Chapter 3: Don't Look Too Close

A Minor Job, a Major Gut Feeling

The designation was all it had: CL-9A. A mining platform clinging precariously to a dying rock, orbiting a sun long forgotten. The air hung thick and still, a gritty mix of pulverized ore, recycled air, and that sickly sweet, almost cloying scent of hydroponics desperately clinging to life in a bay that hadn't seen proper maintenance in decades. The platform itself felt tired, the low hum of its main power grid barely audible above the high-pitched whine of overworked mining drills and the crackle of static from broken comm lines. A harsh sun beat down on the cracked concrete, turning the air into a shimmering haze. The overall impression was one of stark, desperate survival, a thin veneer of functionality masking a deeper decay. The guards, stationed at irregular intervals, moved with a nervous energy, their stunners gleaming too brightly against the faded, dusty concrete. Their faces were impassive, but their eyes held a restless tension, darting from worker to worker, as if anticipating a sudden outbreak of violence. The atmosphere was thick with unspoken fear, a palpable tension that hung heavy in the air like the dust that coated everything. This wasn't just a mining operation; it was a prison. A faint tremor ran through the ground beneath my boots—a subtle but unsettling vibration that seemed to mirror the unease churning within me. The dust swirled around my ankles, gritty and abrasive, clinging to my clothes like a shroud.

We docked hard. The rhythmic shudder of the Indira's engines as the clamps engaged was a counterpoint to the platform's wheezing power grid. Jaime muttered something under his breath about alignment thrusters, his usual sarcasm lacking its usual edge. The whole ship groaned in protest, a sound that mirrored the platform's obvious state of disrepair. Vos's curt orders followed: "Unload the crates. No questions. No contact. We've got thirty-two crates to drop and zero margin for complications. I want this done in under an hour." His gaze swept over the crew, lingering for a fraction of a second on me before moving on. The subtle tightening of his hand around his stunner was a palpable warning. His voice, usually laced with cynical amusement, was flat and devoid of warmth, each word clipped and precise, like a surgeon preparing for a difficult procedure. The faint scent of ozone, usually a clean scent, hung heavier here, a premonition of the storm brewing.

I nodded, even though every part of me chafed at the implied restriction. The moment the ramp dropped, the heat hit like a punch to the gut. I flinched, pulling my gloves tighter, the heat shimmering off the concrete like a mirage. The dust swirled around my boots, gritty and abrasive, clinging to my clothes like a shroud. My pulse quickened—not from exertion, but from unease. A cold knot tightened in my stomach. Something didn't feel right.

Before focusing on the specific individuals, I took a moment to register the wider scene. The settlement itself was a desperate half-ring of prefabs clinging to the side of a crater, their paint faded and peeling, their windows dark and lifeless, like empty eye sockets staring out at a desolate world. A sagging comms tower stood sentinel, its rusted metal a testament to years of neglect and decay, its paint peeling like sunburnt skin. A lone, skeletal structure of what might have once been a wind turbine lay half-buried in the sand, its rusted blades like the skeletal fingers of some forgotten god, a silent monument to failed dreams. A battered, plastic spaceship lay half-buried in the dust near the base of the tower, a stark, ironic juxtaposition to our arrival. Its paint was chipped, one wing was broken—a miniature reflection of our own fragile hope. The rhythmic whirring of Mik's loader drone, already spooling up, felt like a relentless pulse against the oppressive stillness. The air hung heavy with the smell of pulverized ore, ozone, and something else—something subtly floral, almost sickeningly sweet, that I couldn't quite place.

Beyond the immediate surroundings, the landscape stretched out—an endless expanse of cracked concrete and rust-colored dust, punctuated by the occasional skeletal remains of abandoned machinery. The silence was broken only by the rhythmic whirring of Mik's loader drone, its motors a relentless pulse against the oppressive stillness. It was a landscape devoid of life, a harsh, unforgiving environment that mirrored the desperation of the inhabitants. My chest tightened, a physical manifestation of the growing unease. I could feel the weight of my past pressing down on me, the memories of Midreach, Lena, and the kids a heavy cloak against the harsh sun. This is what I ran from, I thought grimly. And yet... here I am. The rhythmic whirring of the loader drone seemed to intensify, growing more urgent, more insistent, a constant reminder that we were running out of time.

