’m fine. Neural tension only.

Kaelen handed her a cloth patch.

– Prevention beats transfusion.

A moment of quiet settled over the med-bay, thick with unspoken anxieties.

Quiet hum of energy converters formed a bass note under all conversation. Overhead, Med-Bay window revealed a slice of nebular violet, shot through with pale lightning flickers.

On a nearby shelf, someone had stashed a tiny carved bone fish, its scales painted aquamarine. A folk charm from the Rim, believed to guard wanderers from vanishing mid-voyage.

Vorl leaned against a cabinet, shoulders sagging more than before.

– Every crew under my command inherits empire’s ghosts. Yet you still volunteer, – he said quietly.

Zyra met his visor’s obsidian blank.

– Ghosts fuel momentum.

Kaelen broke the silence with new data.

– Consensus route passes through low-density ion stream. Minimal patrol risk but increased hull pitting.

– Prep the ablative patch drones, – Vorl ordered.

Nomad-7 rotated to display drive integrity: 68 percent, magenta code lines crawling.

– Caliper tolerance improving slowly. Resin meld stabilizing fractures.

Zyra’s jaw cracked with yawning fatigue.

Elara lifted a stim patch but Zyra waved it off.

– Save it for dogfight hours.

Kaelen’s slate chimed in minor key.

– Outer Rim clerk requires crew manifest.

Vorl’s gaze shifted to Zyra.

– Your tag may trigger database cross-checks.

– Fake my name, – she said. – Use Pilot Redacted.

Kaelen keyed entries.

The shuttle of fingers across holo keys generated tiny light motes that dispersed like sparks.

Nomad-7 interjected.

– Generating checksum obfuscation. Section header will reference decommissioned Kinetarchy squadron.

Elara’s eyes softened.

– That squadron housed your brother. Is this choice safe?

Zyra inhaled sharply.

– It makes me invisible in their archives. He’s already gone.

The hover drones retreated, leaving behind faint ozone. Scanner arch folded into standby, monitors dimming to deep teal.

Vorl reached for the crushed apricot packet, disposed of it in recycler slot; the machine chirped a monotone approval.

– Med-bay secure. Station personnel unlikely to board, – Nomad-7 stated.

Kaelen lifted his gauzed hand.

– I’ll recalibrate synergy nodes in navigation.

He exited, boots tapping a syncopated pattern down corridor.

The Hollow remained at the doorway, sentinel still as carved obsidian.

Zyra tilted her head toward him.

– Thanks for the fruit, shade-knight.

He offered a small nod, then vanished into dim corridor where emergency strip-lights pulsed soft amber.

Elara brushed stray hair behind ear.

– I’ll replenish psi reserves in meditation alcove.

– Rest, – Vorl ordered.

She left, steps silent on rubber flooring.

Silence settled between commander and pilot.

Zyra flexed shoulder joints, feeling ache where flight suit still imprinted harness grooves.

– You believe Kaelen’s zero percent? – she asked.

Vorl regarded her.

– Probability models ignore variables called defiance.

Her throat tightened.

– I won’t fade quiet.

– Then keep living loudly.

A small smile tugged at her lips.

Nomad-7 returned to ceiling.

– Shipwide announcement: Jump countdown at eighty minutes.

Zyra slid off bench, stretching. Muscles complained but cooperated.

– I need cockpit system checks.

– Proceed, – Vorl allowed.

They exited med-bay together, corridor lighting cycling from sterile white to gentle dusk hues to soothe fatigued retinas.

A galley nook opened on right; an unattended kettle whistled above safe temp. Vorl turned knob, steam disengaging with sigh.

– Burn hazard, – he commented.

Zyra retrieved two mugs, pouring the near-boiling water over compressed tea tablets that fizzed turquoise before dissolving into lavender tint.

She handed him one mug. The aroma carried notes of licorice and cedar – a Rim blend.

– Better than caf tar, – she said.

He lifted visor; lips touched rim.

– Acceptable.

They walked in companionable silence past Engineering viewport where drones stitched resin across hull seams. Blue sparks rained like fireflies against black vacuum.

– What will you do if Consensus denies us? – Zyra asked quietly.

Vorl’s pauldron mount ticked, ghost servo whining.

– Take by force what we need.

– Sounds like you.

Bridge hatch irised open. Dim starlight washed consoles in silver. Kaelen hunched over nav clutter; Elara sat cross-legged near sensor dais, breathing slow, dots of phosphor floating around her hair like microscopic comets.

Zyra slid into auxiliary station. Her seat retained body-heat memory from last use, faintly comforting.

