Wrapped in a mist of shifting hues—sometimes bluish, sometimes golden—the ship drifted silently through hyperspace, carried by an ocean of energized particles. Far from chaotic, this cosmic ballet possessed an almost unreal gentleness, a stark contrast to the turmoil raging within Kiran’s soul.

  Inside the vessel, a dim half-light reigned, the result of rest mode he had activated himself. It wasn’t only meant to conserve the ship’s dwindling energy—it also created an artificial calm, an illusion of peace. The alarms had been silenced, sparing the crew the constant reminder of damage and danger. Yet this borrowed serenity failed to ease the tension still weighing heavily on their shoulders. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind a dull exhaustion, a hollow pressure in their chests.

  They had survived.

  They had escaped.

  But the quiet of interstellar travel was only a reprieve—a suspended heartbeat before the next storm.

  Despite the abyssal distance separating Oberon V from Neuror, the journey would last only a few hours. Three, maybe four at most.

  The respite would be brief.

  Too brief.

  At the rear of the ship, in one of the sleeping quarters, Kiran kept watch.

  Seated beside Zena’s motionless body, he remained perfectly still, his gaze fixed on her. Lying on one of the bunks, she looked peaceful beneath the soft glow of the ship’s lights. Golden reflections danced across her face, casting subtle, shifting shadows—as if she were merely asleep. As if, at any moment, she might sigh and open her eyes.

  But she wouldn’t.

  Kiran knew it. Zena was gone. He wanted to believe it was an illusion, a mirage born from an exhausted mind, but the truth pressed down on him with merciless cruelty. Her heart had stopped. Her breath had faded. Her mind had gone dark.

  Forever.

  A painful knot tightened in his throat.

  Memories surged forward—violent, relentless. Their years of study. Endless debates. Arguments. Rivalry. Zena had always been brilliant, daring, sometimes arrogant. But on Oberon, he had seen another side of her—emotional, afraid.

  And she had been torn away by the Consortium’s brutality.

  The reality struck like a blade to the chest. Images of the battle exploded in his mind. Chaos. Smoke. Screams. Blinding fire tearing through the air. And Zena collapsing inside the ship.

  Why?

  Why them?

  The pain was unbearable. His companions. His colleagues. Cut down in an instant. Kiran closed his eyes, but the horror was burned into his eyelids. There was no escaping Oberon’s ghosts.

  A sob slipped free.

  Slowly, his trembling fingers closed around Zena’s cold hand. He squeezed it, as if he could still pass warmth into her, as if that simple gesture might bring her back. But it was a lie. A hollow hope.

  Death had already claimed her.

  Tears streamed down his cheeks, unstoppable. A broken moan escaped his chest as grief tore through him.

  Then a thought pierced his mind.

  Her family.

  They knew nothing.

  To them, Zena was still on assignment. They imagined she would return soon, smiling, eager to share her discoveries, her wonder. They were waiting for her.

  Still waiting.

  But she would never come back.

  The weight of that truth made him sway. How could he tell them? Who would tell them?

  An abyssal despair swallowed him whole. His breath fractured under the weight of grief. He wanted to scream, to rage against the injustice of the universe—but only a strangled sob escaped him.

  Guilt crashed down on him, relentless. Could he have done something differently? Could he have saved her? The doubt gnawed at him, crushing him beneath its weight. Other questions followed. Why the attack? Why target archaeologists? But deep down, he knew—there would never be answers.

  The massacre on Oberon V replayed endlessly in his mind, obsessive and indelible. The trauma would haunt him forever. Every second of that cursed day returned again and again, a waking nightmare without escape.

  As grief and helplessness slowly consumed him, the door slid open with a soft hiss. Adam stepped into the room.

  “I couldn’t do any better…” Adam said tiredly.

  At the sound of his voice, Kiran quickly wiped his tears with his furred hands and turned toward him. His reddened eyes betrayed everything.

  “Only a chief engineer or an android could’ve done more,” Adam added with a sigh.

  “So that means…?” Kiran asked quietly.

  “That it’s bad. Really bad. The damage list is longer than my arm—and that’s not even counting the issues I couldn’t identify.”

  “I see… Will we make it to Neuror?”

  “Normally, yes. Life support is close to failure, but it should hold. Propulsion is running at about fifty percent… The trip will take longer than expected. Maybe two extra hours.”

  Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

  Kiran nodded slowly.

  “But I’m guessing that’s not all.”

  “No… The real problems are with other critical systems. Shields are practically dead—four percent capacity, at best. The hull’s breached in several places. Navigation is a mess… But the worst part is our energy reserves.”

  Adam hesitated.

  “How much?” Kiran pressed.

  “Eight percent. Maybe ten. We’re at critical levels. To maintain hyperspace, we need to stay above five.”

  A heavy silence settled.

  “Shit…” Kiran whispered. “Can’t we do anything? Increase speed?”

  “No idea… If Kor—”

  Adam stopped himself. He’d almost said the old android’s name. The memory crashed down on them like a lead weight. A cold silence filled the room. Both lowered their heads.

  Then Adam continued, his voice rougher.

  “Kiran… this ship is dead. This is its final run. I don’t see how we can repair it enough to… keep going.”

  “Keep going?!” Kiran snapped, ears flattening. “Are you serious?”

  Adam barely had time to respond.

  “Do you realize how close we came to dying?!”

