The Vein & The Vessel

• 25 August 2025

By Walter M. Smith

Prologue #

Prologue 1: The Last Quiet Morning #

My name is Michaelo. Michaelo Riticci. I have an unexciting life--one of a farmhand on a border planet far from the Emerald Sun. The last time I looked up my planet on the gyron-net, I saw my home was called Planet 739. An unassuming name for an unassuming world. The people who live here called it Duskhallow.

I work in an atmospheric dome, raising crops for the terraforming crews that were labouring to bring Duskhallow into greater habitability. One day, maybe thousands of years in the future, this planet would be as inhabited as the ones in orbit around Omitor-Capdex.

My dome, excitingly named "agricultural zone 739-B", is my workplace. It is a massive structure, with a glassy, hexagonally-tiled ceiling overhead designed to focus VV rays from that distant star into our crops. My hands are calloused, and every step causes a squelch as my boots stick slightly in the nutrient gel our jenfruit grows out of.

I've never left this world. I didn't even have orbital clearance. All my dreams of flying away and visiting Core Prime burned away by dull routine. I can't even remember my childhood that well. Often I feel as if I've always existed on this world, or like I sprung into existence spontaneously and had farming tools thrust into my hand and sent to work in the fields immediately.

My day begins as every other monotonous one does. My supervisor yells at us as we get onto the fields 30 seconds later than designated. I don my canister pack and dispersal tool and begin to coat the silty farmland with the nutrient gel necessary for jenfruit to take root in. The gel will have dried up by the afternoon.

I hum to myself, no tune in particular, as my eyes glaze over. Suddenly, a foreign sound cuts through my earpiece. Our local gyron-net is ablaze with sound. Static--then screams. The normally dull chatter of farmhands communicating ruptures into panic. Sensors embedded into the dome surrounding the field begin to blink red. Something has struck the dome. I feel it--them--with my boots before I hear them. Hundreds of legs tapping in signal.

An automated voice cuts through the alarms, emanating from a speaker just over the hill. "All personnel to shelter node five. This is not a drill: quavas incursion confirmed. Repeat--quavas incursion confirmed."

I'm a farmhand. I'm unarmed. I am not trained for this. And as I gaze around my dome, I realize I'm alone.

The whole dome seems to shudder as a pressure lock hisses from somewhere past the north field. The quavas were trying to breach through there--they would be through in minutes. I have little time to make a choice. In fear, I pick up a nearby hydrolance and duck behind a stack of jenfruit boxes.

The hydrolance is far from an ideal weapon. The tool's polished sintesium shaft is slick with mist--it's nothing but a standard irrigation tool, used for stubborn soil clusters and root dislodgement. The tool has half of its battery life left--drained from this morning's use. I look at the pressure setting and recall my supervisor's words: "Keep it on nothing higher than setting 4 or you'll take your hand off."

I crank the hydrolance to its maximum--level 6. Today it would be my only chance against what comes into this dome--if the stories were true, I wouldn't be able to outrun the damned centipedes on foot. Fighting was the only option.

From the far ridge of feeder terraces, I see them emerge... dozens of quavas, their segmented bodies arcing like whipcords, glinting with damp chrome. Each leg taps out a silent code while their alien organs poot out a strange chorus of eldritch sound. But what grips my heart is what follows these already-terrifying monsters.

A prymex. Towering, plated in oil-black metal, flanked by its kin.

I take my stance behind a fruit processor. I cycle the lance's power system and listen as it whines to life. For a moment, it feels like more than a tool.

I am just a farmhand. But this is my home.

With a determination not regular to me, I attempt to sneak as close as possible to the prymex. With luck, I can take it out and cause the lesser quavas to scatter in confusion. I wade through the nutrient gel and irrigation coils, making sure to not create noise. The hum of the hydrolance vibrates in my palms. I control my breath, hiding behind a crumbling botany pillar. The prymex towers over its brood, its limbs splayed like antennae across the field. I wait... try to mentally calculate the angle... then I sprint forward, lance raised.

Chirrrrr... GLLKK!!

I am sent sprawling into the muddy mixture created from the dirt and gel. I look up and see one of the prymex's sentinels standing before me. Its cyber-ocular node, grafted to its alien head, adjusts its many lenses to regard me. I must have seen me while I was hiding and moved to protect its superior.

Three other quavas scuttle through the crops around me, encircling me. The prymex's upper limbs fold inward as wiring and antennae emerging from between its bolted-on carapace begin to blink and chirp. It's preparing to call more of its kind here.

In a panic, I throw the hydrolance at the prymex. The farm tool bounces off of its synthetic carapace--designed to repel much more than an old tool thrown by a scrawny farm boy. The alien gurgles and undulates... is it... laughing at me? The prymex takes a few steps toward me, and I find myself staring at this fearsome monstrosity while a mere 2 feet away. Every single cybernetic eye on this otherworldly worm rotates towards me. It taps its feet and releases a strange organ-like call. The quavas beside me quiver with excitement, ready to spill my blood like the very nutrient gel I had spent years spreading across the dome--looks like I would do my job one last time as I was unmade. The prymex's armoured faceplate opens, revealing a mouth with hundreds of saw-like teeth. It leans forward, horrid mouth agape with hunger for the VV energy in my bloodstream...

Suddenly, time slows. I'm viewing... someone else. A woman. She's looking at a screen. She's... trying to decipher some strange form of code. I don't understand what's happening in this vision, but I get the sense that the person whose memories I'm experiencing does. Suddenly, her hands cover my vision as she clutches at her eyes. For a moment I'm overwhelmed by her pain. Then it subsides.

I don't see the blast. But when I wake, all of the quavas next to me are twitching husks. Burnt. Split open. The prymex is gone--reduced to a pile of ash. Strange purple embers sit atop the mounds of scorched biomatter. My legs buckle, and I collapse.

Prologue 2: Found #

I awaken in a mobile field tent, surrounded by orange synth-canvas. The soft hiss of VV cell ventilators and the faint tick of a bio-monitor embedded in my shoulder surround me. Cool air prickles my skin--someone's removed my soil-stained clothes and dressed me in a sterile recovery suit. I smell antiseptic chemicals. Fruit rinds. Burnt metal.

I sit up slowly, drinking in the sight as my vision adjusts. The Guardia Spaziale had arrived, as sure as gravity. Wherever the quavas went, the GS responded.

A woman nearby, notices me sitting upright and approaches me. She is in a full sintesium-plated battle suit, her helmet tucked under her arm and a hard light databoard in her hand. Not elderly, but aged. She's seen things with her many years of experience.

She locks her blue eyes with me. I can tell by the orange decals and flowing embellishments hanging from her suit that she's a high-ranking officer.

"You're lucky to be alive," she says, "Or maybe not lucky. Maybe just... chosen."

"What?"

"It's been 18 hours since we recovered you from your dome. How do you feel?"

"Terrible," I groan as I rub my eyes, "what happened? Did you beat the quavas?"

"Handily," the woman says, scrolling through her databoard. She's silent for a moment.

"So uh--"

"Do you remember how you killed them?" she interrupts. She doesn't blink. She wants the truth. But I'm still coming back to myself. My body aches all over.

"I... I'm not sure. I felt so panicked after trying to kill the worm-leader with a hydrolance--err, a farming tool. Something came over me... there was a burst... and then... uh, I don't remember." I tremble as I speak, my words raw, uncertain, unpolished. But it's the truth.

The woman narrows her eyes. Slowly, she leans forward, placing her helmet at the foot of the cot I'm lying on. Her expression is strange. It carries recognition, as if she was trying to remember me from somewhere.

"You shouldn't be awake," she says flatly, "let alone alive. Unless..." There's a long pause. Then her fingers lift as she gazes at some other document on her databoard. "This... 'burst' you mentioned. If it was real, you accessed something you shouldn't have. You're a farmhand. No one requisitioned anything to you. No military gear or combat implants. And yet--your dome had a gravitational pulse echo. 3.1 seconds of implosive burst. At the magnitude registered by our sensors, the planet would have begun to tear itself apart if it lasted any longer."

"That seems exaggerated," I say.

She ignores me. "Name's Solene Vyre. Capitana. 9th Corps of the Guardia Spaziale. My superiors want you processed--studied. They think you have something to do with the anomaly. And the scene we found you in doesn't exactly discourage intrigue. But I'd hate to see you locked up in some lab while scientists prod you for results. I say we train you."

"Train me? You mean as a GS soldier?"

"Yes. You've got 5 minutes to decide. "

Still recovering from what happened, the fear of facing the quavas again--even as a GS soldier--scares me. I recall the slimy, red flesh of the prymex's underbelly as it prepared to command its inferiors to slay me. I take a few shaky breathes before looking Solene in the eye and saying: "I- I just want to go home."

The tent seems to grow deep with silence. Not the silence of peace, but the silence of retreat. Of the very human emotion of fear. I didn't speak with defiance. I spoke like someone who stared into a thing with too many legs... too much hunger.

Solene stares at me for a long moment. She almost seems to perk up, as if recognizing something. Then, she exhales. Not with disappointment, but understanding. She nods, once, picking up her helmet.

"It's not time," she mutters to herself. She taps away at her databoard. "Get some rest. We'll transport you back to your farm--or what's left of it--in the morning. I'll do what I can to scrub this incident from the gyron-net. See if you can maintain your life here on 739 without interruption."

She walks away from me, disappearing as she exits the tent.

Prologue 3: Things aren't the Same #

I am sent home. The GS medics have implanted a mild neural patch to suppress any residual pain I felt.

The days turn into years. Dome B is rebuilt, and I work again. But the soil doesn't feel the same. It crunches differently, as if it remembers the blood the quavas spilled here. Dozens of fellow farmhands I had worked beside had been slaughtered and messily devoured by the quavas, not unlike the way we ate the jenfruit cultivated in our dome.

I remember the moment I should have died. I remember... a heat from behind my eyes. And even now, sometimes when the irrigation pump stutters... I feel it humming in my bones.

Each morning, I find myself back on the farm. Same old dome. Same old tools. But I wake earlier, eat less. I scan every distant silhouette in the mist for segmented bodies and sharpened limbs. They haven't come back... yet.

One evening, before shutdown, Dome B's maintenance terminal flashes once. It had a message pushed to it through the gyron-net, like a moss-shrew trying to squeeze through a hole too small. Whoever sent this message to me was determined. There, in the nutrient level readout, was a message that didn't quite fit on screen:

GO EAST. FIND MY GIFT.

East... there wasn't anything east. It was a mountainous region, unfit to establish agricultural domes on. There was talk early on about building an anti-ship battery there, but plans seemed to dry up. Perhaps if they followed through the quavas wouldn't have been able to mount an invasion at all. But I was curious. I had been too scared to go with Capitana Vyre despite always wanting to leave Duskhollow, but this, I could do. I grabbed my raincoat and began to head eastward as soon as I clocked out.

My boots crunched on the silica path. This path into Duskhollow's wilds was off-limits during my apprenticeship. Rockfalls and landslides made this far too dangerous to traverse, even in a vehicle. But now? The gate that had sectioned this path off was unlocked, its sensors dead. Perhaps damaged during the quavas' assault and never repaired.

I continue walking until the gold-green skies overhead turn to night, Omitor-Capdex pulsing like a heartbeat as it sets on the horizon.

I flick on my torchlight to see the uneven path as the world grows dimmer and dimmer. Then, an object finds its way into my light. A crate, slung with GS-issue weatherproof fabric. A patch with unreadable text is sewn onto one corner.

I squat down next to the crate and wonder to myself. Who sent the message? Was this crate the gift they're talking about? I contemplate returning to the farm empty handed, even after the long trudge I made to get here. But I spot an insignia on the crate that matched the one on Capitana Vyre's armour all those years ago. The 9th Corps.

My curiosity surges once more, and I open the crate. The lid hisses open--low and smooth, like the breath of something sleeping. There's no fanfare or alarms. I stare into the box and the object within stares back.

It's a large black seed. A glossy exterior that shimmers like oil when the starlight hits it just right. It's no larger than my palm. Then, I feel it... its pulse. In time with my heartbeat. What was this thing? Was it a piece of quavas?

My vision stutters. Strange images and thoughts flow through my mind. Falling stars. My own name. A massive shape in a cavern. A prymex turning away in fear. Two white eyes peering through the darkness.

I glance back into the box as I regain control over my senses. There's a note in the bottom of the crate. Handwritten on paper, folded tightly. It's rough, ink smudged from sweat or rain.

It reads:

I'm returning your key to you. Take what's yours. Bind with it. Hope to see you again soon, friend. --SV

Bind with it? I question silently. And why is she calling me friend? Our brief interaction from years ago hardly necessitated the blossoming of a friendship. I lift up the strange black seed to get a better look at it, and then I am overcome with a creeping sensation. This seed is reaching out to me. Not physically, but mentally.

I am in a curious mood. Without thinking, I "reach" back out to it. The moment I do so, the seed begins to pulse along with my heart. It suddenly flattens, liquified, and slides up my arm in a whispering spiral of cold logic, embedding itself under my collarbone. No pain. But I fall into darkness as the gravelly ground seems to give way.

As I plummet in the oppressive dark, a voice speaks to me. Or at least, I think it speaks. Concepts, ideals--these things flash through my thoughts. I am unable to fully grasp the alien thoughts surging through me.

I find myself awake again, standing zombie-like before the now-empty crate. I should be concerned after experiencing all these blackouts. But I felt stronger now, comforted. Like something I had lost had been found. Whatever was within me now was here to stay.

Prologue 4: A Planted Seed Takes Root #

Some time passes on Duskhollow. But nothing happens. The seed thrums harmlessly within me. I try to occupy myself by attending to my Dome, and try to avoid drawing attention from my fellow farmhands and supervisor. Then, one uneventful day, I receive another cryptic message on my terminal.

It takes me some time to parse through the words squished together on a screen not intended for this purpose, but I eventually make out the details smushed between columns of official designations and GS codewords:

Investigate lower Duskhollow Valley: agri-grid sector 33//99. Priority: low (observation only. No confirmed threat). Go alone. Traverse hydroworks. Good luck.

I glance at the morning sky. The others are preparing seed compressors for another dull farming cycle. But I feel the seed pulsing within me.

At first, I am unenthused to embark on this "mission"--I'm no GS operative after all--but my curiosity has only blossomed over these past few days. I sneak into the hydroworks channels during my break, hoping no one will notice me. As I set foot into this ancient part of Duskhollow's history of industrial farming, I find myself thrilled by the adventure.