Nomad-7 dimmed ambient hum to reduce auditory fatigue.

– Pilot biometric thread stable for now.

– Keep it that way, – she murmured.

Kaelen looked up.

– Approach vector locked. Consensus expects arrival in six hours standard.

– Copy.

Vorl moved to command cradle but paused, gauntlet drifting to shattered pauldron memory. Empty socket remained open, vulnerable.

– Helm, gentle burn, – he said.

Zyra’s fingers skimmed haptic throttles. Engagement coils thrummed; Straylight’s deck plates vibrated in low A note through soles of her boots.

She increased thrust by 0.2 percent.

Immediate impact: calibration lag spiked, joysticks drifted left three millimeters. She corrected, heart skipping at uncertain feedback.

– Response? – Vorl asked.

– Slight drift. Drive still cranky.

– Noted.

Kaelen highlighted external lens view. Ion wisps trailed the corvette, pale ribbons rippling backward.

Elara unfolded from trance, eyes swirling with star-speck.

– Threads calm for now, – she whispered.

Zyra rubbed temples. A mild headache bloomed behind right eye; scanner’s earlier compression had left hidden bruises.

– Pain? – Kaelen inquired.

– Reminder I’m alive.

Bridge air tasted faintly metallic thanks to recycling coils stressed by previous combat sealant fumes.

Nomad-7 projected an animated docket of Consensus formalities: customs fees, crew identification, cargo declarations. Bureaucracy embarked before they’d even docked.

Zyra snorted.

– They’ll charge us oxygen by molecule.

Kaelen smirked.

– I already embedded a refund clause.

Elara opened her palm. Threads of lavender coalesced into a tiny knot which she tucked into a pocket.

– A keepsake? – Zyra asked.

– Anchor token. For you.

Zyra took it; the knot weighed nothing yet felt warm.

– I’ll guard it.

Nomad-7 emitted caution tones.

– Unidentified remote ping. Origin uncertain.

Kaelen traced signal scatter.

– Signature faint, no trajectory lock.

Vorl straightened.

– Ignore for now. Focus on Consensus docking.

Bridge lighting dimmed to restful gloom; star speck reflected off Vorl’s armor like ghost constellations.

Time flowed, measured by coolant pumps and occasional servo clicks.

Zyra leaned back, letting hum lull her battered senses.

*I will outlive their ledger,* she thought.

Kaelen broke silence hours later.

– Consensus control requests real-time vitals for biofilter.

– That’s intrusive, – Zyra noted.

Elara frowned.

– We can send dummy traces. I’ll braid them.

Her eyes brightened; she extended hands, weaving an invisible lattice. Ship sensors flickered as she over-layered false biometrics.

Ability toll surfaced instantly – thin line of blood rolled from her right nostril, vanishing into collar.

Zyra’s stomach clenched.

– Enough.

Elara steadied breath.

– Data delivered.

Kaelen checked feed.

– Accepted.

Nomad-7 appended approval ping.

– Docking clearance final.

Vorl exhaled, a sound like distant thunder.

– Good. Prepare crew for station protocols.

Zyra pushed from chair; ankles tingled pins and needles from long stillness. She massaged them subtly.

– I’ll change into flight leathers, look less insurgent.

Kaelen lifted brow.

– Tattoos glow through anything.

– They’ll see what I want them to see.

She exited bridge, corridor lighting brightening two shades ahead of her path.

In crew quarters she found a charcoal jacket with hood, its lining woven with signal-damp threads. Sliding arms through sleeves hurt bruised shoulders but comforted mind.

She caught reflection in a polished locker panel: cheeks dotted with scanner tape residue, eyes ringed dark but alight.

Her grin refused to die.

Returning to bridge, she found Vorl alone, reviewing memory fragments on a cracked wrist-display. Static consumed half the images.

– Losing pieces again? – she asked.

– Yes, but mission variables persist.

He closed display.

– When tag triggers, I’ll fight ledger for you.

Zyra’s throat tightened anew.

– Don’t waste yourself.

– Utility measure, not sentiment.

She knew the half-truth under that.

Nomad-7’s avatar appeared between them, motes forming a compass rose.

– Final docking vector confirmed. Consensus station within visual range in forty-two minutes.

Kaelen’s voice drifted from nav pit.

– Gravity shear minimal.

Elara pressed a palm against viewport glass, watching starfield tilt slowly.

– I sense no malice yet.

Zyra chuckled.

– You haven’t met station customs.

A maintenance alert chimed from engineering: coolant baffles achieved nominal pressure. The Hollow’s handprint logged completion.