And then I saw them. A woman, maybe late thirties, in a patched flight vest, shielding a child with her body. The kid was thin, limbs sharp with hunger, mouth slack with the kind of bone-deep fatigue that didn't come from sleep deprivation, but from years of living without safety. His small hand clutched a piece of broken metal—a scrap from some discarded machinery. They weren't part of the receiving team. They weren't meant to be seen. But I saw them. And they saw me. The woman's eyes, when they met mine, held a flash of something desperate, yet also strangely defiant—a silent plea for help masked by a carefully constructed wall of weariness. The child's gaze, wide and hollow-eyed, seemed to pierce through the haze of dust and heat, a silent accusation that settled heavy in my chest. My pulse quickened, a frantic rhythm against the steady whirring of the drone. The faint, sickly sweet scent seemed to intensify, clinging to the back of my throat, making me feel nauseous. This wasn't just a delivery; it was a scene. And I was a part of it. Whether I wanted to be or not. My gut twisted—a cold knot of dread tightening in my stomach. The rhythmic whirring of Mik's loader drone seemed to intensify, highlighting the fragility of our position and the uneasy balance of power between us. I knew, with a certainty that went beyond simple observation, that something was deeply, fundamentally wrong here.

* * *

You're Not Paid to Ask

Back on the Indira, the recycled air tasted faintly metallic, a familiar tang clinging to the back of my throat. The rhythmic hum of the engines vibrated through the floorplates, a constant, almost physical presence in the quiet of the engine room. Mik was still grumbling about his work schedule, meticulously cleaning a wrench with that almost obsessive precision. The usual sarcastic barbs were absent, replaced by an uneasy, almost desperate, stillness. The flickering fluorescent lights cast long shadows, amplifying the tension, and the low thrum of the engines pulsed in my ears. The faint scent of burnt coolant, a ghost of the near-catastrophe, still lingered in the air. A wave of nausea washed over me – the familiar ache in my abdomen pulsed. I ignored it. This wasn't a spa day.

The manifests were a mess—incomplete, redacted, deliberately falsified. The discrepancies were too significant to ignore. This wasn't about a simple oversight; someone had gone to a lot of trouble to hide something. My gut twisted—a cold knot of dread tightening in my stomach. This wasn't just about profit; it was about something far more sinister. Anger simmered beneath the surface; frustration gnawed at the edges of my resolve. But fear—a deep, chilling fear born of past betrayals and the lingering weight of loss—kept me rooted to the spot. I couldn't afford to unravel, not yet. I needed more data before exposing myself.

I didn't confront Mik directly. Instead, I observed his behavior during the unloading. He didn't verify the cargo, didn't even glance at the manifests while the loaders moved crates. The casual disregard fueled my suspicions—he knew. Or he was being deliberately blind. His usual gruff demeanor was replaced by an almost manic energy, his movements jerky and imprecise, his gaze darting nervously around the room. He muttered to himself, his words barely audible above the hum of the engines, his usual sarcastic barbs absent, replaced by a low, almost frantic muttering. He kept glancing at the access panel to the hidden compartment I had discovered—a subtle shift in his behavior that I couldn't ignore.

I accessed the ship's mainframe using my portable decryption unit, a modified ISAC console I'd salvaged from a decommissioned research vessel—I didn't trust the ship's systems for this. The encryption was robust—layered, professional, and unlike anything I'd encountered before; definitely not standard-issue corporate coding. This was bespoke, likely created by someone who understood both security and plausible deniability. I initiated a decryption sequence, my fingers flying across the keyboard, each keystroke a gamble against the ticking clock. The rhythmic click of the keys was a counterpoint to the low hum of the ship, creating a tense rhythm in the small room. The air grew thick with the smell of ozone and something else, something acrid and bitter, like burnt plastic and regret. The familiar ache in my abdomen pulsed. I pushed it aside.