The destination wasn't as thrilling. The message highlighting "sector 33//99". A dreaded place me and my fellow farmhands joked about constantly. Rilot's Edge. A place where crops never grew, domes constantly fell apart, and the inhabitants were... well, you could say they have a new screws loose.

The dry, gritted echo of my steps disappears beneath the gentle hiss of recycled air as I move through the hydroworks maintenance channels beneath the edge of my dome. Rusty rivets and condensate-steamed ducts glisten around me in him maintenance light. My breath puffs in the cooler underground air. The world above continues its quiet, humid rhythms--nutrient gel dispersion systems cycling overtop the vast grow-platforms of the dome. I know this route reasonably well: a narrow crawlspace through secondary pump regulators and past the defunct fluid purifiers. No one ever comes down here anymore. Come to think of it, the only other person I'd ever seen down here was Sheila... when we were together.

The seed in me pulses faintly, a warm pressure beneath the collarbone. It's quiet now, but that low hum never quite leaves. It's not like any Corian implant--no UI, no neural handshake... but I feel it watching, somehow.

Eventually, I reach the sealed side conduit marked D-771. No outward camera, no security nodes. But something scuttles towards me from the darkness. I recoil in fear as the sound of skittering legs brings me back to the day of the quavas invasion. But emerging into the hydroworks' dim lighting is a small drone, perhaps the size of a human head. It's balanced on four metal limbs and plated in sintesium and chipped orange paint. A harsh, synthetic voice emanates from the drone's speaker.

"OPERATIVE CONTACT ESTABLISHED. OBSERVE UNIDENTIFIED IN WESTERN VALLEY SECTOR OF DOME-PLEX. METHODOLOGY: DISCRETION ADVISED. USE OF LETHAL FORCE DISCOURAGED. PAYLOAD DROP: PLEASE CONFIRM ACCEPTANCE."

"I uh, accept?" I answer quizzically.

The drone scuttles away from me and onto the wall of the hydroworks channel. It begins to use its legs to unscrew a small maintenance panel that I hardly noticed was there. After the drone finishes, I kneel next to the hole in the wall and reach inside.

Within are two objects--a folded enviro-cloak and a node lens. The enviro-cloak is a piece of technology issued to GS stealth scouts. Hundreds of sensors hidden in the cloth detect the environment around the wearer, allowing the cloak to change its colour and texture to better allow blending into the environment. The node lens is a simple piece of gear that adheres to one eye and enhances vision while also providing additional data on what one is looking at.

Both pieces of equipment were unmistakably standard issue GS gear, but outdated by nearly a century. Whoever left these here for me made sure to use equipment that wouldn't be missed.

There's nothing else in the stash. No gun. No map. Just the ability to see and to hide. The seed pulses within me once more, and I feel a pull in a direction. Indescribably, I sense the path I must take.

Having already committed to this mission thus far, I take the gear. I I need all the help I could get, although I'm not sure what I am going to do with all of the gear after the mission is done. Would my colleagues think I stole from the GS?

I don the cloak and affix the node lens to my eye. My vision fractures briefly--light splitting into grids and symbols, vector traces that move along the curvature of my iris. They vanish as fast as they came, leaving only a whisper of new depth of vision.

The drone sits motionless on the ground before me. I kneel down and observe it, my node lens autonomously scanning the tiny construct. As I do, it shuffles around and emits another robotic murmur.

"INCOMING MESSAGE FOR OPERATIVE DESIGNATE D9."

There's a brief screech of static before a familiar voice filters through. One I hadn't heard for years.

"If you're hearing this, Michaelo, you found the crate. Good. Means I wasn't wrong about you. This isn't two-way--don't try to contact me. They're watching my S.A.G.E. loops too closely now. Even this voice echo's lifespan will be a bit too long. Listen, Rilot's Edge your people call it? Get there. Something fell there. You're going to see it--then I'll find you. I'll explain more later. Oh, also... they'll come for you. I'll try to get to you first."

Unceremoniously, the voice echo ends. A voice echo of Solene Vyre. After all these years... My memory shifts to the signature on the seed's crate. "SV". She planted all these things here for me. But why?

My thoughts race for a moment, especially after I think about how she says she's being watched. I'd heard rumours about the Neural Envoys. The Guardia Spaziale's 20th. They used an advanced AI to monitor deployed GS operatives through the gyron-net. Usually to ensure their safety. The thought of the 20th chilled me deeper than the cool breeze blowing through the hydroworks channel. The Neural Envoys--Corps 20, if they truly existed--aren't ghost stories. They're administrative truths forged by the Alti Signori. Operatives assigned to observe operatives. What did they really monitor? Loyalty. Psychological entropy. Thoughtcrime vectors. One of the old men from the farm domes always said the same thing when asked about the GS' corps: "Neural Envoys don't protect you. They protect the system--from you." I wondered if the old man was crazy or if he'd seen things.

Could the 20th be listening to Solene? I took solace in the fact that my off-record existence protected me from their cyber-espionage. At least, for now.

Prologue 5: Rilot's Edge #

With the enviro-cloak hoisted over my shoulders, I slip through the rest of the hydroworks' tunnels. Eventually, I ascend the outer shaft that coils westward. My node lens flutters once as it calibrates to ambient electromagnetic fields, flickering a new heading onto my vision:

Sector 33//99 | Alt-Ridge route 4 Colloquial Designation "RILOT'S EDGE": 9.4 kilometers

I continue onwards, now on the unbridled, untamed surface of Duskhollow's outlands. My boots crunch through mossy basalt as I follow the path instinctually set within me by my seed. Rilot's Edge was never officially marked on local dome cartographic systems. It's a local nickname for a crater that spans most of sector 33//99. Other, older farmhands used to whisper about it as a place where VV rays scattered oddly. Fruit never grew right. Shadows moved without the Emerald Sun.

As I approach the old crater, I sense things are strange.

The air smelled like... static.

The light was... wrong.

By the Bloodied Nebula, things here were weird.

I pass through the decrepit remains of the old domes that once operated like mine. I take care not to step on shards of broken VV amplifying glass. I have no idea who or what was out here, and I'd rather go unnoticed.

Then, I am finally at the edge of the crater... Rilot's Edge. I gave upon the mile-wide crater--this legendary ghost story locale. I find myself unimpressed by the sight, but still unnerved.

I feel my seed go still. Not off, just waiting.

I descend into the crater. I tell myself nothing here is watching, so I should just go straight for whatever Solene wants me to find. I realize something is partially buried at the epicenter of the crater. A mass of vines and roots growing overtop something. Did whatever was within this mass of flora fall from orbit at one point?

As I approach, I see the vibrant purple leaves and thorns emerging from the mass of tangled plant matter. I didn't recognize the plants, but they were hardly of interest to me. I began to tear away the viny roots until I uncovered what was underneath.

When I lay my eyes on it, I feel the breath drawn from my lungs as I stagger backwards. I don't recognize the object, nor does it attack me or unleash any sort of tangible repellant. But something about the thing instills a deep, primordial fear.

It is like a piece of black stone, hewn into the shape of a hexagon. Upon its surface, hundreds of tiny purple glyphs. When I stepped back to observe the object, I see that the glyphs roughly form the shape of branching tree roots. Or perhaps, veins.

This isn't GS. This isn't quavas. It's something older. Something that might not have wanted to be found.

I'm at a loss for what to do. Without giving it much thought, I pick up a rock and throw it at the glyph-covered stone. The rock bounces off the mysterious object with a painless clink. Then--reaction.

The glyphs ripple once--faint colour bleeding out from their cracks like bruises. Not just glowing, but breathing. The symbols seem to rearrange themselves. My node lens begins to stutter as it analyzes the glyphs. In a vain attempt at translation, words flash across my vision.

Hibernation: interrupted. Query: Corian? Response awaited.

The seed in me seems to leap, like it just took damage. Suddenly, I hear my own voice.

"I am... I was... Michaelo..."

I catch the words in my own throat and force it to die. I didn't say it. Something else did, using me. This... glyphstone... it spoke through me.

The hand that I threw the rock with tingles. My pulse feels irregular as the seed within me stirs. My whole spine feels like it is heating up.

"Who... who's there?" I attempt to communicate. My voice leaves me like a ghost leaving a corpse.

For a moment, only wind. Then the glyphstone pulses. My node lens fills my vision with static as my own vocal cords move of their own volition--of its volition.

"Are you... intact?" I ask me, "Do you know where you are?" I am filled with a wrong familiarity. There's an unknown pressure on my ribs. I feel as though I've spoken to this... entity before. Or that perhaps it was once me.

"Your neural map is compatible," the entity addresses me through my own speech again. "Ninety-two point four percent. Meld your flesh to the vein." After I--no, it finishes talking, it waits. Not hostile. Not demanding. But yearning.

While I'm sure this isn't quavas, I don't know what it is. And I'm a farmhand with enough experience under my belt to understand what happens to people who stick their hands in or near machinery they shouldn't. I maintain my distance and ask it again.

"I'm asking you, who is it? By the Emerald Sun, give me an answer!"

The crater answers with silence. But it's a loaded silence--full of tension, recognition, and something trying to convey itself through language.

My voice suddenly erupts with explanation. "I fell before falling was allowed. I remember... an instinct. Not meaning. There was a mouth. A light. I awoke without cargo. I awoke... without myself. YOU. You have been the CARGO." I pick up on flecks of emotion coming from my own speech as the glyphstone continues to shift. The thing seems ashamed.

My node lens blinks and chirps. A failsafe warning covers my vision.

UNKNOWN SIGNATURE DETECTED. SUGGESTED ACTION: DO NOT ENGAGE.

Despite the warning, something within me yearns to reach out and touch the glyphstone.

I touch it.

The Vein & The Vessel #

Chapter 1: The Thread #

I sit in my opulent office, staring out the window of my study upon the sprawling cityscape of Citta Alta. I sip from a glass of alco-tea, enjoying the view and the brief break from my work.

I am Signior Ginnico Alessiri, Data Baron and custodian of an entire continent's stability. I am the master of the Arx Luminarium. And at this particular point in time, my concerns are only on enjoying the tannins and complex flavour of my beverage. My enjoyment is spoiled when data flashed on my screen. An energy signature flag: one I had customized years ago in an attempt to catch a phenomenon I had once investigated.

My data stream highlighted the location of the disturbance. 739. A border planet, not well-known enough to have a proper name yet.

My private comm glows. My Photon Disciple attaché, Sergente Epha Calen, speaks and awaits confirmation.

"Signior Alessiri, your orders? S.A.G.E. just pinged me. Something interesting on your scanners for us to investigate?"

I swivel in my pristine orange leather chair, pressing a button on the comm-link to conjure up a hologram of Epha. The hologram blooms to life, casting a faint cyan light across my chamber. Sgt. Calen appears as if sculpted from angular light--her GS armour adorned with trim and sigils of the 3rd.

"Planet 739," I ponder while peering into the hologram's eyes and swirling my glass of alco-tea, "never heard of such a place. Sergente, your family had its noble beginnings on a border planet, didn't they? Perhaps you're familiar with whatever backwater planet this might be?"

Her expression remains unreadable for a second and a half, but the name 739 breaks the mask. "Duskhollow... Signior. 739 was my father's homeworld." She tilts her head slightly, like weighing the weight of each of her words before speaking aloud. "The locals called it Duskhollow. Nothing fancy, just a farming world undergoing terraforming. If I recall correctly, Signior, a few years back there was a quavas incursion there. That's about the most exciting thing that's happened on that world. Otherwise, it's a planet of lunatics and madmen."

"How do you mean?" I inquire, "surely you're not implying your own patriarch was insane?"

"No, Signior. I mean, my father always spoke about how strange the planet was. He always used the strangest words to describe what things were like. He often said things like 'the soil listens' and 'the wind watches'."

I scoff at Epha's words. "Sergente, folklore and tall tales from the border planets are always nonsense. Undocumented scientific phenomena waiting to be catalogued by S.A.G.E." I sigh. "No course of action to be taken, yet. Stand by Sergente. I'll parse through my data first. The last thing I want to do is miss my family's gala while on a trip to some mossy, dust-covered planet on the fringe."

I promptly shut the hologram, severing communication with Epha before she can respond. The hologram dissolves in a vertical line of dispassionate light. The chamber dims once again, my reflection clear in the glass walls around me, my alco-tea still steaming faintly.

I summon S.A.G.E.'s archives through the gyron-net on my monitor and begin to look for the past incidents that made me set up this flag in the first place. I reach through the gyron-net's veil, conjuring the S.A.G.E. retro-grid--restricted to those of my level of access: Baronial tier / Alti Signori clearance.

I find 2 incidents from the past matching the anomalous energy signature.

MATCH 1: Planet designate "Septmin Primus" DETAILS: Anomalous energy signature detected in mining outcrop. Labourers evacuated after radiation spike. Remote drone sent to investigate. Upon contact with source, spontaneous metallic fusion transpired, destroying the drone and energy source simultaneously. Video records corupted.

Well, that was unsatisfactory. Not much else to dig through there.

I opened the second file.

MATCH 2: Planet Kellon, data metropolis DETAILS: Data conductor Tania Verra found abnormal computational logic infecting Corian memory clusters. Verra attempted to rectify the malware infection by translating the anomalous code in order to effectively excise it from the system. While translating, Verra experienced some sort of psychotic breakdown. Six hours later, Verra dies of neural collapse.

I recall this incident. I was called to the scene after Tania's expiration. They wanted me to ensure that this data infection didn't find its way into a S.A.G.E. memory node and bring down systems across half the Corian domain. I flip through the other contents of the file.

INCIDENT LOG: Lattice Breach Event-7.1E4 SUBJECT NAME: Verra, Tania SUBJECT OCCUPATION: Data conductor - Core Prime S.A.G.E. memory integration staff

• Assigned Project: Deep Recursion Sweep of Legacy Archive Grid SUBJECT DEATH:
• Date: 71, 441 RC
• Incident timeframe: 5 hours and 33 minutes, from exposure to neural collapse
• S.A.G.E. Medical Autopsy:
• Cause of death: cortical resonance overload; culminated in neural collapse.
• Sub-cause: unknown EM signature pulsed through visual cortex during exposure to anomalous code. FINAL NOTES:
• All files from Verra's personal access node scrubbed and vaulted; physical separation from gyron-net for security.
• NO FURTHER INVESTIGATIONS AUTHORIZED.

There are other pieces of info in the file that I hadn't reviewed since that day. Pictures of Tania as she died. Horrific imagery.

