Contents

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.