Planet Satsop, Year 13,485
Night bled into the ravine like smoke—thick, blue, and slow to settle.
The boy knelt at the river's edge, hands buried in the water up to his wrists. The current moved lazily, barely disturbing the surface—
—but he scrubbed hard.
Like there was something on his skin that refused to come off.
His reflection wavered.
Young. Sharp-boned. Eyes too bright for the dark around him.
They flicked, again and again, to the weathered cloth bag resting in the rocks at his feet.
Behind him—
The forest creaked.
"Dusty," a voice called, distant but clear, "we just want to talk to you. Everything's alright. Come on out."
The boy froze.
Then turned.
Fear hit him all at once.
He snatched the bag and bolted.
Feet slipping against wet stone, then catching—running.
Downriver.
He didn't stop looking back.
Not once.
Night swallowed him as he ran.
Branches tore at his arms. Twigs snapped under bare feet. The cold air scraped through his lungs like it didn't belong there.
"Dusty!"
Closer now.
"We know you're scared," the voice called again—soft, careful. Smiling. "We know what happened wasn't your fault."
The bag slammed against his chest with every step, heavy, dragging him down like it wanted him caught.
He stumbled—
then dropped hard into thickets, forcing himself low into the brush as it scratched his arms and legs.
Still.
Silent.
His breath hitched—
He clamped it down.
Torch light began to creep through the trees.
The forest shifted, shadows thinning as orange light pushed between branches.
Dusty pressed himself into the dirt, fingers digging into soil and leaves, like he could pull the ground over himself and disappear.
Voices drifted closer, tangled with the crackle of flame.
"Spread out. He can't be far."
"He's just a kid."
"That's years of work gone if he gets away."
Dusty squeezed his eyes shut.
His breath trembled against the dirt, warm air stirring dust beneath his nose. The bag dug into his ribs, sharp with every heartbeat.
A twig snapped nearby.
Dusty went still.
Completely.
Even blinking felt like too much.
Boots entered his vision.
Slow. Measured.
Grass bent under each step.
The firelight grew stronger, spilling through the brush—turning his hiding place into a fragile web of gold and shadow.
"I know you're in there," the voice said.
Closer now.
Hoarse.
Calm.
"Come on out, Dusty."
Dusty crawled out from the bush, dragging the bag behind him.
"I'm sorry," he said quickly. "I just—"
His voice caught.
"—you're always gone."
"I found him!" the man shouted. "Over here!"
Others pushed through the trees.
The man in front—Gunther—stepped closer.
A thin scar ran down the left side of his face. His eyes looked tired in a way that didn't come from sleep. Still, he forced a smile.
For the others.
For the boy.
Dusty couldn't meet it.
He stared at the ground, shame settling heavy in his chest as he held the bag up with both hands.
"I didn't mean to—"
"You better keep an eye on that kid of yours, Gunther," someone called as they approached.
Gunther's hand came down on Dusty's shoulder.
Firm.
Not harsh.
"You can't just take things like this," he said. "Not to get my attention."
Another voice cut in, sharper.
"Keep your kid away from mine. I don't want him rubbing off on them."
Gunther's jaw tightened.
He didn't turn.
"He's not rubbing off on anyone, Ralden," he said. "He's a kid."
"Yeah?" Ralden stepped closer, torchlight flaring across his face. "Then why's your kid stealing from a restricted site?"
He jabbed the torch toward the bag.
"That's government property."
Another man scoffed. "He's lucky we don't hand him over to Viora."
Dusty flinched at the words.
He didn't speak.
Tears blurred his vision as he stared at the dirt.
Gunther didn't squeeze his shoulder harder—but the tension in his hand showed.
"That's the harshest place there is," he said evenly. "Dusty isn't on that level."
Ralden let out a short laugh.
"He stole an active prototype. You think the board cares how old he is?"
Gunther exhaled slowly.
"Let me handle it," he said. "We got it back so there's nothing to worry about."
He took the bag, opening it carefully. Inside, a rectangular device sat wrapped in cloth, only its steel edges barely visible.
He turned it over once in his hand.
"No cracks. Looks good," he muttered. "Let's just get back to the forge."
Ralden stepped in and snatched it away.
"We'll take it," he said. "Before your kid decides to snatch it again."
The group turned, voices fading as they moved back through the trees.
Then it was quiet.
Gunther stood there for a moment—then let out a slow breath.
"You can't keep doing this," he said.
Dusty didn't answer.
"I know you miss your mom," Gunther went on, quieter now. "But I can't be everywhere at once. If I don't work—"
He stopped himself.
Shifted.
Knelt.
Two fingers lifted Dusty's chin.
"Hey," he said. "Look at me."
Dusty hesitated.
Then did.
"This isn't how you get me to stay," Gunther said. He tapped the empty bag lightly. "You understand that?"
Dusty's face crumpled.