  “I know, but—”

  “There is no ‘but’! Once we reach Neuror, we stop. Everything stops.”

  Adam met his gaze, fists clenched.

  “We have to continue. For Eamon. For them.”

  Kiran stared at him, incredulous.

  “Continue what, Adam? There’s nothing left to pursue. We bury Zena. We find a way to tell her family.”

  A spark lit Adam’s eyes.

  “The Ascendium,” he said fiercely.

  Kiran frowned.

  “The Ascen—what? You’re talking nonsense again.”

  “The Ascendium,” Adam repeated. “Eamon found something in the Esthéan temple. I don’t know what—but to him… it was our only chance.”

  “Our only chance…?” Kiran crossed his arms. “Of what?”

  “I don’t know. But Eamon was convinced everything depended on it. Like it was vital.”

  Kiran studied him, searching for doubt.

  There was none.

  “And that’s all we have? A word? That’s our only lead?”

  “It’s thin, I know,” Adam admitted. “But we have to keep going. If Eamon believed that strongly, he must’ve uncovered something terrifying.”

  Kiran shook his head.

  “Adam, we don’t even know where to start. And if even Eamon and Koros had never heard of this Ascen—”

  “Ascendium,” Adam corrected.

  “Yeah. That. How are we supposed to find anything?”

  He paused, bitterness creeping in.

  “And maybe it doesn’t affect you the same way—but we need to take care of Zena. That’s what matters.”

  Silence fell.

  Since escaping Oberon V, Kiran had felt something deeply wrong around Adam. It wasn’t just exhaustion or grief. It was deeper. More visceral.

  It had started in that cursed temple.

  First, the sprint across the desert—Adam had not only caught up to him, he’d outpaced him. Impossible. No human could outrun a Neurorian. Then the premonitions—the way Adam had known about incoming fire before the first shots were even fired.

  Something had changed. Something invisible.

  What had that Esthéan chair done to him?

  “It’s not that I don’t care…” Adam said softly, voice trembling, eyes bright with unshed tears. “But we have to move forward. For them.”

  “I don’t know… Maybe we should just disappear. Lay low.”

  A fleeting flash crossed Adam’s eyes. His expression hardened.

  Then, in a colder, almost icy tone, he murmured:

  “Give up if you want… Nothing’s stopping me from leaving you behind.”

  A chill ran down Kiran’s spine.

  “What are you implying?” he asked.

  Adam shrugged, his voice returning to normal.

  “Just that you’re free to choose. I’d understand. But I’m going on.”

  Kiran swallowed.

  “I… I’ll continue. I’m coming with you.”

  The words were spoken—but the feeling lingered. Adam wasn’t the same anymore.

  “Good. Then we’ll need another ship once we reach Neuror,” Adam concluded, as if it were already settled.

  Kiran nodded slowly and turned to leave. Before exiting, he placed a hand on Adam’s shoulder—a gesture of friendship, and a promise.

  “We also need to understand what happened to you in that chair.”

  It wasn’t the Ascendium driving him forward.

  It was fear.

  Adam turned, surprised.

  Before he could reply, a deep vibration shook the ship.

  The structure shuddered. The lights flickered.

  A strange inertia washed over them, like vertigo. An eerie electromagnetic hum rose, accompanied by deep pulses that resonated in their bones.

  Then—

  A shrill alarm ripped through the silence.

  A mechanical scream.

  A countdown.

  The ship decelerated violently.

  An invisible force slammed them against the walls.

  Kiran hit the bulkhead with a muffled grunt. Adam crashed hard onto the floor.

  They were thrown about like leaves in a storm.

  The lights turned blood-red, flashing frantically, bathing the ship in crimson.

  A deep rumble echoed through the hull.

  Adam was the first to rise, wincing, and reached out to help Kiran up.

  “What the hell was that?” Kiran growled, rubbing his aching temple.

  “No idea…”

  They exchanged a look—waiting wasn’t an option. Together, they rushed for the bridge.

  Chaos filled the corridors. Sparks burst from torn panels. Cables hung loose, snapping like electrified serpents. The air reeked of ozone and burnt plastic.

  But it was on the bridge that the truth hit them.

  Consoles flashed red in a storm of alerts. Alarms screamed in unison. Error messages cascaded endlessly across the screens.

  Adam scanned the data.

  “We’re screwed…”

  Kiran clenched his jaw.

  “What now?”

  Adam stared through the main viewport, searching for confirmation.

  His stomach dropped.

  “We’re not in hyperspace anymore.”

  Silence—broken only by alarms.

  Kiran spun toward him.

  “What?! How?!”

  “Hard to say… There are failures everywhere. Critical ones.”

  The hyperspace exit had been violent.

  A metallic crack reverberated through the hull.

  The lights went out.

  A heartbeat.

  An eternity.

  Darkness swallowed the bridge.

  Then everything surged back to life with a furious crackle. Alarms howled louder than before.

  Adam scanned the screens, voice tight.

  “Propulsion failure… shield failure… life support failure…”

  He froze.

  “…and more.”

  His fingers flew across the holographic keyboard. Nothing responded.

  The ship was drifting.

  Engines offline.

  Navigation incoherent.

  No control.

  A chill crawled up Kiran’s spine.

  “Wait… That’s impossible. We left, what—two hours ago?”

  His voice trembled.

  Panic rose.