The hall on Ganymede was a bubble of gold light and recycled air that smelled of expensive, unfamiliar perfume. Polished floors of black marble reflected the hushed movements of the system’s wealthiest predators, their minds a clean, sharp static in the Resonance Field. It was a different kind of noise than the chaotic scream of the Ceres Down-Spiral, a curated hum of ambition and predatory calm. Kaelen moved along the edge of the crowd, his worn jacket a patch of gray against the dark, tailored fabrics of the other bidders. His goal was a single object in this sea of opulence: an antique pocket watch, the third anchor for the ghost of Aris Volkov.
Walter Bell moved beside him, a silent column of black composite and scarred metal. The raven Uplift’s amber optic swept the room, processing threats with a cold logic Kaelen could only guess at. The Ghost-Eater Shunt at the base of Kaelen’s neck was a low, insistent thrum, filtering the psychic pressure of the room into a manageable, if unnerving, clarity. He felt seen, judged not by his past but by the thinness of his credit balance.
His old training, the part of him that was once a corporate Empath for Yama-Mitsui Solutions, surfaced like a reflex. He scanned the crowd not for faces, but for patterns. For the subtle tells of operatives trying to look like they belonged. He found them near the main archway. Three of them. They stood too still, their attention focused not on the auction stage but on the flow of people. Their suits were perfect, their psychic signatures shielded but not absent, a trio of quiet voids in the shimmering field. Julian Valerius’s agents. The mission was contested.
Kaelen did the math again, a nervous habit. They had pooled everything. The sale of salvaged parts from the heist, the last of Zaina’s discretionary funds. It came to just over 15,000 credits. The pre-auction estimates for the watch, a relic from a Ganymede private collection, hovered around 12,000. It was enough, but only just. The price of failure was not just losing the fragment; it was being stranded here, broke and hunted, in the most expensive corner of the system.
An auctioneer, a tall woman in a shimmering silver gown, took the stage. Her voice, amplified and smooth, filled the hall.
— And now, lot seventy-three, — she announced. — A pre-Exodus timepiece, silver casing, from a private collection. A remarkable piece of history.
A high-fidelity hologram of the pocket watch materialized above the stage, rotating slowly. It was ornate, its silver surface chased with intricate patterns. The glass of its face was cracked, the hands frozen. It was the third fragment. Kaelen felt a faint, sympathetic resonance from the quiet presence of Volkov in his mind.
— We will open the bidding at five thousand credits.
The bidding began with a flurry of subtle gestures and quiet confirmations from datapads. The number climbed quickly, a silent, vicious battle fought with invisible money. Kaelen kept his hand steady, waiting for the initial frenzy to pass. The price hit seven thousand five hundred and stalled. This was his moment.
— Eight thousand, — Kaelen said, his voice flat, catching the eye of a nearby auction drone.
His bid registered on the main board. A moment of silence. He felt the gaze of the room, the cold assessment of the other players. Then, from across the hall, one of Julian’s agents lifted a single finger.
— Ten thousand, — the auctioneer’s voice announced, a note of satisfaction in her tone.
The jump was aggressive, designed to signal overwhelming force, to scare off smaller players. It was a corporate tactic, brutal and efficient. Kaelen felt a phantom itch at the scar tissue around his shunt. He looked at Walter. The raven Uplift stood motionless, his amber optic fixed on the agent who had made the bid. The price was now a significant portion of their total funds. To continue was to risk everything on this single throw.
Walter’s head tilted a fraction of a degree. His synthesized voice was a low, private whisper, meant only for Kaelen.
— The price is a secondary concern. Acquisition is primary.
It was not a suggestion. It was a restatement of the mission, a clarification of the new protocol they operated under. The only goal was the fragment.
— Twelve thousand, — Kaelen said, his voice steady.
The agent countered instantly.
— Thirteen.
— Fourteen, — Kaelen shot back, not giving him a moment.
The hall was quiet now, the other bidders merely spectators to the duel. The agent across the room hesitated, his eyes flicking to his two comrades. He was consulting his superiors, running up against the limit of his authorized spending. The hesitation was all Kaelen needed.
— Fourteen thousand, five hundred, — Kaelen said, pushing almost all their remaining credits onto the table.
The agent’s face was a mask of frustration. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible shake of his head. He was out.
— Fourteen thousand, five hundred, — the auctioneer called out, her voice ringing with theatrical suspense. — Sold. To the bidder in gray.
The hologram of the watch vanished. The low murmur of the crowd resumed. Kaelen felt a wave of cold relief, followed immediately by the sharp, metallic taste of adrenaline. They had the fragment. And they had five hundred credits left. They were a breath away from broke.
He moved toward a side alcove where a silent, white-gloved attendant was waiting with the watch in a shielded case. As he walked, he saw the three agents turn from the stage. They were not leaving. They were repositioning, their movements calm and coordinated. One moved toward the main exit. The other two began to drift through the crowd, their paths converging on his location. The auction was over. The hunt was beginning.
Walter’s voice was a clipped whisper in his ear, a stream of pure Yama-Mitsui corporate dialect.
— Threat vectors converging. Containment pattern. Two minutes to lockdown.
Kaelen took the case from the attendant. The pocket watch was cold and heavy inside, a solid piece of a dead man’s life. He turned, scanning the room. The agents were closer now, less than thirty meters away. The exits seemed a kilometer distant.
— I am initiating diversion protocol, — Walter stated.
The raven Uplift’s amber optic flared, a sudden point of intense light. The air in the hall grew thick, the psychic hum of the crowd suddenly warping into a discordant shriek. Walter was preparing to dump a stream of raw, chaotic data into the local Resonance Field. A psychic flashbang.
Kaelen clutched the case containing the watch, bracing himself for the noise. They had the third fragment, but Julian's agents were closing in and they must escape the locked-down auction house.