Verra's Last Notes: Personal Worklog *There's something in the deep layer of memory echoes here. Deep lattice ghost-code, but it doesn't follow standard Corian computational logic. It's... VEIN LOGIC. It's not corruption. It means something. Like a message carved into a screen meant to display digital characters.

Vein logic has a unique structure. It grows like a thought, not a function. I can't explain it. It's. beautiful. I must understand it more.

Saw a hexagon. Cracked. With roots. But the roots kept folding. Not deeper--inward.

I mapped it. It mapped me back.

Words came after. I don't understand them.

Echo within vessel. Passenger absent. The vein remembers. Flesh forgets.

I think it's looking for something. Or someone. And I think it missed.*

I notice something as I scroll through the data. A throwaway line in the reports that underline some sort of piece of hardware was recovered from the scene of the incident. I wasn't privy to this information when I went to investigate. This data was added later on, after the interest in this incident waned. But why?

I attempt to open the file linked to the report. Most of the data here has been heavily sanitized. Gone, unreadable, not able to be reconstructed even by S.A.G.E. But one line survives: Relic removed under oversight of GS Corps 20 - Neural Envoy Cell R.

That stops me cold. The 20th doesn't deal in artifacts. They deal in liabilities. Which means someone thought this object was... too informative? And they didn't destroy it. They hid it. On Core Prime herself.

I swivel in my chair, the light of Citta Alta illuminating me from below. Time is of the essence. Whoever--if anyone--made contact with the source of this anomalous signature on 739, it could be only a short time until they succumbed to the same faint as Tania. But I didn't want to arrive unprepared. Analyzing the remains from Verra's incident will be a necessary first step.

There would be no time to navigate the buerocracy surrounding this artifact's storage. Undoubtedly, a sea of red tape would make ease of access challenging. I would have to go to the facility and flaunt my rank in an attempt to gain access.

I grabbed my flowing overcoat and entered the elevator to Citta Alta's streets.

"Sergente Calen, join me for a walk, would you?" I call on my wrist-mounted gyron-net uplink.

Chapter 2: The Relic #

As I descend through the Arx Luminarium's many levels, the hollow resonance of Core Prime's synthetic atmosphere swells in my ears--the soft breath an an empire that will reign eternal.

Citta Alta awakens around me. Transport gliders carve trails through orbit. Data couriers on bionic legs flit between towers. The ever present drone of VV ray harvesters permeate the streets, drinking from Omitor-Capdex below.

I step out onto a spiral walkway bordered with synthetic topiary and flickering hard light ads for cosmetic surgery and dream conditioning therapy.

My wrist-mounted comm-link chimes, and Sgt. Calen's voice filters through. "Signior Alessiri. Already moving? I was just rotating off shift. Give me one--"

She pauses. She knows that when I speak like this, I mean it. "Never mind. I'm en route to your location ping."

I move through the light and shadows of Citta Alta's streets with the entitlement of someone whose name opens doors faster than threats. Epha arrives behind me, the glossy orange paint on her sintesium armour catching the artificial sunset. She says nothing about where we are.

Vault Sigma Nine. A stronghold for the Neural Envoys. S.A.G.E.'s records show that the Neural Envoys involved with Verra's incident operated out of this location. With luck, the artifact was brought here... and hopefully it still was.

I briskly step towards the facility's massive bolted gate. Epha follows behind me like a shade. A scanner turns its sensory apparatus towards me and bathes me in light as it analyzes who is requesting permission to access the vault's contents. It finishes scanning and gives an aggressive chirp.

That's no good, I think.

A robotic guard steps forward, its artificial voice speaking with the enthusiasm of a dead man.

"Access denied. Red-tier dual authority required. Please present co-signer authorization."

"Is this really how the Guardia Spaziale choose to greet a member of the Alti Signori?" I address the automaton with all the disdain I can muster. "A guard bot... as if my presence can be addressed and processed by a mere machine? Pah!" I spit on the ground.

With luck, the GS operative behind the drone--a member of the 20th or whoever else--would see the robot's visual feed and hurry down to meet me in a hurry. I knew that in the political landscape of Citta Alta, connections were everything--they wouldn't dare risk their reputation tarnished by not exchanging pleasantries with a visiting Data Baron, surely?

I lean forward and tap on the glass of the robot's photoreceptor for good measure.

The bot's chassis hums with regulated neutrality--but my venom strikes where it's meant to: the eyes watching through it.

"Visual obstruction. Alert. Alert."

The photoreceptor flickers, and I see the twitch of recognition as its posture is manually overridden by whoever is operating this machine remotely. Someone is watching me now. And I just made myself their problem.

Thirty-one second pass. Then--

Kzzk-thunk. A hiss from the side wall. A seamless service hatch--quite obviously not designed for visitors--unlatches. From the alcove steps a man in a matte-grey drapecoat, thin as wire, and eyes augmented with a retinal matrix overlay. I recognize the minimalist sigil of the 20th on his coat's shoulders. A Neural Envoy.

His expression? That infuriatingly polite smile used by those who have nothing to lose and everything to log.

"Signior Ginnico Alessiri," he says in a voice as smooth as recorded policy. "Welcome to Vault Sigma Nine."

He doesn't extend his hand. He extends a tablet, ready to log my credentials.

"Protocol requires dual authentication," he continues. "Your Photon Disciple will suffice."

Blast it to the Bloodied Nebula. I should've been glad that our own were so resolute in upholding protocol. But it wasn't very convenient--I'd rather not have anyone know I was poking around with whatever might be inside the vault.

I sigh and wave my gloved hand. "Sergente, sign this damned thing with me so our colleague here can go back to his riveting job."

As my lieutenant, I knew that Sergente Calen's signature co-signing with mine would raise little to no eyebrows. A member of the Alti Signori accompanied by a member of the 3rd? In other news, Omitor-Capdex was green.

Epha's gauntlet hovers over the tablet alongside mine. I flash the Neural Envoy a poisonous smile. "Would you be so kind as to bring us to the storage facility of this material?" I transmit the file code of Tania Verra's incident to him through S.A.G.E.

"Please follow," he says, looking back at me as we finish our biometric scans. "I will accompany but not interfere. Just remember, protocol here states observation of any materials only." His smile never drops.

This wasn't the outcome I would have preferred. My presence here would be logged, but with luck I could prevent any records reflecting my analysis of the anomalous materials would remain nonexistent.

The Neural Envoy turns on his heel as the massive, reinforced sintesium doors open, like the jaws of some gargantuan beast. He leads Epha and I through a silent archway and into a chilled corridor of frozen data. No echoes. No humming. The only thing breaking up the dim lighting is the occasional pulse of red light through the glass tiles above.

Eventually, we arrive as a chamber--dim, unadorned, sealed with a triplet photonic clamp. There is a droning noise as the chambers unseals itself, inviting us inside. The Neural Envoys gestures for us to go first.

At the center of the chamber is a pedestal. Upon it, suspended in stasis gel--a hexagonal piece of stone, shattered through the center. Its dark surface is marred with rootlike filament striations. It's burnt along one edge.

"The individual involved with this artifact triggered some sort of digital resonance during a backlogged thread sync. Pretty soon she started talking about vein logic." The Neural Envoy explains.

"I've read the files extensively, soldier," I interrupt. "I need it out. To study." I speak confidently, hoping the lies that followed were drowned by my stereotypically arrogant Alti Signori ways. "I have to analyze this relic up close. Direct orders from Signior Badio, Eleanor, and Alessandro." I circle the containment device as I remove the gloves from my hands. "Don't bother requesting access to the photowork, it would take too long. I'll simply analyze it here quickly and be out of your hair."

I speak with the reflexive arrogance of a man who's made a lifetime out of navigating minds, not just systems. It seems to work--the Neural Envoy watches me circle the relic, the sleeves of my overcoat trailing on the floor and seeming to ooze with the same authority dripping from my tongue. His fingers twitch behind his back. For a moment I think he might resist, but he steps back.

"Of course, Signior Alessiri," he murmurs, "expediency over orthodoxy." With a subtle button press on his tablet, he deactivates the containment gel mass. The gel recedes, folding inwards like evaporating glass. The two halves of the hexagonal stone fall onto the pedestal's top with an unceremonious thump.

"Fabulous." I step forward as my most trusty tool--a scanner embedded in my forearm--unsheathes itself from its implant-housing and makes itself available to me. I begin scanning the artifact, letting the implant interface with S.A.G.E.'s AI to deliver me all the information I would find most intriguing.

"What secrets do you hold, little stone?" I mutter to myself.

A flood of data streams into my mind as S.A.G.E. informs me of everything the scanner finds. It's not made of any known substance. It's remarkably unreactive. Perhaps whatever made this glyph-coated stone so special--so deadly--had left it after Tania did her research.

I sigh as my scanner collects a multitude of less-than-useful data from the artifact. Perhaps the only thing even remotely interesting was its molecular layout, which suggested this shape was grown from whatever material it was made of. As I hope more would've been unveiled to me, I reach out to touch the edge of the relic with my finger. Then, I feel it. The memory of a dream I never had...?

A corridor resembling the inside of a throat.

A moss-covered, broken down farming dome.

A young man throwing a rock.

A name--Michaelo Riticci.

A network of veins creeping over some sort of carapace.

I blink, and the strange visions are gone. S.A.G.E. informed me that a surge of activity momentarily erupted from the stone before blinking out of existence--a pattern not unlike the neural activity of a person. Did this thing just think for a moment?

I mentally request S.A.G.E. to store all information in my neural cloud inventory.

"Well, Sergente," I say, turning to Epha "looks like this mystery is only just beginning. I think I have a lead." I turn to the Neural Envoy. "What is this... 'vein' terminology that keeps getting thrown around? I have no records of technology or communication systems leveraging such a thing outside of Tania Verra's ramblings."

"An excellent question," the Neural Envoy says, stroking his chin, "we don't know, which is certainly vexing. If anyone would know, it would be a Data Baron such as yourself."

I hide my frustration under a mask of civility. "Well, that's all for now. I appreciate your compliance with the Alti Signori's investigation. Sgt. Calen and I will now depart."

I'm disappointed in the lack of answers. But the one lead I have is promising. Michaelo Riticci. A person of interest to investigate... my hunch told me this individual was on Planet 739.

I step back out onto the streets with Sgt. Calen in tow, leaving behind the Neural Envoy to vegetate in his post. I silently direct S.A.G.E. to spread some negative gossip about his less-than-pleasant demeanour later.

"Well, Sergente, we've found ourselves a true mystery. This technology could be from the days of the Iotpan Sparks. Ancient technology... but it could hold secrets that we can use now." I sleeve my hands with the fine white gloves I had taken off earlier. "Or, it could be something else. Either way, I'll find out."

I stand on the street, turning to face Epha with my hands buried in the elegant folds of my coat.

"I have no doubts that this relic is identical to the source of the signal from 739. With luck, the live version of this stone artifact is out there and will yield better information than this one. We must get to it. Ready your men, Sergente. We leave first thing tomorrow morning. In the meantime, I have some... Other business to attend to."

Sergente Calen walks a half-step behind as always, silent and squared.

“I’ll prep a three-man Disciple team for off-grid insertion. No uniforms. No marked transports. Just light armor and tech-less cloaks.”

She pauses.

“Baron... if there is indeed another relic like that one still active--and someone touched it--then whoever they are... they're not dead.”

I hear the second part of her unspoken thought. Yet.

Chapter 3: The Path #

I walk the streets of my beloved city, but find myself moving down into the alleyways that any normal member of the Alti Signori would find foreign. The world above is glass, light, and curated elegance. But beneath it--through winding utility corridors and stairwells never logged on public transit maps--I descend. I continue to walk, the pristine white sintesium streets and walls giving way to rusted, grimy, trash-soaked ground. Puddles from leaking pipes gather along the gaps in the tiled floor. The ugly, unwanted side of Core Prime--the Grey Walk. A network of tunnels used by the loyal maintainers of Core Prime. I'd never ventured that far, but I heard that the Grey Walk led to the underside of Core Prime itself, where the unbridled radiation of Omitor-Capdex scorched even sintesium to ash.

I knew the way I walked today though--the road to my favourite restaurant. Lagendo's Bistro. A place for workers and labourers to eat--no Alti Signori worker would eat in such a place.

Except me. The best pasta in all of the Corian domain, I'd swear.

My polished shoes strike tile that's warped from centuries of coolant drips and rad-tube exposure. Rust has grown like ferrous moss on exposed machinery, streaked with paint marks made by pipeworkers and pressure wardens. Yet the moment I round that last curve--past a tangled mesh of piping engraved with chipped directional markers--Lagendo's glows.

A modest metal arch, brushed clean, stamped with the words:

LAGENDO'S BISTRO Serving warmth since 6th Spark Concord

Beyond the arch: a warm glow and matching heat. The soft scent of braised tuberoot and sea-vine pasta. As the automated doors open, steam curls into the Grey Walk's corridor.

I enter. Inside, the lighting is a soft amber. Metallic cutlery clinks softly. A holographic display on the wall cycles old feeds from quaint little dome farms on the fringes of Corian civilization.

A few workers glance up at me, double-take, then quickly look away. They know who I am. But here, they don't care.

Lagendo himself--a wide-set man with mechanical knuckles and burn scars on both wrists--turns from the counter.

"Signior Alessiri," he growls, without ceremony. "Same booth? Or you finally ready to sit at the window like a person who doesn't hide from the future?"

I haven't seen Lagendo in over a year. And yet here he is. Unchanged. I chuckle. Same old Lagendo. I know he puts up the gruff, callous exterior to keep his patrons in line. After all Lagendo and I have been through, I know that he likes me. And in turn I pull strings among the other Signiors to make sure his business prospers.

"What, a year passes and you think my tastes change?" I grin. "My usual spot and meal, old friend."

I spot my favourite booth--half enclosed, tucked near a vent, where the hum softens the city's mechanical, calculated thoughts.

Lagendo barks a laugh--low, gravelly, but real. A few patrons glance over, surprised. The Data Baron of the Arx Luminarium and the Steampit Pasta King together? Only in the Grey Walk.

"Bah! Your coat's gotten longer. Afraid of tanning?"

He chuckles to himself as he jabs a button on his cooking terminal. The telltale hiss of a quick-boil coil activating echoes from the back. Steam rises from a small open hatch in the wall--this isn’t flash-replicated crap. This is food you wait for. Food with patience. And personality.

"Tuberroot tagliatelle. Organic basil mist. Extra gravichokes. And no plast-oil on top." Lagendo moves expertly in tandem with the automated cookware behind the counter--like he was dancing with a partner. A comical sight considering his prodigious size. "I don’t forget the orders of a man who made my taxes for one fiscal year vanish."