The first few attempts failed. The screen flashed error messages: "Invalid key," "Corrupted data," "Decryption failed." My frustration mounted, but I pressed on, switching algorithms, adjusting parameters, my mind racing to find a way through the labyrinthine code. I noticed a strange pattern in the corrupted data—repeated sequences of seemingly random numbers that were, in fact, a carefully constructed red herring, designed to throw off any casual observer. I recognized the pattern. It was an old military technique—designed to obscure the true data by burying it under seemingly random noise. This wasn't an accident. This was deliberate obfuscation.

Then, a breakthrough. A flicker of success. The screen flickered, and a cascade of data unfurled—five shipping manifests, each labeled with humanitarian supply routing tags. But something felt deeply wrong. A cold dread settled over me. Each manifest listed legitimate humanitarian aid, meticulously detailed and correctly formatted. However, cross-referencing the numerical IDs with the ship's logs revealed a chilling truth. None of the manifests matched the colony destinations. The shipments had been rerouted, on paper, to holding stations that didn't exist, then reassigned to private buyers under multiple corporate shells. The trail was carefully constructed to evade detection. The scent of ozone intensified, mingling with the sickly sweet smell of burnt polymers. My pulse quickened. This wasn't simple theft; it was a calculated, systemic abuse. And I was in the middle of it.

I found evidence of a bribe paid to a customs officer on Midreach. A name I recognized, a face I hadn't seen in years, but instantly recalled—someone I'd worked with at the drydock. The betrayal hit me like a physical blow—a wave of nausea rolled over me, not from the data, but from the stark reality of what I'd just uncovered. The cold dread of my past, the numbness I'd felt after losing Lena and the children, returned tenfold. This wasn't about broken machines. This was about broken people.

I found a deeper layer of encryption—a hidden metadata stream embedded within the manifest files. This required a different algorithm entirely, one I hadn't anticipated needing. My fingers blurred across the keyboard, the rhythmic clicking a frantic counterpoint to the low hum of the ship. The unit strained, the fans whirring louder, but I pressed on.

The hidden message revealed a second level of the conspiracy: a network of private military corporations manipulating the supply chain to destabilize planetary governments and create a black market for weapons-grade materials. The rerouted aid wasn't just theft; it was a calculated act of war. The image of the boy from CL-9C flashed in my mind—his thin, frail body, his hollow eyes, and the desperate hope in his gaze. A fresh wave of nausea hit me—the data was cold, but the implications were visceral. I almost stumbled back from the screen, the weight of what I'd discovered too heavy to bear. The rhythmic hum of the ship's engines vibrated through the floor, a constant, almost physical reminder of our precarious existence.

I stumbled out of the terminal, almost collapsing, seeking fresh air. Mik was waiting.

"Find anything?" he asked, his voice tight, laced with a mixture of suspicion and something else—a hint of anxiety or concern I couldn't quite place. His usual sarcasm was gone, replaced by a quiet seriousness that underscored the gravity of the situation. He looked older, wearier, more vulnerable than I'd ever seen him.

"More than I wanted," I said, my voice trembling slightly. "It's not just smuggling, Mik. This is something far worse."

He frowned, his sharp eyes narrowing. "What do you mean?"

I didn't answer directly. Instead, I described the patterns I'd seen in the data, the falsified manifests, the corporate shells. He listened, his expression unreadable, but his initial dismissiveness was gone. Replaced by something more akin to dawning comprehension. He muttered something about "corporate bastards."

Just then, Tala appeared, her presence a quiet anchor in the storm raging inside me. The faint scent of lavender seemed to intensify, a calming counterpoint to the acrid smell of burnt polymers. Her gaze swept over me, assessing my state, her eyes holding a depth of understanding.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," she said gently. Her quiet observation, her unspoken support, was a lifeline in the rising tide of unease.

"Worse," I replied. "Much worse."

She didn't press. Just said, "I'll be here when you're ready to talk." Her quiet strength, her unshakeable support, was a comfort in the growing storm.

