The holographic display flickered, casting the cramped cockpit of the Stray Dog in the sterile blue light of corporate propaganda. Zaina Petrova, captain of the scout-cutter, stood with her arms crossed, the scar through her left eyebrow a pale line in the shifting glow. The ship’s drive was silent, its systems running on low power, a ghost clinging to the dark side of a nameless asteroid. Walter Bell’s amber optic processed the image: a Yama-Mitsui Solutions envoy, his face a mask of placid authority, speaking from a studio of perfect white.
— These rogue elements, operating under the guise of salvage, represent a fundamental threat to systemic stability, — the envoy’s voice was smooth as polished chrome. — Their actions are not those of individuals, but of systemic terrorism.
Walter processed the term. Terrorism. A word designed to erase nuance, to flatten a complex equation into a simple binary of order versus chaos. It was an efficient, if predictable, application of memetic warfare. He cross-referenced the broadcast’s origin tag. It was being piped directly from the Consensus Directorate, the faction's governing body, across all public channels in the inner system.
— They’re painting you as monsters, — Zaina’s voice was low, rough around the edges like frayed wire. She killed the display, plunging the cockpit back into the dim red of its emergency lighting. — And it’s working. I just got word from my last contact on Ganymede. Dock access across the entire inner system is being restricted. Patrols are up two hundred percent.
She turned from the console, her silhouette framed against the starfield visible through the viewport. The faint, bitter aroma of old coffee hung in the recycled air, a scent Walter’s processors cataloged as a marker of human anxiety.
— The net’s closing, — she stated, her tone leaving no room for debate. — Whatever you’re doing, finish it. I can’t hide you forever. My ship is damaged, my contacts are ghosts, and my luck is running thin.
Walter remained motionless, a statue of black composite and wiring. He analyzed the tactical situation. Zaina’s assessment was accurate. Their freedom of movement was severely curtailed. The probability of reaching the outer belt without interception was now less than 17%. The logical course of action, according to Keeper protocol, would be to find a secure location, archive the existing Volkov fragments, and await Synod instruction.
But the Synod was a compromised variable. Their inaction was a function of fear, a political calculus that prioritized the illusion of peace over the preservation of truth. He observed Kaelen, who sat at a small fold-down table, the four recovered memory fragments laid out before him. The man’s focus was absolute, his fingers tracing the edges of the Ganymede pocket watch. The Ghost-Eater Shunt at the base of his neck, a piece of crude, unsanctioned tech, was a quiet node of immense potential. Walter had seen it channel Kaelen’s strange empathic gift into a tool for engineering, a novel function that defied all known specifications for such devices.
The actions of Yama-Mitsui were disproportionate. A full fleet blockade, a system-wide propaganda campaign—this was not the response for containing two rogue agents. It was the response for containing a contagion. A truth so potent it threatened the integrity of the Consensus itself. The equation in his own logic matrix began to shift, the variables realigning around a new, unavoidable conclusion.
— Preserving the Volkov data now aligns with maintaining the balance, — Walter stated. His synthesized voice cut through the low hum of the life support system. It was a declaration. A re-contextualization of his entire mission.
Zaina looked at him, a flicker of surprise in her eyes. Kaelen didn’t look up from the fragments, but his shoulders tensed. Walter had moved from archivist to active participant. His amber optic glowed a little brighter, its focus no longer just analytical, but sharp with purpose.
Kaelen pushed the fragments together, his movements slow and deliberate. The cracked Mnemonic Spool from the junker’s stall. The jade carving from Rexer. The Ganymede pocket watch. The Europa lab keycard. Four pieces of a dead man’s soul. He closed his eyes, his own damaged shunt interfacing with the faint psychic resonance of the objects. Walter could not perceive the data itself, but he could see the effect on Kaelen: the slight tremor in his hands, the shallow intake of breath.
For several minutes, the only sound was the quiet hum of the ship. Then Kaelen’s eyes opened. They were focused, clear.
— It’s not a place, — he said, his voice a low rasp. — It’s a thing. A data-wafer. The central fragment, the one that connects all the others.
He looked up, his gaze meeting Walter’s.
— It’s in an automated data-archive. On Phobos.
Mars. The heart of the Consensus. The tightest point in the net Yama-Mitsui was drawing around them. Zaina let out a short, humorless laugh.
— Of course it is, — she said, turning back to the star-dusted viewport. — Right into the fire.
Walter processed the new information. The risk was critical. The probability of success was low. But the logic was now undeniable. The greatest threat to the system’s balance was not Kaelen, but the lie Yama-Mitsui was trying to protect. To restore balance, the lie had to be exposed.
The ship was quiet, a tiny pocket of defiance in the vast, cold dark. The hunt was no longer about a ghost. It was about the integrity of the entire system.
And they were the only ones who could see it through.