I slip into my booth--the leather seats cracked in a way that somehow made them more comfortable. The vent nearby murmurs gently. The comfort of familiarity.

From my throne here in Lagendo's, I see Citta Alta in a way much different than my desk in the Arx Luminarium. The underbelly of Core Prime, revealed in a way few get to see. I watch the crowd of people.

Boiler techs grabbing their lunch--or dinner, depending on their shift.

Retired photon-riggers playing cards over emptied bowls of pasta.

No data feeds or S.A.G.E. maintenance requests. Just the din of humanity.

Clang... thunk!

Lagendo sets the steaming bowl of pasta before me with a huff. The scent is like a symphony. I pick up my utensils as I begin to salivate.

My friend sits across from me without asking. He wipes his palms on his towel.

"So," he grunts, "what does a man like you, who hasn't eaten here since the Adario Harvest fell behind schedule, really want?"

He leans forward, one eye twitching faintly--an old injury from an implant damaged during his years of service in the GS.

"Because it ain't pasta," he continues.

"Why can't it be?" I say. "We all get cravings from time to time."

"Your hands are trembling a bit. And the way you're blinking... ah, forget it. I can tell you found somethin' exciting in your work, didn't you?"

I take a moment to enjoy the first few notes of the pasta before talking business. I take in the first bite--tuberoot noodles folding on my tongue, gravichokes melting with that sharp, buttery metallic edge no food replicator's ever gotten right. The taste of basil hits last, like a memory. Real food. Real flavour. Real weight.

"Ah, as good as I remember," I sigh satisfactorily, casting a glance at the painting of the plump old woman framed on Lagendo's wall, "you make Mama Lagendo proud with everyday you stay open."

Lagendo watches, not smiling—but his eye twitches again when you mention Mama Lagendo.
The old painting flickers slightly in the wall-light, as if nodding her approval.

“Bah," he speaks solemnly. "She was proud when I stopped lighting fire with my breath. You know, she would’ve slapped you for waiting so long to visit.”

I wipe my mouth.

"Lagendo, what can you or your contacts tell me about 739? It's a border planet, dreadfully far from Core Prime. I have to go there to... Investigate something. I'm worried that the Emerald Sun's light will barely flicker there."

Lagendo leans back. Folds his arms. Looks at you like a man who just heard a door creak where no door exists.

"Duskhollow," he breathes.

I didn't say that name. He knows it anyway.

"Planet 739's colloquially called that by its people," he continues. "Dunno where the name came from, but I do know that they export some great jenfruit. Er, they used to. All the merchants I dealt with from there dried up. The last merchant I had come through from there said he was finished workin' trade between Core Prime and Duskhollow. Said the soil 'echoed'."

Lagendo sees my quizzical look.

"As in--it spoke things that you hadn't said yet," he explains.

I recall the folklore Epha told me earlier. At least the local tall-tales were consistent. Although, after my encounter with the relic, I was starting to wonder if its influence was wider than I previously thought.

I continue the conversation in between bits of pasta, all while mentally prodding S.A.G.E. to fact-check every bit of information Lagendo shares. It's not like I think he'd lie--I just liked to do my due diligence with information. And yes--of course I could just ask S.A.G.E. directly for a lot of information. But having a conversation with S.A.G.E. just wasn't exactly the most pleasant prospect.

"What do you know about 739—err, Duskhollow's people? What kind of factions should I expect?"

At my question, Lagendo exhales through his nose.

"Duskhollow's not only old, Ginnico. It's forgotten. Wasn't always. Back in the 3rd Expansion Era, it was pitched to be one of the Aurin Garden Hubs. But the soil didn't hold nutrient threads well. So they resorted to growing jenfruit in nutrient gel. Anyways, the people there? They lean separatist. Probably so far from Core Prime that they see it as a parasite rather than their mother. There's one group you need to keep watch for. Call 'emselves the True Core Keepers. They run the settlements on Duskhollow. Not an officially recognized organization, but they're structured enough that they've kept every merchant I've dealt with from there in line. They won't take kindly to Core Prime folk."

Great, I thought, the backwater equivalent of the Veri Signori. Something tells me this faction won't be as polite and bureaucratic as the Veri Signori.

Lagendo stands up.

"Watch your back out there, Ginnico," he adds. "The people on Duskhollow... something isn't quite right with 'em. I'd made your trip as short as possible."

He collects my dish as I set it down, having finished off the last of the pasta.

"Same as always, friend," he says with a wink, "credit's waived. Just... bring back your appetite."

"Thank you, as always, Lagendo," I say, patting his shoulder, "I'll return soon. Maybe after I figure out what in the Bloodied Nebula is going on out there."

I get up and depart the familiarity of Lagendo's and prepare myself for the strange world ahead.

Chapter 4: The Vessel #

The shuttle hums under my boots as its engine whispers. The ship is lean--a courier-class vessel, normally used for inspection flights or unsanctioned military surplus retrievals. The Ravenet. Now, retrofitted with non-standard plate, and silent vector thrusters.

All of this beneath standard registry. All of it made possible by my rank, my reach, and Sgt. Calen’s precision.

We are accompanied by Epha's top men on our foray to 739.

First is Private Narrix--a combat scout with a compact but lethal hard light accelerator weapon. A heavy-duty envirocloak is draped over his lightweight sintesium armour, ready to hide his deadly frame amongst the background.

Second is Private Vorren, a heavy trooper with his sintesium armour augmented by a powerful exoskeleton. His massive photon repeater was mounted on the Ravenet's equipment rack next to him. His throat and lower jaw is replaced with prosthetics--an old wound from his contact with the quavas while he served in the 2nd. Whenever he spoke, it sounded like a melting servo.

Last is Private Orelai. She's a tactical analyst and drone operator, sensing shifts before they happen. She was very bright--perhaps bright enough to become a Data Baron one day... should she be able to navigate the brutal political landscape of the Alti Signori.

As the Ravenet launches, I gaze through the translucent viewport as the light of Core Prime curves away, with Omitor-Capdex's light growing dimmer by the minute--still green, but faint.

The ride is silent. We're all focused on the task at hand. Epha's already briefed her men, so no discussion is necessary. I silent mull over S.A.G.E.'s data through my gyron-net uplink.

Eventually, The Ravenet finds its way across the Corian domain and arrives in the fringes of the galaxy--Sector 739, home of the planet of the same name. Duskhollow.

As our ship descends, I observe what kind of world we're about to set foot upon.

Sparse moss fields. Sagging, partially collapsed farming domes. Murmuring wind across long-dormant nutrient troughs. Much of the farming equipment rusting on 739's surface I'd never seen in person--only in diagrams, images, and video feeds from the comfort of my office in the Arx Luminarium.

"Signior Alessiri?" Orelai speaks as she sits next to me, showing readouts on her holographic display. "We'll touchdown in 90 seconds. But look at this data--a telemetry spike that matches the signal you sent to us in mission data. It's still active."

I am elated. A live version of this strange relic was exactly what I was hoping for.

"Fabulous, Orelai," I respond. "Send drones out to begin scoping out the location of this anomaly. I want to make sure this place is safe before we step into it. Give me a report in an hour."

Orelai’s eyes flicker with HUD-light as she deploys her drones: four silverflecked spheroids that vanish into the upper sky like embers in reverse. They split into quadrant formation, optics humming as they chart EM flux, heat blooms, and synthetic residue. I turn to the others.

"Let's disembark at this sorry excuse for a settlement and make ourselves familiar with the locals," I say with repulsion, pointing out the viewport at the cobbled-together shantytown constructed from broken pieces of farming domes.

The shuttle's thrusters flare once. Dust and cracked moss curl upward like a reluctant breath. The ship lands with barely a whisper. The ship's hatch decompresses, and our squad steps out into the thin-winded ghost fields of Planet 739--Duskhollow.

Everything smells... faintly off. Like rust... like singed root... like a memory trying to be forgotten.

"We don't want to attract attention, so keep things subtle. Sergente Calen has requisitioned some dusty old cloaks to hide your gear under. Calen, do you have cover stories for us?"

"We're dome riggers," Epha explains, drawing the tattered shawl tighter, "emergency repair team from Velt. Brought in to review mossbed collapse and conduct gravity bloom mitigation. If they press, we can hint that we have ties with the Veri Signori. That might give us some leeway with the True Core Keepers."

We start on the path towards the settlement nearby. The gravel-coated, dusty dirt roads under my feet feel so foreign compared to the level, even paths of Citta Alta.

The sad old run-down settlement before us was in extremely rough condition. The collapsed domes around us groaned quietly in the wind, their structures mostly intact , but patched with metal sheets, tarp-work, and synthbinding glue. Locals drift between hydro-racks, ruined irrigation conduits, and faded nutrient terminals. Most wear dust-capes, faces uncovered. They don't look curious as we step into their streets. Just unimpressed. But they do watch us. No weapons visible--no guards or militia. Thank the Emerald Sun.

The state of decay suggested that this settlement had rejected external maintenance and supplies for a long time. The Corian Agricultural Commission would never had let a dome-farming world end up in such disarray.

I notice that Narrix has already taken up a position beneath a broken satellite tower, acting the part of a disengaged tech. Vorren lumbers past with a crate of "tools" slung over his shoulder like he belongs to the settlement. They blend in flawlessly.

Epha and I begin wandering the streets. S.A.G.E. silently and subtly documents the landscape as we walk though. Eventually we make our way into a plaza with decrepit tech vendors and unappetizing food stalls. From the far side of the plaza, an old woman approaches. She wears a dark brown cloak sewn together with root thread. Her eyes are sharp.

"You are new," she smiles. Not warmly. Not coldly. But knowingly. "You are not here for trade. You are lost. Or you are looking."

I give a customary Corian bow (of which I'm not even sure such people this far from Core Prime may recognize) and smile.

"Just technicians, ma'am. Dome-riggers. Here to finish our job and go."

I do my best to hide my disdain for the shantytown these simple folk call home, and the patchy threadwork this woman wears as clothes. Perhaps I'm out of my element. I begin to wish that I had stayed in the luxury of Core Prime and sent Epha to do this work herself.

I remain silent, smiling, like a chess player who had just completed their move.

She watches my bow with an amused narrowing of her eyes. She doesn't return the gesture. Instead, she lets the silence hang. She lets my smile stretch just a little too long.

Finally, she speaks.

"You look like a man from Velt," she comments, not with hostility, but with the clarity of someone who has lived through too many veiled smiles. "But you hold your coat like a man from Core Prime. Like it might wrinkle from looking at us."

She leans forward slightly, hands folded over the top of a walking stave made from some defunct farming tool. A symbol of old, forgotten utility. The people here weren't farmers anymore.

"Well," she tilts her head, "we don't have domes here anymore. Not really. Just the dust. And the soil. And the things that still listen."

Behind me, Epha gives the faintest, warning tilt of her head. At the edge of the plaza, Vorren subtly shifts his stance. The woman leans forward more, revealing her back to be more crooked than I previously thought.

"I sense what you seek to fix isn't machinery above the ground. What you look for lies rootward." The woman's eye gleams as she penetrates my lies with too much ease. "You seek Rilot's Edge. The crater. It breathes now. It... dreams. It is remembering things that it should not."

"I heard there was a quavas invasion here a few short years ago. That have anything to do with this... phenomenon?" The curiosity incited by the woman's words cause my attempting masking of my posh Alta Citta accent to falter. I try to correct it as I continue to speak.

The woman hears my accent. She lets me try. But she makes it clear she knows I'm pretending.

"We have had quavas here, yes," she mutters, looking toward the west, "but it was just a scrape. A quavas horde led by a prymex touched down in the old domes past Rilot's Edge. A lot of people were harmed during the attack. Many lost. But not the kind of loss war brings. They walked away from the battle. Walked to the crater."

Her eyes shift back to mine.

"One came back," she continues. "Dusted eyes. Black veins up his neck. Mumbling to the soil. He died the next morning, his mouth full of moss."

She straightens up and begins to turn away.

"If you're going to the crater, take the lower path past the tractor storage. Avoid the greenhouse ruins. They echo louder than the ground, these days."

I blink and she seems to vanish into the crowd of rejects wandering through the plaza.

"Sergente Calen," I mutter under my breath, once I wait long enough to ensure the woman is out of earshot, "tell the others to follow. Something's wrong with these people and I'd rather get off this planet as soon as possible."

As we depart from the plaza, I feel the eyes of the people on us. Watched. Not threatened, but studied.

"Orelai's rerouting her uplink to shadow us from sub-orbit," Epha murmurs, "and her report shows that there's no hostiles nearby. No harmful radiation. It should be safe to approach. Narrix and Vorren are moving to encompass the crater."

We make our way past warped fields and ancient moss-gutters, past the frames of broken domes from what must've been a decade of agricultural collapse. Then, we pass the western ridgeline and see--just beneath the wind-stilled scar of old nutrient trenches--Rilot's Edge. Just as the woman described. It's still, and wide. The ground within is blacked. Fauna are silent. Not even insects move--everything is still, like whatever created the crater caused time itself to grind to a halt.

Orelai's voice crackles in my earpiece: "Signior. My drones just picked up a shift in energy as you approached the crater. It's coming from the epicenter. It must be the relic, and it's waking up."

I see it. At the center of the crater, exactly like the one sealed on Core Prime: a stone hexagon, its oily surface coated in vein-like glyphs. But this one hums and glows--so clearly alive compared to the husk of an artifact in Vault Sigma Nine.

I'm in awe.

"Sergente," I command to Epha, "get this thing packed up. We'll take it off-world to study--I want to get off this planet."

The moment I say "pack it up" the glowing glyphs on the hexagon's surface vanish. Is it afraid?

Epha flicks her wrist once, signaling Vorren and Narrix to approach and assist.

"Confirmed," Epha's voice echoes over our comms. "Extraction prep initiated. Magnetci stabilizers inbound. Will secure artifact in stasis gel for shuttle transport."

"Sergente!" Orelai's panicked voice pierces the comms. "We have a complication! Bio signature 300 meters out and closing. Something is coming towards the crater!"

Epha unfolds the stock of her rifle and enkindles the scope. The weapon whines to life as Sergente Calen tears the cloak off of herself. She sports something before I do, pointing before levelling her weapon.

I turn to see. It's a man in his middle age, his eyes sunken and face weathered. A tattered envirocloak hangs from his frame. Boots worn to the sole. His skin pale. I'm not sure, but I swear I see a flash of amethyst light flicker from his eyes.

He moves as if he is underwater. He's moving towards the relic. I'm confused at first, but as he approaches the artifact I snap back to my senses.