"I just wanted you to stay."
Gunther closed his eyes.
Just for a second.
When he opened them, something softer had pushed through the exhaustion.
"I'm here," he said. Quiet. Certain.
He took Dusty's hand and pressed it against his chest.
"Even when I'm not… I'm here."
Dusty didn't understand.
Not really.
But he didn't pull his hand away.
Gunther stood, brushing dirt from Dusty's knees.
"Come on," he said. "Before they turn this into something worse."
Dusty nodded faintly.
They walked back through the trees.
Gunther in front.
Dusty just behind, clutching the empty bag like it still held something.
The torchlight faded behind them.
Ahead, the forge's glow pulsed through the dark.
Neither of them spoke.
Planet Satsop, Year 13,491
The galaxy had only gotten louder since that night.
But at sixteen—
Dusty didn't care.
Wind tore past him—hot, sharp, carrying the sting of metal dust and sun-burnt ozone. The sun-surfer dipped low, then snapped upward again, riding the current like a blade skimming the atmosphere.
Dusty leaned into it.
The sail above him shimmered, catching light in long, fluid arcs. Each shift sent a pulse down through the stabilizer and into his boots.
The board responded instantly.
Alive.
Hungry.
He wasn't thinking.
He wasn't running.
He was chasing it.
That feeling—
weightless and heavy at the same time.
Just sky. Just wind. Just him—suspended where nothing could reach.
"Ha—!"
The sound tore out of him as the surfer caught a rising current and surged forward.
Faster.
Higher.
He yanked a cord—the nose of the board pitched skyward. A second later, his foot pressed into the pedal, feeding power through the frame.
The world dropped away beneath him.
He held it—
then released.
The surfer stalled.
Hung.
For just a moment—
Then began to fall.
Dusty let it.
Spinning once through open air, body loose, unafraid.
The wind wrapped around him as he dropped—
then he snapped another line.
The board leveled out, catching the current again.
Smooth.
Effortless.
A laugh slipped out of him, unrestrained, carried away by the sky.
Freedom.
Real enough to touch.
Fragile enough to vanish.
His eyes drifted shut—
Just for a second.
Then—
A vibration.
His wrist buzzed.
Once.
He ignored it.
The surfer carved cleanly through the current, gliding steady and true.
Again.
Stronger this time.
Dusty exhaled through his nose, the edge of his smile faltering.
He didn't look.
Didn't want to.
The sky stretched endlessly ahead of him, wide and open—offering him a way out he couldn't actually take.
A third vibration.
Sharp.
Insistent.
It cut through everything.
Dusty clicked his tongue under his breath and shifted his weight, easing the board into a slower glide. The hum beneath his feet softened, reluctant.
The moment slipped.
Not gone.
Just… pushed aside.
Like always.
He brushed his hair back and lifted his wrist.
CALL INCOMING: GENERAL NO FUN
His smile faded.
Not fear.
Not guilt.
Just… that familiar tightness behind the ribs. The one that whispered this moment — this peace — was over.
Dusty hesitated.
Long enough that the call almost timed out.
Then—
He accepted.
Gunther's voice came through rough. Worn down by years of work and worry.
"Dusty. Where are you?"
No greeting.
No anger.
Just the question.
Heavy.
Dusty swallowed. "Out."
"Out where?"
He glanced down.
Satsop stretched beneath him—floating isles drifting between industrial rings, the forge district glowing faint and distant like scattered embers.
"…Above the ridgeline," he said, aiming for casual.
A quiet exhale came through the line.
Not loud.
But weighted.
"I need you home."
Dusty's grip tightened on the control line.
"Did I do something?"
"No," Gunther said.
A beat.
"…Not this time."
The wind rushed past, but for a moment, everything felt still.
"What's going on?" Dusty asked.
No answer.
Just background noise—metal scraping, voices raised, something dropped hard enough to echo.
Then—
"Dusty… I need you home. Now."
The shift in his voice was enough.
Dusty's focus slipped.
The sun-surfer drifted off its line—he corrected it quickly, pulling it back under control, but the ease was gone.
"Is it the forge?" he asked. "Did something break?"
"No."
"Then what—"
"Just do as I say and get home."
Sharper this time.
Dusty flinched.
The board wobbled beneath him.
Then Gunther's voice softened.
Too fast.
"They found something," he said. Quieter now. "Please… tell me you didn't do it."
Dusty's stomach dropped.
"Do what?" he said, fear creeping in. "What are you talking about?"
Silence.
Just breathing on the other end.
Uneven.
"I'm coming home," Dusty said quickly. "You can tell me when I get there—"
The line cut.
Dusty stared at his wrist.
Static.
Gone.
The wind roared back in.
His heart kicked hard in his chest.
They found something.
Please tell me you didn't do it.
That part stayed.
Not the words—
The fear behind them.
Gunther wasn't angry.