Vorl stood; armor plates realigned with metallic whisper.

– I’ll allocate watch rotations.

Kaelen rose to stretch, his spine cracking like tiny firecrackers.

– Statistics say we survive next six hours.

Zyra winked.

– Might be your first optimistic model.

– Margin of error generous, – he said.

Elara leaned heavily against console.

– I need rest before we dock, or I’ll faint at inspection gate.

– Go, – Vorl ordered.

She left silently, leaving faint lavender motes drifting behind.

Nomad-7 dimmed lights further, fostering pre-jump calm.

Zyra settled into pilot seat again, idly rotating knot token in her fingers. Warmth radiated, steady as pulse.

Across the console, deletion sigil still glowed faint red, a malignant heartbeat she could not silence.

An internal whisper steadied her: I will not vanish. Not now.

Kaelen adjusted collision alarms to low sensitivity; the resulting hush felt like a blessing.

– Wake me at final approach, – Zyra said, eyelids heavy.

Vorl acknowledged with a nod; servo motors emitted soft purr as he turned away.

Sleep hovered, smelling of mint serum echo and apricot memory.

Moments later, bridge speakers crackled.

– Incoming file from Consensus: docking berth Theta-nine, – Nomad-7 relayed.

Vorl acknowledged, then looked at Zyra.

– We may hold berth as long as we emulate survey vessel.

Kaelen appended schedule note.

– Bureaucratic window four hours.

Zyra’s laugh came half-asleep.

– We’ll break something before paperwork clears.

Light from the nebula shifted toward pale gold as they neared the station’s artificial sun arrays. Hull sensors registered mild thermal bloom.

Zyra’s seat vibrated gently, comforting. She drifted into shallow doze, hearing faint childhood song, but memory faded against red sigil pulse.

Kaelen resumed calculations; Vorl monitored ship health; Nomad-7 guarded all.

Time folded peaceful for a stretch long enough to forget war.

Sudden klaxon shattered calm.

Kaelen shot upright.

– Long-range scope detects Coherence tag sync spike near our rear vector.

Vorl’s voice cut granite.

– Range?

– Five astronomical units and closing.

Zyra jolted awake, heart slam-dancing.

– They sniffed us?

Nomad-7’s avatar flickered amber.

– Probability moderate. Suggest no immediate deviation; Consensus shadow will mask us.

Vorl considered fast.

– Maintain course. Arm silent measures.

Zyra clenched fists.

– If they get too close, we punch.

Kaelen mapped trajectories.

– Intercept arrival window matches our docking cycle.

A tense hush blanketed the bridge.

Vorl glanced at Zyra, visor betraying fatigue.

– Your fighter stays grounded until station clearance complete.

– Understood, – she gritted.

Elara’s voice chimed over comm, faint.

– Threads feel tightened. Something watches.

– Maintain resilience, – Vorl ordered.

Nomad-7 narrowed sensor cone.

– Tracking echo faintly. Will update.

Straylight sailed onward, engines whispering. Ahead, the Consensus station grew: a rust-colored sprawl of welded hulls, lights twinkling like city nights.

Kaelen exhaled.

– Docking handshake commencing.

Vorl placed hand on Zyra’s shoulder and squeezed once, a gesture as rare as starlight in daylight.

– Hold your ground, pilot.

Her voice low.

– Always.

The corvette slid toward berth Theta-nine. Hydraulic couplers extended. Magnetic clamps crackled. Hull moored with a deep metallic sigh, like a giant settling old bones.

For a heartbeat, everything stilled.

Soft hum of environmental equalizer drifted through corridors. A faint citrus breeze carried station recycled air through docking umbilical.

Far below sensor noise, Zyra’s deletion sigil pulsed brighter.

A gentle hush filled the flight deck, broken only by the rhythmic sweep of ventilation fans. Distant station chimes rang, soft as lullabies drifting through thin metal walls.

Then the console flashed an unauthorized carrier wave tagging Zyra’s neural ID, and every alarm turned red.

Shattered Consensus

Vorl’s immediate aim was mechanical: find spare hull struts before the Caliper’s next tremor tore Straylight in half.

Station air hit him like damp rust, carrying garlic-oil steam from noodle vents and the ozone bite of aging plasma coils.

Boot leather struck a deck compiled from twenty-seven different shipwreck plates; each impact echoed through his armor, reminding him of widening fractures.

– Keep formation loose, – he ordered. Nomad-7 relayed in a whisper of static across everyone’s implants.