"Calen! Get him to stop!" I command, panic rising in my throat.

Epha moves instantly, giving sharp two-fingered signals to Vorren and Narrix, who position themselves beside the man with the efficient grace of Photon Disciples who've trained extensively for high-risk retrieval in unstable drones.

"Halt!" Epha speaks authoritatively. "This is a restricted zone. You need to vacate the crater."

The man doesn't move. He stops, but continues staring at the relic. His jaw is slack.

"It called me," he mumbles. "It told me it was waiting for cargo. For me."

I briskly walk up to the man as close as possible, remaining behind Epha for safety. I place a hand on Epha's shoulder, gently coaxing her to lower her weapon. I trust that if he makes any sudden moves against us, Narrix will put a hard light bolt through his skull.

"My name is Signior Ginnico Alessiri," I boom with the authority of the Alti Signori. "I am a Data Baron from Alta Citta, and I've come to study this object."

I adjust my shawl. "What is your name? What can you tell me about this artifact?"

"My name is... Michaelo." The figure speaks slowly, almost like he's unsure of his own words. Michaelo... the same name that echoes to me from the first relic stored on Core Prime. "You... are a Data Baron? You keep systems breathing. You study what no one else understands."

Michaelo looks past my shoulder for a moment--at Epha, at the Photon Disciples, at the hill of moss beyond the crater's rim. Then, his gaze returns to me. I see it again--a flicker of purple light from deep within his pupils.

"I tried to do the same," he rambles. "The glyphstone came to me when I didn't understand the veins. I was a farmhand. I used to calibrate nutrient dispersal units and chase off moss-shrews. Then I touched it. And it remembered."

If this was indeed Michaelo Riticci, then he needed to come with us. Perhaps I could convince him.

"Michaelo," I invite, "come with us. Help us to study this thing. Help us to learn."

I extend my hand--unthreatening, patient. The moss beneath my boots feels faintly warmer now. Michaelo looks at my hand.

"You really want to study it?" he asks, his voice taut with emotion. "Or do you want to use it? Because it doesn't just remember things, Signior. It... connected them. People. Places. Words you haven't said yet. It said I was cargo. Maybe I was. Maybe I still am."

He takes a cautious step forward.

"If I go with you," he speaks cautiously, "I want a promise." His voice is calmer now. More controlled. "You don't lock this thing in a vault. You don't let the 20th poke it. You... let me stay connected."

Next to me, Epha shifts. The other Photon Disciples remain still, weapons trained on the man. The glyphstone pulses softly.

In my heart, I know that once we can get Michaelo to a more ally-rich world--one with proper facilities and personnel to back me up--I can separate him from this relic and study them both. Mentally, I commune with S.A.G.E. once more, commanding it to document every part of the conversation, for my records.

"Very well, Michaelo," I begin to lie, as I expertly have all these years, "we'll listen to you. Just come with us onto our ship. If you travel with us, you can see to it that we treat this--glyphstone, you call it?--with the care it needs."

The lie drips from my tongue like wine into an already-filled cup. It's smooth, precise... to most, it would be indistinguishable from truth.

Michaelo studies my face a heartbeat longer than I'd prefer, but finally, he nods. He steps forward.

"Thank you," Michaelo says, looking past me. "I know you're lying. But it doesn't care. It's already said yes."

A chill shoots through me. What was with the folk on 739 and seeing through my deception?

He walks past Epha and I, as if he already knows where the Ravenet waits for us. Epha's jaw is clenched. Vorren and Narrix stow their weapons and move to contain the glyphstone.

"Relic bagged and tagged, Signior," Sergente Calen speaks, "time to leave this place."

I'm eager to leave Duskhollow's moss-bowl ghost-oscape.

Chapter 5: The Ride #

We board our vessel and begin our return to our home. The shuttle hums like a sleeping predator, its course fixed on the green star ahead. Core Prime awaits.

Inside the passenger bay, everything feels a little too still. Even with Epha quietly maintaining position in the forward deck and Orelai watching the navigation feeds from a discrete console seat--all attention flows back to the man across from me.

He sits with one leg folded beneath him, the other tapping unconsciously on the floor.

"Michaelo, my friend," I say, somewhat shakily after having him see through my lies so easily, "you seem like your history with the glyphstone is fascinating. And you're wearing... what seems to be GS-issue gear. Where's you get that envirocloak? And that ocular device. You're not a member of the GS according to S.A.G.E. You wouldn't be a thief, by chance now, would you?"

He looks at me tiredly. He doesn't answer. Next to us, the glyphstone hovers in a softly bubbling pool of stasis gel.

"Michaelo, there's something special about you," I say. "Something strange. But not bad. At least, if we can understand it. There's something about you that's allowed you to survive contact with the glyphstone for this long. Do you know that might be?"

Michaelo nervously look at me through the corner of his eye. Once again, I see that violet flash in his eye.

"You think I know what's inside of me? You think I chose any of this?" His voice is intense, more sure than he sounded while on 739. His fingers curl, as if bracing for impact. He leans forward towards me. "The day I touched the glyphstone, I felt as though something opened up inside my head. Like I was part of a sentence halfway through being spoken. And it hasn't silenced itself since."

He rubs the side of his face, suddenly weary.

"It's not a voice. It's not even a tought. It's..." he stammers for a moment. "It's a resonance. An echo. Like a memory. Sometimes I feel pulses--the feeling of shapes I don't understand. Sometimes I hear fragments of languages I never learned. And once I saw an image--a... machine. Larger than any other. Burning with otherworldly light."

I feel his emotions as he speaks. Confusion. Dread. He wasn't lying, but he definitely wasn't telling me everything.

The containment unit seems to murmur, the glyphstone within sending a slight ripple through the gel. Did the relic know we were speaking about it? Was it listening?

I extend my hand to project an image drawn from the gyron-net. I show Michaelo the remains of Tania Verra, her grey matter leaking out of her ears and nose. Her fingers clutching at her neck. Her face, distorted in confusion. The image is not kind. Not softened. Not redacted or censored in any way.

"This is Tania Verra," I say flatly. "You don't know her. She lived on a different planet. A different planet more developed than your dusty old Duskhollow. She died from neural collapse. She found a glyphstone. Exactly like that one." I point at the one hovering in its gelatinous chamber.

"I'm trying to prevent that from happening to you," I continue. "But you need to work with me. I need you to tell me everything. I suspect you have something Tania didn't."

Michaelo stares. At first, he doesn't react. But the impact of the image eventually causes him to shudder. But not in fear like I thought he would. The glimmer of recognition is in his eyes.

"I... I saw her." His voice is small. "In a vision. Before I even touched the glyphstone. I didn't know her name. But I saw her face... no, her vision. I felt her thoughts. She knew something terrible was about to happen and she couldn't stop it. She was an interpreter would couldn't survive the message. So yeah, maybe I've got something she didn't. Maybe I'm not the first receiver. But I'm the first one who hasn't broken."

I needed to study Michaelo further. Something made him able to survive contact with the glyhstone, and I would find out what. If I needed to, I would cut him open to find it. But I wouldn't resort to that just yet.

I sigh and lean back.

"Does anyone else know about your contact with the glyphstone? Your supervisors? Fellow farmhands?"

He hesitates. Just slightly.

"No," he says flatly, "nobody else knew. I didn't even tell my supervisor I was gone. I..."

He takes a moment, clearly calculating his next words and their ramifications.

"There was someone else who might've known. They... she sent me messages. I started following them. Quiet pings. No headers. Just instructions that appeared on my terminal."

He gulps once more before spitting out the final nugget of information he was debating holding onto.

"S.V. Solene Vyre. A GS soldier from the 9th. She left me the GS gear you asked about. She told me to investigate Rilot's Edge. Something tells me she knew what was in that crater before I got there." His foot shuffles. "I think she knew there was something special about me before I touched it, too."

"Solene Vyre..." I test the name in my mouth. "A member of the 9th you say?" I am fascinated. Someone else in the GS who might know more about the glyphstones than I. I would have to track her down later.

"No matter for now, Michaelo," I say reassuringly. "Forget all that for now. Have you ever been to Core Prime?"

His eyes light up. Not with the strange flash that I've seen multiple times, but with genuine intrigue and excitement.

"No," he breathes, "never left Duskhollow. We used to joke about Core Prime like it was a myth. 'The people there don't know what shadows are.' 'The air smells like machines and fruit.'" He pauses for a moment to judge my reaction. "Sorry," he continues quickly, "The jokes are funnier to the others."

"Continue."

"Yeah uh... I didn't think I'd ever see it. Not like this." His eyes glimpse Core Prime after he tears his eyes off of the glyphstone. "What's Core Prime like? Really?"

"You'll see for yourself."

Chapter 6: The Test #

Citta Alta is everything Duskhollow wasn't. Polished. Bright. Coldly precise.

The Arx Luminarium's familiar series of interlocking research spires is a welcome sight. My castle, where I was lord.

Michaelo watches with wonder as the cityscape of Citta Alta unfolds around him. The wonder of Core Prime seems to be enough to distract him from the glyphstone for a short time.

We arrive at the Arx Luminarium's research spire Athell K. It contains a primary experimentation suite with a security level of 3-A. The facility is clean, minimalist, but as advanced as they come: sintesium flooring, curved VV conduit-lined glass walls, a full array of diagnostic arms, inversion field imaging scanners, quantum memory recorders. At the center of the facility, the glyphstone hovers, suspended still in stasis gel. Every six seconds, its purple, tree-branch like glyphs pulse.

Michaelo sits in an observation room adjacent to where the glyphstone sits.

The director of Athell K's research team is Dr. Emerik Hollos. A thin man with silver-thread implants lining his jaw and temple. His voice is dull... or no, not dull. But too efficient to emote. This isn't the first time I've brought him something strange to study for me.

He presents to me the results of the preliminary tests he's run on Michaelo and the glyphstone, which he's logged as Relic X2.

"Signior Alessiri," Dr. Hollos speaks in his signature monotone fashion, "here is a level one summary of the initial tests as ordered."

He unveils a holographic display of the glyphstone and a biometric readout of Michaelo.

"We confirmed Relic X2 operates on a dynamic substrate--unknown material composition, self-sustaining energy output via ambient field draw." He continues to shift the hologram around, pointing at the various data points in his reports. "It contains no internal power source. No access panels, no interface hardware. It reacts solely to organic proximity. But with heightened response to Subject Riticci."

He changes slides with a gesture, drawing forth Michaelo's neural map.

"Subject Riticci's neurological activity displays background harmonics matching the relic's emission pulses. They synchronize automatically, requiring no calibration. This synchronization is dependant on his emotional state. When he is calm, the glyph pulses normalize. When emotionally disturbed, recursion begins."

I raise a brow. Dr. Hollos adjusts his ascot.

"Ahem... by recursion, we mean a feedback pattern in the relic's structure that attempts to simulate memory. Think of it as an internal logic tree that can grow in any direction based on emotional catalysts." He scratches his nose. "The name Tania Verra gave is apt. Vein logic. Not code, but something closer to a dynamic, cognitive architecture."

Dr. Hollos overlays Michaelo's neural pathways and the vein-like glyphs of Relic X2.

"Look at that. Riticci isn't just attuned to it. The relic is building a memory model around him. But he had an underlying compatibility that allowed the relic to meld with his thoughts. This is why we believe Tania Verra's neural collapse occurred. She lacked this compatibility. Relic X2 attempted to reshape Verra's psychological and neurological framework to fit... to a fatal end."

He turns away from the hologram and looks intently at me.

"X2 is only partially active it seems. Or at least, it appears to be expanding continually. The more Riticci chooses to communicate or understand the relic, the more it grows. To what end, we're not sure."

I take a moment to look at the hologram again. I notice something strange on the full-body scan of Michaelo.

"What's this mass here?" I point. "Underneath his collarbone area. I'd say it's a tumourous mass of some kind based on its organic shape. But for it to show up on the scanner like this it would have to be metal, or stone, or some other synthetic material. Farmhands don't usually receive clearance for implants, do they?"

Dr. Hollos tilts his head slightly, fingers flicking through the scan layers with a surgeon's precision. The projection shifts, highlighting a dense, non-biological mass just beneath Michaelo's left clavicle.

"You have a sharp eye, Signior," Dr. Hollos states. He zooms in. The mass is smooth, ovular, partially integrated with muscle and nerve. No surgical scars. No entry wound. "We initially assumed it was a misfire from the scanning grid. But subsequent inversion scans and density readings confirm it's a foreign object. Compositionally? It shares surface resonance with Relic X2. But it's significantly smaller. Stable, dormant."

He runs his hand through the air, overlaying a cross section of Michaelo's torso.

"It's no implant. We believe it's a seed of some kind. It is growing. It's expanded since Michaelo's time here in our lab. Slowly, but it's noticeable. Based on its growth rate, we suspect that this object found its way into Riticci far before the date of his initial contact with Relic X2... based on the date of the energy pulse you recorded. Whether or not this 'seed' is a side effect, or cause of Riticci's neural compatibility with Relic X2, well. I'm not sure."

I think about Solene Vyre. If she knew about the glyphstone and set Michaelo up to encounter it... was it possible she had something to do with this "seed"? Was Michaelo Riticci her premeditated experiment? Would she do this again, to someone else?

"You have no data conductors on your team, do you Dr. Hollos?" I question. "If you do--don't let them try to translate or even record any of this Vein Logic. You've read the Verra log. But Michaelo might be able to translate Vein Logic himself. It's trying to think like Michaelo, but it might have its own, pre-existing thoughts deep down. Get him a piece of paper--nothing high-tech connected to the gyron-net. Don't want to risk any of this Vein Logic contaminating S.A.G.E. or Citta Alta's dataweb."

Dr. Hollos' expression remains unreadable as he taps a few commands into his wristpad.

"No conductors in this lab. I've quarantined all glyph studies are quarantined into isolated photonic sandboxes. And I've personally hardlocked all uplinks to the gyron-net." He nods to the sub-terminal, where a red indicator pulses faintly. "That includes my own staff's personal links."

I watch as a junior assistant--gloved, disconnected from S.A.G.E.--retrieves a paper tablet and a plain graphite stylus. He enters Michaelo's observation chamber, setting it on the table before him. Through the reinforced glass, Michaelo looks confused at first. Then, curious.

"You want me to write something?" he asks aloud, voice tinny through the comm relay.

Dr. Hollos nods toward the microphone. I lean towards it and speak.

"Describe what the relic is trying to say," I begin. "You may not be an artist, but if there's any imagery that comes up, you can try to illustrate that too. We want to know what it's thinking."