The rhythmic hum of the engines vibrated through the floorplates, a constant reminder of our precarious existence. But now, that hum felt less threatening, less menacing. It felt like a heartbeat. And for the first time in a long time, I wasn't alone.

* * *

Off-Record Inquiry

The decryption unit felt hot against my fingertips, the fans whirring like frantic insects. The sterile scent of ozone battled with the lingering metallic tang of the engine room – a sharp, acrid smell that clawed at the back of my throat. Sweat slicked my palms; my fingers ached. This wasn't just data; it was a puzzle box with a ticking clock.

The encryption was complex—layered, professional, and unlike anything I'd encountered before. It wasn't the clumsy, predictable coding of a corporate system. This was something bespoke—something custom-built, likely for someone who understood the need for both security and plausible deniability. My initial scans suggested a layered encryption protocol, starting with a standard AES-256 cipher, but the key length was unusual—longer than standard issue, suggesting multiple nested keys or a complex key derivation function. The data stream itself seemed deliberately fragmented, with numerous checksum errors and seemingly random data blocks interspersed throughout the payload. It was clear this wasn't just a simple encryption; it was a trap, designed to waste time and resources. My fingers flew across the keyboard, trying different decryption algorithms, each attempt a gamble against the ticking clock. Each failure brought a jolt of frustration, and a renewed surge of adrenaline. This wasn't just a technical challenge; it was a race against time.

The first few attempts failed. The screen flashed error messages: "Invalid key," "Corrupted data," "Decryption failed." My frustration mounted, but I pressed on, switching algorithms, adjusting parameters, my mind racing to find a way through the labyrinthine code. I tried brute-force methods, but the key length was too extensive for that approach. I switched to a known plaintext attack, using fragments of the humanitarian supply routing tags I'd already deciphered, but that led to dead ends. The repeated sequences of seemingly random numbers were actually a carefully constructed red herring, designed to throw off any casual observer. I recognized the pattern—a military-grade obfuscation technique I'd learned about during my time at Midreach Station, a technique designed to obscure the true data by burying it under seemingly random noise. It was deliberate, and it was sophisticated.

Then, a breakthrough. A flicker of success. I discovered a subtle pattern in the corrupted data—a repeating sequence of seemingly random numbers that were, in fact, part of a secondary encryption key embedded within the main stream. It was almost a watermark, cleverly hidden using a frequency analysis technique. I used this key in a secondary decryption attempt, utilizing a modified RSA algorithm. The screen flickered again, showing the data stream partially unfurling—five shipping manifests, each labeled with humanitarian supply routing tags. But something felt deeply wrong. A cold dread settled over me.

Each manifest listed legitimate humanitarian aid, meticulously detailed and correctly formatted. However, cross-referencing the numerical IDs with the ship's logs revealed a chilling truth. None of the manifests matched the colony destinations. The shipments had been rerouted, on paper, to holding stations that didn't exist, then reassigned to private buyers under multiple corporate shells. The trail was carefully constructed to evade detection. The scent of ozone intensified, mingling with the sickly sweet smell of burnt polymers. My pulse quickened. This wasn't simple theft; it was a calculated, systemic abuse. And I was in the middle of it.

I found evidence of a bribe paid to a customs officer on Midreach. A name I recognized, a face I hadn't seen in years, but instantly recalled—someone I'd worked with at the drydock. The betrayal hit me like a physical blow—a wave of nausea rolled over me, not from the data, but from the stark reality of what I'd just uncovered. The cold dread of my past, the numbness I'd felt after losing Lena and the children, returned tenfold. This wasn't about broken machines. This was about broken people.

I found a deeper layer of encryption—a hidden metadata stream embedded within the manifest files. This required a different algorithm entirely, one I hadn't anticipated needing. My fingers blurred across the keyboard, the rhythmic clicking a frantic counterpoint to the low hum of the ship. The unit strained, the fans whirring louder, but I pressed on. My head throbbed; my vision blurred. My hands trembled, the cold metal of the decryption unit a stark contrast to the heat rising in my chest. The rhythmic pulse of my own blood hammered in my ears, a frantic counterpoint to the whirring fans and the low hum of the ship. The sickly sweet smell intensified, almost nauseating. A memory flashed—Lena's hand on my arm, the worry in her eyes as I told her about my transition. The fear in the boy's eyes at CL-9C. I pushed it away. This wasn't about my past. This was about justice.