Crowds eddied around them – dockhands in patchwork pressure suits, gamblers flashing holo-dice that hummed violet, a nun of the Silent Apostasy preaching perfect stillness beside a scrap recycler.

Zyra trailed, hood up, lavender anchor knot tucked beneath collar. Her deletion sigil pulsed faint crimson on Vorl’s HUD, a countdown nobody could mute.

Kaelen’s iris scrolled numbers. He sniffed the air.

– Probability of local hostility at twenty-three percent, – he murmured.

A maintenance drone skimmed past, spraying citrus disinfectant that stung nostrils and fogged Vorl’s optics for half a tick. He blinked away haze, memory buffer shuddering.

They reached a customs arch ribbed with corroded brass. Bureau-droids scanned permits with green lasers that smelled of burning dust.

Vorl presented Straylight’s forged survey file. The droid chirped approval, yet its lens lingered on his vacant pauldron socket.

A second lens drifted toward Zyra. Elara leaned closer, iris shimmering indigo.

– Threads smooth, – she whispered. Her voice steadied the digital weave masking Zyra’s neural signature.

Scanner lights cooled, releasing them into the main concourse.

The concourse resembled a coral canyon, decks stacked five high with stalls. Neon glyphs strobed magenta across broken hull ribs, advertising memory-wine and coilgun parts.

A vendor shoved boiled fungus skewers under their noses. The skewers glistened emerald, sizzling on self-heating resin.

Kaelen surprised himself by buying two with an untraceable credit chit.

– Data fuel, – he said, chewing methodically.

Vorl ignored hunger, gaze mapping exits, vent shafts, and firing arcs. His left thumb actuator twitched, lubricant thinning again.

Sensors chimed. Nomad-7 flagged a micro-spike: unclassified transmission lingered near Vorl’s armor address.

Then Jax Morrison emerged.

Teeth bright, boots buffed, coat cut from repurposed cruiser sailcloth, he offered a half-bow that smelled of peppermint gum and reckless opportunity.

– Grand Admiral Voron sends regards, – Jax said, voice silk on steel.

Vorl didn’t flinch.

– Proof?

Jax produced a wafer – silver foil etched with the admiral’s personal sigil: a broken probability curve.

Zyra’s glare could have melted plating.

– He’s a profiteer, – she growled.

Jax’s grin widened.

– Profit buys you parts. I can secure hull struts, coolant veins, and distortion baffles before shift bell, commander. Only currency is trust.

Vorl extended a gauntlet. They shook. In that instant, Jax’s sleeve brushed the shattered pauldron mount – too gentle.

Nomad-7 pinged but packet loss blanked the warning. Vorl’s HUD stuttered – memory sector seven momentarily offline.

– We’re burning daylight, – Zyra muttered, fingers twitching for pistol she didn’t carry.

Kaelen swallowed fungus, voice flat.

– Statistically, refusing him lowers survival odds.

Elara studied Jax’s aura, eyes swirling.

– His shortest path glints with betrayal threads.

Jax shrugged, mock offended.

– Chaos pays dividends. Follow me.

They wove through a maze of cargo lifts. Hydraulic pistons hissed, spraying warm mist smelling of hot copper.

A tannoy boomed station announcements in five languages, none promising safety.

The group halted at a viewport. Beyond glass, the dockyard sprawled – cranes moving like ancient crustaceans, sparks raining amber where welders stitched a freighter’s broken spine.

Children chased a rag-ball between cargo pallets, laughter surprisingly bright amidst the steel.

– The patterns of ordinary life persist, – Kaelen observed softly.

Vorl touched the glass. Cool vibration pulsed through fingertips, echoing Caliper stress frequencies.

An elderly tech in grease-streaked overalls offered them cups of barley tea from a dented thermos. The tea steamed sienna and tasted of earthy smoke.

Vorl drank, sensory map updating: sugar warmth, slight tannin bite. Armor servos quieted, if only psychologically.

– Payment, – the tech demanded, palm up.

Jax flipped a small coin that chimed against calloused skin.

– Companions of mine, – he said, charm weaponized.

They descended metal stairs that clanged like rifle bolts.

Nomad-7 finally stabilized the lost packet: foreign device attached under Vorl’s gauntlet ridge – dumb beacon, dormant.

He would extract the beacon later; for now, he had to preserve his cover.

Elara lagged, blood fleck on upper lip. She wiped it away, weaving subtle shimmer around Zyra to muffle ragged lifesign spikes.

A slicer stall came into view: racks of semi-legal data wafers, encryption pry-bars, and black glass analytics cards.

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