Michaelo nods faintly behind the glass.

"Alright. I'll try."

He lowers his eyes to the paper, taking a long breath before beginning to write. The stylus scratches in short, uncertain strokes at first--but within seconds, something shifts. His hand stops hesitating. The pressure increases. His pace becomes steady--not frantic, but driven.

"We should keep this test as short as possible," Dr. Hollos comments. "The longer he communicates so directly with X2, the more its own 'thoughts' are overridden by his--and the more the 'seed' within him turns him into something else."

Words begin to form in blocky, plain Corian Standard:

It's not a voice. It's a force. Something large moving around a corner I cannot see. It's watching something through me.

He pauses his writing. I watch as his brow furrows, his lips moving silently. He continues:

We are the cargo. The vessel is incomplete. The memory is alive. There is a shape. It's like a machine designed to hold darkness. Bridges within. They pulse.

He stops writing for a moment a flips to the back side of the page. I see him begin to sketch an image. The lines are rough and clumsy, but the resultant image is deliberate despite nonsensical. It's a mass of scribbles, in a strange bean-like shape. A faint hexagon tiling pattern covers it.

Dr. Hollos leans forward, trying to observe the sketch.

"Looks like... a brain?" If anyone was familiar with the shape of a brain, it would be Dr. Hollos. The moment he points out the shape, I see it too. And I recall what Michaelo had told me on the flight here:

Sometimes I feel pulses--the feeling of shapes I don't understand. Sometimes I hear fragments of languages I never learned. And once I saw an image--a... machine. Larger than any other. Burning with otherworldly light.

I return my gaze to Michaelo as he writes one final line under the drawing.

Don't let it wake up all the way.

Michaelo sets down the stylus.

"I don't know what this all means," he says, visibly drained. His eyes are alight with a dark, deep purple glow that fades quickly. "But it... it wanted me to say it."

Dr. Hollos folds his arms and glances toward me.

"An interesting pattern of thoughts," he muses. "But I suspect this isn't the end of the message stored deep within X2. This is an opening statement."

I know we're missing the second key to this puzzle. I grab my coat from the hangar near the lab's entrance.

"Keep at it, Dr. Hollos," I encourage. "Figure out a way to put together a map if possible. Find out what the glyphstone is pointing towards. And Michaelo," I say, turning to him from behind the observation glass, "thank you."

I whirl about and exit. I need to find Solene Vyre. And I would bring her in--by force if necessary.

"Sergente Calen? We have another mission. Gather the same soldiers you brought with us to 739. We're going hunting."

Chapter 6: The Hunt #

Solene Vyre. Corps 9. Strategic acquisitions warden. Tier 7 Phantom Access clearance. Current location: unknown. Last known deployment: Thentyv Ring Grid Station.

Epha exhales sharply next to me as she reads the S.A.G.E. query results. The room is dark, tucked beneath the Arx Luminarium's communications wing.

"Emerald Sun, that's less than ideal," she curses. "The Thentyv Ring isn't Corian territory anymore. The quavas attacked it tore everything apart long ago. The GS hasn't cleared it for safe passage since. The defense mounted by the 2nd there was so spectacularly ineffective that the events there are off official records. I only know about the situation because the 3rd was called in for reinforcements and high-value personnel extraction. Signior, if we are going into the Thentyv Ring, it would be wise to request more reinforcements to escort us through potentially hostile voidspace."

There's a pause as I weight her words. A sanctioned retrieval of Vyre would alert more of the Alti Signori but increase the odds of success. But I doubted Vyre was working alone. If she had powerful allies--potentially in the Alti Aignori--I risked alerting them and inviting their interference.

"No," I say, finally. "We need to keep things covert for now. It will have to be a black operation. No GS oversight, no official logs, no interfaction disclosures. This mission will exist only in my memory and the loyalty of your men, Sergente."

She nods, obeying without question as trained.

"Affirmative," she concurs.

47 minutes pass. Epha and I are joined by the familiar faces of Vorren, Narrix, and Orelai. I stand before them, walls lined with acoustic foam and EM shielding. Epha finishes syncing the squad's gyron-net seals to a localized, encrypted relay.

"The Ravenet is secured for transport." Her voice is low, crisp, unflinching. "Orelai reports that brief forward scans of our destination reveal the station is flagged as abandoned, but drift logs show power spikes every 3 cycles. Someone is keeping the station alive by a thread."

Epha gestures towards the table, creating a holographic display of the Grid Station.

"Yes ma'am," Orelai affirms, stepping forward. "No atmosphere in most of the chambers aboard the vessel. But one specific wing--wing 1--is still sealed and pressurized. If Vyre is anywhere, it will be here. Only one access point to this wing. We go in, extract Vyre, and leave. Quietly."

Narrix flips his antimatter combat knife over his fingers, smiling just enough to disturb the quietness. "And if she don't wan' come?"

"I need her alive. In one piece is optional," I state plainly. "But intact enough so I can ask her questions."

Epha nods, the corners of her lips twitching in grim approval.

"Alive. Talking. Mostly attached. 'Derstood," Narrix chuckles. "Gives me more room to work."

Vorren remains silent, his voice box humming ambiently, ready to render words that he never speaks. He sits, linking tactical readouts to his internal HUD. Professional. Efficient. Unshakable.

"Move, Disciples," Epha commands."Board the Ravenet and prepare for transport."

As we enter the Ravenet, Epha falls in beside me.

"Signior," she asks, "any chance Vyre is expecting us? Think she knew Michaelo would point us towards her?"

"I hope not," I grumble. "Stepping into a trap would harm my pride the most, if anything."

Our trip is fast. Thentyv Ring is much closer than Sector 739. Before we knew it, we were docked with the Grid Station, which drifted through a field of pulverized Corian capital ship debris.

We descend through Access Shaft A-13, making our way to the primary maintenance corridor leading to Wing 1. Once, this vertical transit well would have been used to move rations and other materials related to sustaining the crew of this crumbling space station. Now, it's silent--save for the faint hum of old magrails bleeding current into what little air is still breathable.

Our boots clack onto the floor of Wing 1, echoing through the dark station.

"No security. No hard defenses," Orelai whispers. "Either Vyre is long gone, or she's been waiting."

I sweep my torch across the corridor. Scorch marks. Signs of quavas weaponry. A fierce battle between the GS and the worms raged here once.

"Signior," Orelai says, lifting a hand. "Heat bloom. Ahead. One life form, stationary."

"Could be Vyre," Epha says.

"Could be bait," Vorren growls.

The corridor culminates in a single hatch, illuminates by flickering, faint orange emergency lights. The door is partially ajar. I stand behind the squad, next to Orelai as Epha orders Vorren to help clear the room with her. Our sniper stands ready to provide covering fire should things go sideways.

S.A.G.E. synchronizes the squad's movements without the need of a word spoken aloud.

"Entry on three."

I watch from cover as Epha moves to the left flank of the doorway, Vorren stacking on the opposite side with a hard light shield ready.

"One." "Two." "Three."

They breach.

My pulse quickens as I watch.

The door swings wide as Vorren wrenches it fully open.

No gunfire.

No shouting.

Just silence.

Then, Epha's voice, steady and slow.

"Signior. It's Vyre."

I step into the room. Vorren and Narrix have surrounded her on opposite sides. Epha stands before her, weapon trained on the unmoving figure. Orelai remains at the doorway as I step forward.

Solene Vyre, unarmed, unmasked. Greying hair cut short like her service records portrayed. Her tactical gear is outdated by several years.

She raises her hands slowly, but in surrender. In greeting.

"Greetings, Signior," she says, eyes locked on me. Her voice is exactly as I suspected it might be Measured, wry, unimpressed by my status. "I'd ask what you want, but I already know. You've met Michaelo, haven't you?"

She lowers her hands, head tilted.

"What are you doing here, Vyre?" Epha asks, rifle still trained on the woman.

"I knew it would only be a matter of time until my involvement was uncovered. I decided not to hide, but to find a waiting place."

"Out here?"

"I could make sure that only those looking specifically for me would find me here."

"Seems like nonsense."

"It worked, didn't it?"

"Enough," I interject. "Take her in cuffs. There will be plenty of time for her to talk when we get back to Core Prime."

Epha nods once. Vorren's powerful build moves to restrain Solene with mag cuffs. She doesn't resist. She holds out her wrists willingly, her expression unreadable.

"We're done here," Epha says, signaling for Narrix and Orelai to begin the trek back to the hangar.

The lights flicker suddenly. There's a distant boom that echoes through the previously still ventilation tubes. A deep humming rattles through the floor.

"Sergente--massive radiation spike!" Orelai's voice urgently calls out. "We've got a proximity breach. Something-"

CRACK--CRASH!

The corridor ahead explodes inward, raining debris as the unmistakable quavas breaching drill slams through. I'd never seen them this close before, but I'd poured over enough combat feeds to recognize the chitinous figures. Full-sized worm-soldiers, glistening, armed to the gills with cybernetics.

Quavas.

They gaze down the hall directly at us, their alien substitutes for eyes drinking us in.

"QUAVAS! FRONT AND MID!" Epha shouts. "VORREN! Shield Signior Alessiri! NARRIX, LEFT FLANK!"

Solene, despite being cuffed, flinches. But she doesn't run.

The station rumbles as a second impact knocks pieces of the ceiling's paneling loose. Amber emergency strobes flicker, draining the last vestiges of power aboard the station. The dying corpse of the oxygen recirculation systems hiss in protest.

I lunge for Solene, grabbing her linked cuffs and shoving her behind an overturned bio-coil terminal, half shielding her body with mine as I force her into a crouch. She glares but complies.

Meanwhile, Vorren deploys his hard light ballistic shield, its shimmering wall absorbing the impact of a quavas plasma salvo.

Narrix dives to the left as one worm lurches into the room, its front claws--augmented with buzzing, spinning saws--slice into the ground where he was. The sniper pulls his knife from his leg holster and cleaves off one of the quavas' legs in one smooth motion. There is a foul hiss as quavas ichor sprays across the corridor.

Epha unloads two shots from her gun into another quavas' forward limbs, crippling it and sending it stumbling into a heap. Its body flails in pain, or perhaps fury, blocking the other quavas from advancing.

"Three more heat signature inbound," Orelai says while ducking behind the bio-coil next to us. "We're drawing their attention. No sign of a prymex yet, if they're being led by one!"

The quavas in the hall tear apart their crippled brother with plasma and caustic sludge. As the corpse disintegrates, they come careening down the corridor towards us. Vorren steps in their way, causing them to slam into his shield with a horrid shriek--alien vocalizations mixing with their eldritch cybernetics. Its mechanically-augmented claws scrap at the shield, causing sparks to fly off the barrier. Vorren stands strong, his exoskeleton whirring as it worked to help him hold the line.

"Signior," Vorren grunted, "now would be a great time to consider evacuating...!"

"We have to get past them to get to the Ravenet," Orelai yells.

"We have to let them into this room and maneuver around them," Epha yells back.

"Affirmative, Sergente," Narrix pauses to load a new VV cell into his long gun.

"Acknowledged," Vorren roars, pushing back against the quavas. "Shield is collapsing. 3% integrity!"

Like a well-oiled machine, my GS escort spring into action. Vorren angles his shield to the side just before it dies, allowing the quavas to rush into the right side of our room. As they do, Epha tosses a flash charge into the room. It detonates, not as light, but as a field disruptor specifically tuned to interfere with quavas sensory organs. They shriek as the claw their own faces in pain and confusion.

Vorren utters a powerful cry, shoving the quavas nearest to him away. Orelai lands a precise shot with her wrist crossgun, striking the worm's exposed side joint and dropping it cleanly.

My team begins moving in staggered bursts. I haul Solene to her feet, shoving her ahead.

"Don't get smart, Vyre," I threaten. "I'll leave you here for them."

"Then you're dumber than I thought," she mutters back, but follows without resistance.

As we run down the hall towards Access Shaft A-13, the floor behind us cracks open. The stained sintesium plating ruptures outward like a wound in the deck. The prymex emerges--massive, glistening, augmented with chrome-plated carapace segments and a spinal rig bristling with ion vents.

"JUST RUN!" Epha yells. The words leave her throat like fire. I don't need her commands to motivate me. My lungs burn as I dash forward, my office-borne build clearly not suited to this kind of activity.

The rest of the GS know their roles. To protect me. They linger behind long enough to stop our assailants from tearing me apart. Several quavas try to lunge at me, but Vorren's servo-assisted fists cause them to bite into the floor rather than my feet. The prymex howls, its "voice" warping the air with vibrations as it begins to charge. Orelai sends another volley of hard light darts at the beast, each one bouncing off of the monstrosity's armoured skull harmlessly.

We reach the shaft, the elevator nowhere to be seen. That's when I realize it's below us, gravity chains severed and its central frame sundered. We would have to climb up. Epha is already next to the maintenance ladder along the side of the shaft, ready to help me onto it. There's another pop behind us as Narrix tosses another flash charge.

"I can't climb with these restraints," Solene says calmly, despite the situation.

I glance at Epha. She holds the hard light key to the cuffs, hesitating.

"I'm not an enemy in all of this," Solene continues. She looks in my eyes. Something tells me she's not lying.

I curse and nod to Epha. She unlocks the cuffs, tossing them aside. Solene begins to climb, and I follow. One by one, the squad vaults up the rungs after me. There is a ringing as the prymex below slams into the opposite wall of the access shaft. It begins to climb after us.

We burst through the top of the access shaft, sweat and static clinging to us like cobwebs. I shed my cloak--an irreplacable, one-of-a-kind article of fashion that will never be replicated again in the exact way I liked it--to give myself more mobility.

We all pile into the Ravenet, with Orelai at the rear. She slams her palm onto the seal console, with boarding ramp folding up behind us. As the hatch closes, the last thing I see is the prymex and its brood watching us as we fly out of the hangar.

Chapter 7: The Swarm #

The ship hums as we pull away from the Grid Station. I huff and puff, leaning on the side of the ship's transport bay, sweat dripping down my stubbled face. By comparison, none of the GS soldiers are breathless--only punctuating how foreign physical activity was to a man of my station.

"Drink, Signior," Epha says, offering me a flask of water. I gulp it down greedily. As I do, she turns to Solene and raises her gun towards her.

"Capitana," Epha spits, "I'll be restraining you again now."

Solene raises her hands, once again accepting her fate.

"Very well," she agrees.

Epha reaches into her equipment to procure another set of mag cuffs. As he reaches out to restrain Solene, the ship shudders.