The hidden message revealed a second level of the conspiracy: a network of private military corporations manipulating the supply chain to destabilize planetary governments and create a black market for weapons-grade materials. The rerouted aid wasn't just theft; it was a calculated act of war. The image of the boy's face—thin, hollow-eyed, clutching a piece of broken metal—flashed through my mind. A fresh wave of nausea hit me—the data was cold, but the implications were visceral. I almost stumbled back from the screen, the weight of what I'd discovered too heavy to bear. The rhythmic hum of the ship's engines vibrated through the floor, a constant, almost physical reminder of our precarious existence. A sudden power fluctuation—a brief flicker in the lights—sent a jolt through me, a stark reminder of how fragile our situation was. A low, almost imperceptible tremor ran through the floorplates, a subtle dissonance that mirrored the unease churning within me.

I stumbled back from the console, the holographic display fading, the intricate network of nodes dissolving into the dim light. My jaw ached. The rhythmic whirring of the cooling fans felt louder now, more insistent—a relentless drumbeat against the silence. The weight of what I'd uncovered settled on my shoulders, heavy and suffocating, a stark contrast to the cool metal of the datapad in my hands. The sickly sweet smell intensified again—a cloying sweetness that clung to the back of my throat. I knew this wasn't just about uncovering a conspiracy anymore. This was about stopping it. And I would.

* * *

Lines in the Sand

The confrontation with Vos didn't happen in the galley, or the engine room. It happened later, in his quarters—a surprisingly neat space, a stark contrast to the chaotic jumble of the engine room. A single, dim lamp cast long shadows across the walls, highlighting the worn leather of his captain's chair and the faint scratches on the polished metal desk. A half-empty glass of something amber and viscous sat on the desk, the liquid swirling slowly, like a miniature galaxy. The air smelled faintly of stale coffee and ozone, a familiar scent that usually felt comforting, but tonight, it felt heavy, almost suffocating. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor ran through the floor—a subtle dissonance against the steady hum of the engines. The faint scent of pipe tobacco hung in the air, a sharp, masculine counterpoint to the usual recycled air of the ship. A worn photograph, tucked into a corner of the desk, showed a younger Vos, smiling, standing beside a sleek, fast ship. It was a ghost of a past life, a life before the Indira and before the choices he'd made.

He was hunched over his datapad, his expression unreadable. The only sound was the low hum of the ship's engines—a constant, almost physical presence in the quiet. I laid the decrypted data on his desk—the rerouted manifests, the corporate shell companies, the hidden transfers, carefully organized to expose the trail. I let the numbers speak for themselves.

He didn't look up immediately. He took his time. He studied the data, his fingers drumming a nervous rhythm against the armrest of his chair. The silence stretched, taut and heavy, the only sound the rhythmic whirring of a cooling fan—a relentless pulse against the stillness. His posture was rigid, his shoulders hunched, his jaw clenched—a mask of controlled fury barely concealing the turmoil beneath. His eyes, when they finally met mine, were like steel—cold, assessing, and acutely aware. He shifted his weight slightly, a subtle movement that spoke volumes about his controlled anger. He ran a hand over his stubbled jaw, a nervous tic I hadn't noticed before, betraying a flicker of unease beneath his controlled facade. The flickering lamp cast his features in sharp relief, accentuating the lines etched around his eyes—a roadmap of weariness and unspoken burdens. His knuckles were white where his fingers gripped his arms.

"You think I didn't know?" he said finally, his voice low, devoid of any emotion. He didn't look at me. He was already too deep in his own storm.

"You knew," I stated, my voice controlled, unwavering. "And you let it happen." The words hung in the air, sharp and pointed. My hands, still trembling from the data analysis, were clenched tight at my sides. The pressure in my lower abdomen pulsed again—dilation. I ignored it.