"What in the Bloodied Nebula is that?" Epha curses.

"Sergente Calen!" Orelai calls out, looking up from a scanner feed, "We aren't done with quavas."

I knew it was too good to be true. We had escaped too cleanly.

"Show me the feed," Epha commands.

Orelai complies, pulling up live feeds from scanners along the Ravenet's exterior. Sure enough, a swarm of quavas, their ion thrusters pumping, were closing on our shuttle. Several were already clinging to our underside, their mechanical feelers prying for a way inside. They had plasma weapons--why weren't they shooting? The horror of their goal then dawns on me: they want to crack open the Ravenet and feast upon its passengers.

"We have no weapons, and this ship isn't built to outmaneuver quavas," Orelai says. "Our only viable course of action is for S.A.G.E. to try to keep the shuttle moving towards the edge of the Thentyv Ring sector where GS patrols can peel the quavas off of us. In the meantime, we will inevitably be boarded by the worms. We'll have to fight to keep them out."

She stands up, while Vorren, Narrix and Epha don helmets that interlock with their armour to form a pressurized seal. Epha helps me into a lighter space suit that slips over my garments. It wasn't armoured, but it would prevent me from being turned inside out when the quavas tear a hole in the Ravenet and force massive depressurization.

Once we were all suited up, Epha pauses and looks at Solene. The Capitana looks at Epha expectantly.

"Signior?" Epha questions.

"Give her the helmet," I say. "Remember, I need her alive."

"Right..."

Reluctantly, Epha hands Solene the helmet, not bothering to help her secure it.

"She hasn't caused us any trouble yet," I say to my Sergente. "If she wanted us to die, she could have easily fed us to the worms while aboard the station."

I know my next words would be uncomfortable for Epha, but she obeys.

"Give Capitana Vyre a weapon. We're all Corians here--if we don't fight together, the quavas will devour us."

Epha hands Solene a hard light rifle--the same one she's most familiar with. The A6-COT: reliable, hard-hitting, and a symbol of the might of the GS.

As Solene is outfitted, a shadow moves across the shuttle's floor. I watch as a single worm-soldier, revolting and alien, clambers across the front viewport of the Ravenet.

My soldiers plus Solene stand ready, weapons drawn and facing both the back hatch and the front viewport of the ship. The quavas will enter one of the two ways.

They do both.

Chaos erupts as the quavas' plasma rams bore holes through both ends of our shuttle. There is a rush as the air within escapes the interior, knocking me to the ground. I hang onto the back of a seat to avoid being cast into the void. There are flashes of red and green as the quavas and GS engage in a fire fight. I watch helplessly as several bolts of plasma catch Orelai in the chest, disintegrating her torso nearly instantly. There is no scream--her lungs are vaporized before her brain registers the pain.

Our comms are thick with yells and commands as Epha attempts to maintain control of the situation. Vorren's robotic growls fill the channel as he unloads his photon repeater, tearing through multiple quavas with ease. For a moment, I believe he will single-handedly win us this fight.

I watch as a quavas skitters above us with lightning speed. It drops onto Vorren legs first, piercing him in at least 6 places. I hope he dies quickly.

Quavas ichor and the blood of Vorren and Orelai float through the Ravenet like balloons. Solene, to her credit, was still a certified member of the GS. I see how she earned her rank. With precision and grace, she dodges quavas plasma while deliver accurate hard light bolts to the exposed weak points of every worm that surges forward.

"Signior!" Epha pulls herself away from the firefight to check on me.

"I'm still okay," I say shakily. Unlike Epha, I was no hardened veteran. Every crackle of plasma send me flinching. My teeth are clenched, and my eyes refuse to stay open for long.

"Hold still," Epha says, placing one hand on me while drawing symbols in the air with her other. She channels the remaining VV energy in her armour onto me, forming a layer of hard light plates that cover my body.

Her protective act is her last. As she turns to return to the fight, a quavas lurches past her, slicing her head off with a scissor-like augmentation. Several decades of professional combat and training, ended without ceremony.

The quavas looming over me wastes no time. It unmasks itself, revealing its grotesque maw, dripping with slime and alien drool. It lunges once, biting at me in an attempt to draw my blood. Epha's hard light armour protects me. It bites again. And again.

With every bite, the armour begins to fade, flickering and sparking as it begins to sputter out of existence.

The quavas rears up to deliver my final blow. But it never lands. In a flash of verdant light, I see Narrix's sniper rifle discharge its quavas-obliterating round, annihilating not just the worm-solder's head, but also punching a hole through the side of the Ravenet. I turn my attention to the only two GS left... Narrix and Solene. Narrix's leg is gone, torn off at the knee by one of the wicked centipedes. He doesn't bleed--his armour has cauterized the wound and tightened around the stump to save his life. Solene is still unharmed, save for some light plasma damage that has grazed her armour.

The Ravenet is silent for a moment. Believing we've fended off the quavas attack, we begin to breath sighs of relief. But it is short-lived. With a rattle and a heavy thud, the prymex leading these quavas coils its way through the broken viewport. Its limbs bristle with twin-linked plasma cannons, acid throwers, ballistic particle accelerators, and other malefic alien inventions. It gurgles and chitters, surveying the three of us.

We're dead still, unsure of the monster's next move.

A breath passes.

Suddenly, the worm pulses its ion thrusters, sending itself careening towards Solene while its limbs saturate the sides of the Ravenet with their lethal payloads. I scream, filled with terror--but the last vestiges of Epha's hard light plating deflect what shots would have ended me. Narrix pulls himself through the room, propelling himself past the corpses of both the quavas and his fallen allies. He's behind the prymex. He wastes no time.

VOOM. VOOM. VOOM.

Narrix unloads the last three rounds in his sniper in quick succession, each projectile striking the same spot on the prymex's back. The first but dents the alien's armour. The second deforms its steely shell further. The last shot blasts through, ending the creature.

"Core eternal," Narrix recites proudly. I watch as his body goes limp, floating in space. He must have passed out.

I wait for a moment, my terror subsiding slowly, like molasses. Then, I carefully creep forward towards the prymex's body shoving it to the side to see what has become of Solene.

She's alive.

"Capitana Vyre?" I say. As I move the prymex's body to the side, I see that she's impaled. One of the prymex's alloy-enhanced limbs has thrust itself fully through her chest. She's still alive, but not for long. I begin to look around wildly for the Ravenet's medical engine. My mind races on what I need to do to save her--synthesize quick-grow tissue to heal the organs, clone blood, print bone marrow to seed her chest. I realize quickly that the life-saving machine is nonfunctional, with a glob of acidic slime from the quavas' bio-weapons melting through its center.

Solene is about to die. I feel a rush of emotions... the secrets of Michaelo she held were slipping through my hands like grains of sand.

"Signior Alessiri," she wheezes, "listen to me. Carefully."

I pull myself toward her.

"What?" I ask.

"I..." she coughs, her helmet filling with blood, "I'm sorry for the wild gother chase, Signior. L-listen. M-Mi-Michaelo is not... h-he's..."

I grip Solene's shoulders as her teeth chatter. He skin is pale; shock is setting in.

"Solene! What about him?!" I demand. "Tell me about Michaelo, please!"

"H-he will save us. He can stop it. H-he came to stop it once," she gasps. Her eyes flutter. She's not long for this world. "Ta-ta-take Michael-Michaelo t-to Utharri S-se-se-septum-tumus. H-he will know wh-where to g-go once in-in-in orb-orbit."

In a sudden surge of energy, Solene grips my arms with great power. She leans in towards me, peering at me through the one spot on her helmet not obstructed by bloodstains.

"You need to let him stop it. You need to let him in."

Her final words. Her grip loosens as her soul departs her body. Silence falls upon the battle scene, save for the quiet hum of the Ravenet's still-working thrusters.

I sit in the center of the shuttle, trying to make sense of everything that just transpired. Was this what it felt like to be in the GS? Lost comrades and facing these beasts daily? My prestigious position and vocation as a Data Baron suddenly seemed so small and unimportant by comparison.

My thoughts are interrupted as a voice calls out to me through the comms. A broadcast from the gyron-net.

"This is Figarrio 15-6 to Ravenet 44-44. Do you copy?"

S.A.G.E. must have pulled the Ravenet into Corian space. I fumble for a moment with my comm-link before replying.

"Yes! This is Signior Ginnico Alessiri. Alti Signior code dolto-akren-plenta." In my excitement to be rescued, I speak quickly--hopefully still slowly enough for the GS on the other end to understand.

A moment passes.

"Confirmed. Signior Alessiri, it seems as though your transport is heavily damaged. Do you require extraction, and if so, is your craft free of hostiles?

I see outside the viewport a sleek GS fighter craft position itself in front of the Ravenet. My face slick with sweat, and probably tears, I nod, despite the GS pilot not being able to see me.

"Yes. Please get me home."

Chapter 8: The Departure #

I stand before the reinforced glass of Michaelo's observation chamber, arms folded, stripped of the elegant robes I usually bore. Instead, I wear a simple utilitarian jumpsuit--no time to change into something nice. I have a feeling that I won't be on Core Prime for long.

Michaelo sits cross-legged on the examination table inside, hooked up to passive neural readers for Dr. Hollos' continued study. The glyphstone floats nearby in a stabilized electromagnetic cradle. It's more active now, its pulses more frequent. Sharper, I'd say.

Behind me, Dr. Hollos finishes recording a voice log before stepping up beside me.

"We've completed stage 3 simulations of Michaelo's vein-linked activity," Dr. Hollos says, handing me a databoard with test results upon test results. I begin to skim the results as Dr. Hollos explains.

"Relic X2's pulse frequency has been increasing since Michaelo established that deep connection the last time you were with us," Dr. Hollos continues. "Now the relic is synchronizing with gravity waves. As if it was scanning for something planetary in scale.

"As for Michaelo, his psychological state is stable for now. But his neural activity is still forming 'vein models', or recursive imagery centered around the neural framework provided by X2. At this point, Michaelo and X2 are almost completely psychologically unified."

"I am taking Michaelo," I say. "We won't learn anything more here."

I begin to unseal the observation chamber to retrieve Michaelo.

"Wait," Dr. Hollos says, slightly more animated than normal. "There's a complication now. Michaelo and the relic are so intertwined that... well, it would be too much to delve into the quantum mechanics of it, but physically distancing him from X2 will result in neural collapse."

"I suppose I will have to bring them both, then." I am resolute in going to Utharri Septumus.

The seals of the observation chamber hiss as it depressurizes. The glyphstone withinpulses once--a sharp flickering followed by a subtle chime-like distortion in the chamber's acoustic dampeners. Has it noticed the change in activity?

Michaelo, previously in a sort of meditative state, slowly opens his eyes. "We're leaving?"

Dr. Hollos takes another step forward, his tone even but layered with clinical tension.

"Signior, if you remove him from containment and away from my stabilization treatments, I can't guarantee neural stability."

"So he'll die no matter what?" I retort.

"We don't know. All previous models assume a critical event during forced disconnection--but that assumes aggression. You're proposing relocation with the relic itself."

Dr. Hollos gestures to X2's cradle.

"If you want to maximize Michaelo's chances of survival, you'll need to keep him within 3 meters of X2. For every centimeter further away he is, the exponentially more likely he experiences neural collapse."

"It... it wants us to go," Michaelo says, trancelike. "I can see... it keeps showing me fragments. Shadows of something beneath a cracked sky. I think... wherever it's pointing me, it ends there."

Dr. Hollos folds the databoard up. He doesn't stop me, but I can see behind his neutral expression that he is disturbed.

"I understand the risks, Dr. Hollos," I say, guiding Michaelo from the chamber. "And even if I don't, I fully accept them."

I help Michaelo don a weather resistant poncho over his lab clothes. There's no time to get him anything nicer. I was on the eve of uncovering the glyphstone's secret.

"Michelo, we're going to somewhere unknown," I explain. It was true. S.A.G.E. told me that Utharri Septumus was an uncharted planet in a Black system--someone before me had designated the solar system it was in as too dangerous to explore, stopping anyone else from entering it. Seems like no one questioned why.

"There may be no room for cumbersome machinery on this planet--Utharri Septumus," I continue. "Can you carry the glyphstone yourself?"

Michaelo looks at me--steady, calm, and different than when I first met him. He is no longer fearful, or hypnotically zombie-like. There is something deliberate behind his eyes now.

He turns towards the glyphstone's cradle.

"I think it's been waiting for me to do that." Michaelo reaches out with his hand, and I watch as his eyes surge with an amaranthine light. The glyphstone moves through the air before settling in his grip, almost magnetically.

I glance quickly at Dr. Hollos. His face remains still, like sculpted clay. But his finger twitches, telling me this new display of power is making him wish for more time to study him. He doesn't object however, and his simply watches this living sample leave his lab.

"I'll record you departure as unauthorized, Signior," Dr. Hollos says finally. "That way, if you get lost or... or anything, Alti Signori investigations will know where to look."

"Thank you, Dr. Hollos," I say, with a short bow. "I do hope fate will allow me to work alongside your brilliant mind once more in the future."

Michaelo and I depart Athell K and make our way to the Photon Disciples' hangar. There, we find Narrix. The only surviving member of Sergente Calen's original fireteam. He is ready to pilot us in a new shuttle to Utharri Septumus.

We both enter, and Michaelo begins to strap himself in. I approach the pilot seat to see Narrix. I glance for a moment at his missing leg, replaced by a makeshift sintesium prosthetic--typically reserved for medical patients until they could receive a more permanent solution. He hasn't gotten a chance to have a proper prosthetic installed because he knew I would need someone for this final mission.

I place my hand on his shoulder.

"Narrix, I thank you for your service," I say solemnly. "When we reach Utharri Septumus... I may not return. I do not know what awaits me on this planet, but if you don't receive a hail in half a cycle, depart for Core Prime without me."

The synthetics in what is now passing for his leg hiss as they lock into the shuttle's foot controls. He looks at me, and nods.

"It's an honour for me to serve you, Signior," he says, resolutely.

I settle back into the passenger seats beside Michaelo, and pray that all these deaths are worth it.

Chapter 9: The Vein #

Utharri Septumus' solar system is dark. Stars seem almost muffled against some invisible darkness that presses in on all sides. It's empty, too. A system untouched by Corian expansion over whatever warning earlier explorers placed on it. At the system's center, a pulsating blue dwarf burns scornfully, as if one day it might reach the magnitude and grandeur of Omitor-Capdex.

"Signior," Narrix calls from his pilot seat, "I think there's something very wrong with this planet."