He finally looked up, his gaze intense, piercing through me. "And what do you suggest we do? Take a stand? Let them find a crew who won't ask questions?" His voice was rough, edged with a weariness that went beyond simple fatigue. It was the weariness of someone who'd carried too much for too long, someone who'd made compromises they'd have to live with for the rest of their life. He looked away, toward the photograph on his desk, his eyes softening for a moment before hardening again. The faint tremor in his hand intensified, a subtle sign of his underlying anxiety.

I didn't flinch. I didn't offer solutions. I laid out the consequences – the boy, the stolen aid, the potential for wider conflict. I let the weight of the numbers, and the human cost of his choices, hang heavy in the air. I described the hidden metadata, the second layer of encryption, the AI. He listened. His silence became less defensive, more contemplative.

He set the glass down, the ice clinking softly in the silence. "This is a different kind of war, Jacobs," he said, his voice rougher now, the weariness replaced by a raw desperation. "A war fought with silence, debts, and broken promises. I'm fighting to keep us afloat. Sometimes, you have to choose between being right and being alive." He looked at me, his eyes revealing a sliver of vulnerability I hadn't seen before. "You think this is easy?" A faint tremor ran through the floor, a subtle warning.

I didn't answer. I couldn't. I knew the risks he was talking about. I'd lived them, too.

"You're different, Jacobs," he said, his voice low. "Reckless. But... different." He looked away, and for a moment, I saw not the captain of the Indira, but a tired, desperate man. A man who'd been making the same hard choices I was now facing. The photograph of his younger self seemed to glow faintly in the dim light, a ghost of a life he'd lost.

I simply said, "Not yet, Captain. But I'm working on it," and left him to his ghosts. The rhythmic hum of the engines seemed to deepen as I left his quarters, a constant, almost physical reminder of our precarious existence. The faint tremor in the floor had intensified, a subtle warning against the stillness.

* * *

Beneath the Surface

The rhythmic thump of the Indira's engines vibrated through the floorplates, a constant, almost physical presence in the quiet of my cramped quarters. The recycled air tasted faintly of ozone and something subtly metallic, a familiar tang clinging to the back of my throat. My hands, still trembling slightly from the intensity of the data analysis, rested on the cool metal of my toolbox; the familiar weight strangely comforting against the rising unease churning within me. The faint scent of burnt coolant, a ghost of the near-catastrophe, still lingered in the air, mixing with the smell of old grease and oil from the machinery. The faint whirring of a cooling fan in the corner of the room felt like a relentless drumbeat against the silence, highlighting the fragility of our situation. A dull ache pulsed in my lower abdomen—dilation. I ignored it.

I reviewed the data one last time—the illicit cargo, Vossan's name, the hidden passenger. Everything pointed towards a deliberate scheme—not incompetence, not simple smuggling, but intentional human trafficking. The memory of the boy's face, thin and haunted, flashed through my mind, a stark counterpoint to the sterile glow of the datapad screen. The rhythmic hum of the engines seemed to pulse with a deeper, more insistent rhythm, mirroring the frantic hammering of my own heartbeat.

The anger that had simmered beneath the surface now rose—not a slow burn, but a sudden, hot surge. This wasn't just about shady work. It was about a child. About deliberate malice. About systemic cruelty. The dust-choked air of the mining colony, the desperate faces of the colonists, and the boy himself, crouched in the shadows, watching everything—the fear in his eyes, the desperate hunger, the almost unnerving intelligence in his gaze—all flashed before me. The weight of that memory settled on my shoulders, heavy and suffocating. A wave of nausea washed over me, not from the data itself, but from the cold certainty of what I'd discovered and the weight of what it demanded.

I can't let this go, I thought, the words a cold fist in my chest. Not this time. The memory of Lena's voice, soft and worried, echoed in my ears: "You can't fix everything, love. Just your part of it." But what if my part of it was bigger than I thought? What if letting this go meant letting someone else suffer? The ache in my abdomen pulsed again—a sharp, insistent reminder of my own mortality, my own vulnerability. They don't get a second chance, I thought grimly, my gaze fixed on the data chip in my hand. Neither do I.