Before us, Utharri Septumus. A blacked world devoid of water, or atmosphere. It's a small planet, all things considered, but from our shuttle's position it looms like it is the largest thing in all of Core.

"Look at these readings," Narrix says, pointing at the shuttle's displays. I scan them quickly, and see hundreds of gravitational anomalies flickering like a pulse over the surface of the planet. But it's not chaotic. It's rhythmic, like a drum. Or a heart.

Michaelo stands at the docking ramp threshold behind me. His hood is up, cradling the glyphstone in his arms. It pulses with an amathyst glow, matching the gravitational waves rippling over Utharri Septumus' surface.

"Will it be too dangerous to land on the planet with these kinds of anomalies?" I ask Narrix.

"Yes, Signior," he replies. "There ain't a reasonable way for me to get... hold on, look at this."

Narrix points to the scan of Utharri Septumus and highlights a small, localized area where the waves pass by, like water around a rock.

"Odd, isn't it, Signior?" He says curiously. "Very strange. It's no glitch in our scanners. There is a very real safe zone here at Utharri Septumus' pole."

"Take us down there, then." I command.

There is a rumbling as the shuttle pulls toward our newly-acquired dropsite. Michaelo and I don helmets--no atmosphere meant such equipment would be necessary. After a final solute to Narrix, Michaelo and I depart from the shuttle and set foot onto Utharri Septumus' surface.

Dust swirls across the cracked, tundra-like ground. The dried clay-like soil is a grey, colourless shade. Its feathered with frost, and particles of frozen gas of some kind swirls over the land despite a lack of wind. There is an overwhelming silence.

"It wants us to walk," Michaelo says, holding out the glyphstone and beginning to move. I follow him into the haze. There are no landmarks that we can see.

With every step, the glyphstone begins to respond. With each step, its pulses become more frequent.

Shapes--imagined or real--flicker along the horizon.

A distant spire that vanishes when I blink.

A wall that casts no shadow.

There is a sudden ringing in my ear that fades the moment Micchaelo speaks.

"We're getting close," Michaelo says.

S.A.G.E. tells me we've walked for nearly 2 hours. My legs are sore, aching from the demand I've placed on them. Suddenly, Michaelo stops. He kneels. And the glyphstone roars.

It emits a hum that overpowers the silent landscape, flashing with brilliant colour as the ground beneath us begins to crumble. Michaelo and I scurry backwards away from the disappearing floor until the chaos subsides and the entrance to Utharri Septumus' secret is revealed. A slow spiral, concentric circles of some strange stone rotating like an iris, revealing a narrow passage downward.

The light from my torch and the glyphstone in Michaelo's hands are all we have for illumination.

We descend.

The air within the stairway is dry and ancient. The walls, while I thought were stone, are made of no material I truly recognize. They are smooth, covered with embedded threads that run like haphazard circuitry... or veins.

I ponder what kind of civilization must have created this antiquated ruin.

Michaelo and I walk side by side, saying nothing as we continue down the steps. Eventually, the overwhelming silence of this damned planet becomes too much, and I cut the silence with my voice.

"Tell me, Michaelo. Your parents. Farmers, like you?"

Michaelo takes a breath before answering--his eyes never leaving the glyphstone in his hands.

"I... never knew my parents," he replies. "Perhaps I forgot them after working on Duskhollow for so long."

He's quiet for a moment. The only sounds are our boots on the stony steps.

"But I like to imagine they were good people. Honest. Simple. That they wanted me to get off of Duskhollow. To be more than a farmer..."

His voice tightens a little.

"Perhaps they died on some distant planet after quavas breached their agricultural fortress."

He reaches out with one of his hands, dragging it along the wall of the staircase, his fingers tracing the alien patterns adorning it.

"Funny, isn't it? Almost all of my friends ended up passing aptitude tests for the GS. Everyone else I knew growing up thought I'd be a jenfruit farmer for my whole life."

He glances at me, no resentment in his eyes--just the weight of the new burden on his shoulders.

"Do you think the glyphstone chose me because of who I was? Or just because I happened to find it?"

There's a moment as I chew his words. Then, I give a reply--albeit one I wasn't sure I fully believed.

"Whether or not the glyphstone chose you is irrelevant. The fact is you now have an inexplicable bond with this thing. For the Alti Signori, that's all there is. The facts."

Michaelo doesn't stop walking.

"I figured you'd say something like that, Signior. I've watched Core Prime mandate broadcasts many times. The Alti Signori always talk about facts like they don't hurt people. But I guess we do need people like you to write down the facts while people like me walk into the dark to make them."

Ahead, the stairs terminate, opening into an antechamber carved with impossible symmetry. Was it a figment of my imagination, or did it feel like gravity was leaning in every direction all at once?

The glyphstone hums. Michaelo stops at the center of the antechamber, the relic in his hand vibrating with a slow-frequency hum. The chamber's walls begin to react--the veins embedded in the stone surrounding us begin to glow, matching the glyphs upon the glyphstone's face.

"It's... it's unlocking something," Michaelo breathes.

The chamber shudders, as if in agreeance. A hiss of pressure vents outward. A light--soft, indescribable as a hue--seeps through the seams of a hidden doorway now sliding open beneath our feet. The floor yawns wide, with the ground rushing away from a central platform that remained underneath us.

The floor carries us downward. As we lower, I see it.

An impossible space--vast beyond any construction I'd seen besides Core Prime herself. It was as if the entire center of Utharri Septumus was hollowed out. At its center, spanning what must be kilometers, floating unsupported, was a massive brain.

But not one of blood and tissue.

This immense artificial thought-organ was wrought from metal and stone. Its surface is tessellated with hexagons; I realize swiftly that this brain's entire surface was comprised of glyphstones not unlike the one in Michaelo's hand.

As we drop in close to the brain's surface, I begin to notice portions of the brain's tiled surface are empty, with hexagonal ports devoid of an occupying glyphstone. Our platform lowers until we're next to the brain, with one of the empty ports sitting before us.

The glyphstone hums like a tuning fork. Michaelo steps away from me, almost in a trance--no words, no hesitation. Worry crosses my mind for a moment--what would our actions here do? But I am not able to say anything. Perhaps in awe at the sheer size of this massive construct, I am dumbfounded. The glyphstone floats from Michaelo's hand, aligning itself with the port. It slides into place.

The entire structure shudders, a ripple of faintly coloured light spreading across the synthetic cerebral surface. Lights flare across the brain, with veins and blue and purple awakening in slow pulses as the glyphs realign themselves en masse.

Michaelo screams, writhing suddenly as his eyes erupt with violet flame. He spasms, this eldritch energy coursing across his body and marring it with black veins that stand out against his tanned skin. I take a step back in horror. Was this because Michaelo was connected to the glyphstone? Was he now connected to this unfathomable brain?

My answer comes as Michaelo drops to the ground, prostrate.

"We remember." Michaelo's voice comes from his mouth, but it's not him saying the words. There's something off--the cadence, the subtlety of how his lips form vowels. Something is using him as a mouthpiece.

"We remember the darkness. Then, the light. We remember... the fracture."

The glyphstones across the brain begin blinking--1, then 2, then 5 pulses per second. Michaelo stands up, his form silhouetted against the malign light of the mechanical brain.

"This world was our shell. A failover memory to survive extinction. And you, Ginnico... you have delivered salvation to us.

Michaelo--no, Michaelo's body steps forward. His eyes flare with purple colour.

"When we arrived here, we were forced to divide our memories amongst us. Hosts were required to assemble us. And you have brought one to us."

"What are you? Who are you?"

"We are..." the voice muses, before saying many names simultaneously.

"Michaelo."

"Imigo."

"Kera."

"Marco."

"Tania."

"Warrit."

The voice speaking through Michaelo pauses.

"We are Gol'Zah. The Hive Library. We bear knowledge. And also... hunger." Michaelo's head tilts.

"But not of flesh. Of... essence. The fabric of your existence."

"By the Bloody Nebula... what are you talking about?"

"Explanation would be... futile. Your mind is impressive for an inchoate entity, Ginnico. But pales in comparison to the vastness of a single one of our... daydreams.

Michaelo's face grins.

"No matter. With your help, consciousness has at last returned to the ocean of our thoughts. Our pieces are still missing, but they will return to us in time. For now..." Michaelo raises his hands, his face overcome with a terrifying happiness. "The feast may begin."

My mind races with thoughts. At my core, I desire to know more. The Data Baron in me thirsts for answers. But more was at stake now.

"You... you would devour Omitor-Capdex?"

"Your pathetic leaf-coloured star is a drop in the bucket unable to satiate our desires," Michaelo's voice spits. "Of course you would think so small."

I draw my sidearm--a simple sintesium dagger with a monomolecular hard light blade. Enough for personal defense... would it kill Michaelo? Would it kill this thing inside him?

"I'll... I'll stop you!" My voice quivers.

"You will try."

I lunge forward with the dagger, screaming, my steps burdened by my lack of martial prowess. My dagger thrusts forward, embedding itself in Michaelo's outstretched palm. His other hand reaches forward and latches onto my neck. I gasp for air as Michaelo's body pushes me onto the ground.

"You should have sent soldiers," Michaelo's mouth speaks.

I gasp for air. My vision blurs. I see colours sparkling across my eyes and things begin to fade.

"So... fragile. So unimpressive. You humans would be endearing if your mortal frames were not so... disgusting."

I cannot reply, except for a guttural gurgle.

As I am on the verge of succumbing, Michaelo's grip suddenly falters. I gasp, and colour returns to my vision. I lay for a moment, sucking down the stale air provided by my mask.

When my strength returns, I get up to see Michaelo's body clutching his head.

"No. No! No, no no! Where are our thoughts?!"

Michaelo's face turns towards me, a mixture of fear, pain, and rage dripping from his features.

"What did you do to me?!"

I am dumbfounded. What in the Iotpan Cloud was this thing talking about?

"It's so... so silent. So... lonely... WHERE ARE OUR THOUGHTS??"

Suddenly, the brain framing Michaelo from behind pulsates. Each hexagonal shard violently pulsates in an irregular manner. The surface of the massive constructed cerebrum becomes lumpy and rough as the millions of glyphstones begin to pump in and out.

Then, a new voice. It comes from the brain. It is booming, deafening, and unpleasant. The thousands of stones and metallic components grind together in a wretched cacophony, but the chaotic storm of sound forms distinct words.

"I ALSO remember now, Gol'Zah. And your library is mine."

Michaelo's body turns to face the brain.

"No... NO!" He whirls about to face me. "YOU TRICKED US!"

"We are in your Library now, Gol'Zah. And I'm afraid the knowledge here must be destroyed."

"NO!"

"There is nothing you can do. You've lost whatever game you were playing."

The light from within the brain begins to shudder and spark. The pieces of the brain begin to vibrate with greater and greater vigor.

Michaelo howls, like a maddened animal, and leaps upon me. Before he can do anything, a single glyphstone from the brain is ejected forcefully. It soars through the expanse of the chamber, colliding with Michaelo in mid air with such force that his body is sent flying away. A spray of blood that coats my helmet is all that I need to know what happened to the body.

"Michaelo...?" I say cautiously as I stand up, facing the brain.

"Yes," it replies. The grating voice of the superstructural mind is unpleasant, but still carries the undertones of someone trying to soothe a fearful child.

"You... you entered this thing's mind when it took control of your body, didn't you?"

"You are clever, Signior Alessiri. That is precisely what happened. Gol'Zah---the creature whose mind this belongs to--did not expect this outcome. It thought you brought a simple, Corian mortal host. I thought I was one too. If I was, Gol'Zah's vast intellect would have washed my mind away like sand writing on a beach. But when I connected to the vast Hive Library, the pieces necessary for me to remember what I am came into being."

"You're... you're not human."

"Yes, as you predicted. Clever, Signior. There was indeed something special about me. But while the Alti Signiori thirsts for the knowledge of everything, I cannot divulge more to you. Signior, you have played your role in this story. And it's time for you to go home. Get back to the surface and call for extraction."

"What will happen to you? Are you trapped in this thing forever?"

"This thing must be destroyed. I will see to it. No good can come of its existence."

"But... there must be knowledge within that Core can use! New knowledge for better quality of life, more advanced technology, more potent weapons with which we can push back the quavas--"

"Signior Alessiri. This is greater than Core's conflict with the quavas. No such knowledge within this mind can continue to exist. For the knowledge--the VEIN LOGIC--of the Hive Library is the creature of Gol'Zah itself. While it exists in your world, it feeds."

Something tells me I will not be able to convince Michaelo otherwise.

"I... I understand."

"Enough dawdling. Leave, Signior! This entire planet will collapse."

There is a rumbling as the brain begins to grind and groan, its collective pieces beginning to crush themselves against each other. The light within grows brighter--no, deeper.

"Goodbye, Signior. Thank you for your help."

All at once, the brain collapses. The glyphstones across its surface glow with a brilliance unmatched, before suddenly they are all pulled inward and crushed into a blackened void that swirls at the heart of the structure. Everything begins to shake, with dust and pieces of debris dislodging themselves from the ceiling. Michaelo wasn't joking. This planet was coming undone.

I raced back up the stairs, adrenaline compensating for my lack of conditioning and athleticism.

"Narrix!" I yell into my comm-link, "Extraction, NOW! This planet is coming apart beneath my feet and I need to get out now!!"

"Affirmative, Signior. Riticci?"

"He won't be returning with us! Home in on my signal, there's not much time!"

I make my way onto Utharri Septumus' surface and thank the Emerald Sun when I see the shuttle landing before me. The ground shakes and cracks begin to spiderweb across the surface of the world as my feet leave the alien soil and board the shuttle.

Narrix takes me out of orbit successfully. We stop and watch as the entire planet crumbles into dust, falling inward and disappearing into a glowing orb of amethyst light. It flashes white for a moment before suddenly disappearing. It's like a blink. The catastrophic scene of a collapsing planet is there one second, and suddenly it's not.

I sigh, relieved and tired.

"Signior? What happened?! That was an entire planet that just collapses. The gravitational reading coming from where it was are... are unreadable! What happened? Where's Riticci?"

"I suspect Michaelo wouldn't want me to explain," I say.

Narrix is in awe, confused. My answer doesn't satisfy him, but at the end of the day he know he cannot question my authority as Alti Signori.

I place my hand on his shoulder.

"Sometimes the burden of knowing things is painful and cumbersome," I tell Narrix. "Consider me doing you a favour by witholding what happened here today."

He nods solemnly and begins to redirect the shuttle.

"Back home then, Signior?"

"Indeed, Narrix. I've got some cleaning to do."