I initiated a new, encrypted log entry. No flowery prose. No apologies. Just facts. Precise timestamps. Specific sensor readings. Exact thermal profiles from the engine room vents, all carefully formatted and cross-referenced. This wasn't evidence yet. Not exactly. It was a promise. A record. For if something went wrong.

The encryption was layered—my private key, several false flags to throw off anyone who might try to intercept it, and an additional nested key sequence—a complex algorithm I'd developed myself—creating a file that would be virtually impossible to break without the correct parameters. I chose a specific location within the core archive—a redundant data node rarely accessed, known only to me. The rhythmic click of keys felt like a heartbeat against the silence. I used a modified AES-256 cipher with a 512-bit key, layered with a custom-designed hash function to ensure data integrity. This wasn't just standard encryption; it was a fortress built to withstand the scrutiny of someone far more skilled than Mik.

The weight of the decision settled on me then—the knowledge of what I was doing, the potential consequences, the sheer audacity of defying Vos and potentially endangering everyone on board. But the image of the boy's face—thin, hollow-eyed, clutching a piece of broken metal—kept me grounded. He wasn't just a passenger. He was a victim. And I wouldn't let him be forgotten. I wouldn't let him disappear again, like Lena and the children. This wasn't about saving the world. This was about saving one life. And then maybe another. The faint whirring of a cooling fan in the corner of the room felt like a relentless drumbeat against the silence.

I felt a cold sweat slick my palms as I reached the most damning section: the details of how Vossan's network was exploiting humanitarian relief to traffic children. The weight of this knowledge was heavier than any engine I'd ever lifted. Was I betraying Vos by documenting this? Was I creating a weapon that could destroy us all? Or was this the only way to stop it? The flickering fluorescent light cast long, distorted shadows that seemed to writhe with the ship's subtle tremor, creating an unsettling atmosphere. The rhythmic whirring of a cooling fan in the corner of the room felt like a relentless drumbeat against the silence, highlighting the fragility of our situation. The faint scent of ozone intensified, mingling with the metallic tang of the recycled air, creating a visceral sense of the ship's age and precariousness—a mirror of my own state. The rhythmic hum of the engines pulsed in my ears, growing more insistent, mirroring the frantic rhythm of my own heartbeat. The pressure in my lower abdomen pulsed again—dilation. I ignored it. This was more important.

I paused, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. The memory of Lena's voice, her gentle hand on my cheek, her eyes filled with a love that couldn't quite understand what I needed, flashed through my mind. Then the fear in the boy's eyes at CL-9C, and then the silent grief on Tala's face after the close call. They were all here. In the code. In my hands. The weight of that realization settled on my shoulders, heavier than any engine I'd ever lifted. The digital clock blinked again, reminding me that time was running out. A sudden power fluctuation—a brief flicker in the lights—sent a jolt through me, a stark reminder of how fragile our situation was. A low, almost imperceptible tremor ran through the floorplates, a subtle dissonance that mirrored the unease churning within me.

I closed my eyes, taking a deep, steadying breath. I wouldn't let them down. Not again. I wouldn't let the boy down. Not Lena. Not Maya. Not Eli. This wasn't about saving the world. It was about saving one life. And then maybe another. I opened my eyes, the digital clock blinking once more. I added a hidden metadata stream—a timestamped backup of the entire file, encrypted using a separate, even more complex algorithm. It was a failsafe, a last resort. And perhaps, a signal. If I didn't make it out of this, someone else would find this. Someone who would care.

I finished the entry, sealed the archive, and keyed in the trigger phrase: DETONATE ONLY IF NECESSARY. The words hung in the air, a stark contrast to the quiet hum of the ship. It wasn't a threat. It was a prayer. A plea to a future self not to forget why I did this. The terminal blinked once and went dark.

A faint warning chirp—almost imperceptible—soundedfrom a distant system monitor. I ignored it. No dramatic music. No alarms. Justme. Breathing. The hum of the engine steady beneath my feet. I touched the cool metal of the console,feeling grounded in the present moment, and said, "I'm not done yet."

© 2025 by Grace Ann Hansen