He was scared.
Dusty swallowed hard and leaned forward, pressing into the pedal.
The sunsurfer responded instantly.
Acceleration slammed into him.
The sail cracked wide, catching the suns light.
Smoke smeared into clouds like thick gray streaks. Static crawled along the stabilizers, hissing near his boots.
The speed didn't feel like freedom anymore.
It felt like falling.
Dusty tightened his jaw and dropped lower, cutting between two floating isles. The rock beneath them thrummed with magnetic recoil as he passed.
He barely noticed.
He pressed his wrist to his mouth.
"Dad, I didn't—"
Nothing answered.
Only wind.
Dusty pushed harder.
The city rose to meet him—iron towers, steam vents, layered platforms stitched together with rails and cables. The forge district burned ahead, pulsing like a wound in the metal.
"Dad," he muttered into the rush of air, "I didn't do anything."
The sun-surfer dropped into its final descent.
Engines whined under strain as the forge loomed closer—massive exhaust stacks coughing up plumes of copper-colored smoke.
Then—
Dusty saw it.
A Practum Kingdom military ship.
Parked just outside his house.
His stomach dropped.
He yanked the board into a tight arc and came down fast—too fast. His boots hit hard, jarring up through his legs. The surfer hissed behind him as it powered down.
He didn't look back.
One step.
Then another.
Up the path.
Past the shadow of the ship's hull.
The air felt heavier here.
Quieter.
Dusty stopped at the door.
Breathed in.
Held it.
Then pushed inside.
Gunther sat in a chair.
Four soldiers stood around him.
Dusty's hand tightened on the frame.
"What's going on?" he quickly asked.
The soldiers moved immediately.
Two shifted behind him—cutting off the door.
The other two closed in.
Cold metal hands locked around his arms.
"Hey—!"
Dusty jerked back, shoulder slamming into the frame. The grip tightened.
"Easy," one of them said. Flat. Filtered through the helmet. "Don't make this worse for yourself."
Gunther flinched.
At the word.
"Let him stand," Gunther said. His voice sounded smaller inside the room, pressed down by the walls. "He's not going to run."
The soldiers hesitated.
Then looked past Dusty—
To the man behind Gunther's chair.
He wasn't armored.
No helmet.
Just a dark coat, the Practum crest stitched into the shoulder—a gear wrapped in a ring of stars.
His hair was short, graying at the edges.
His eyes—
Too sharp.
Watching everything.
Measuring it.
"This him?" the officer asked.
Gunther nodded once.
"My son. Dustan."
The officer stepped forward, slow and deliberate.
Dusty felt it immediately—his heartbeat, louder now. Too loud. Like it might give something away.
"Dustan Raiz," the officer said, glancing at the slate in his hand. "Sixteen. Apprentice technician. Forge Division Twelve."
A pause.
"Minor infractions. Unauthorized access. Property misuse."
He looked up.
"Sound familiar?"
Dusty swallowed.
His mouth was dry.
"I… yeah. I messed up before," he said. "But I didn't—I haven't done anything."
Gunther shifted in his chair.
Dusty hadn't noticed it before—
The restraint around his wrists.
A thin metal band, edges glowing faint blue.
Dusty's chest went cold.
"Why is he restrained?" Dusty snapped, struggling against the grip on his arms. "He didn't—he didn't do anything!"
"Sit."
Dusty didn't.
A boot struck the back of his knees.
He dropped hard, catching himself just before his face hit the floor. Hands tightened on his arms, holding him there.
Controlled.
Efficient.
"Lieutenant," Gunther said, forcing the words steady, "you said you just wanted to ask him questions."
"And we will."
The lieutenant didn't look at him.
Only at Dusty.
"Where were you last night," he said, "between second and third shift?"
"On the ridge routes," Dusty shot back. "With my surfer. My dad—"
"Which routes?"
The interruption was immediate.
"Coordinates. Patrol logs. Witnesses."
Dusty faltered.
He didn't track routes.
Didn't log anything.
Didn't care to.
"I… don't know the coordinates," he admitted. "I was just out. No one was there."
A small pause.
"That's convenient."
The lieutenant flicked his wrist.
The slate hummed.
A pale blue projection bloomed into the air.
Grainy footage.
A forge bay.
Not one Dusty recognized—but familiar in structure. Walkways layered overhead. Consoles clustered tight. Thick cables feeding into a containment cradle at the center.
Warning sigils pulsed in the corner.
"Restricted Core Lab. Tier Three," the lieutenant said. "Last night. Second shift."
A figure entered the frame.
Tall.
Slender.
Hood up.
Work overalls.
Dusty's stomach turned.
The figure moved with purpose—quick, practiced. Crossed the bay. Stopped at the cradle.
Hands moved across the interface.
Fast.
Clean.
"Authorization accepted," a flat voice echoed from the projection. "User: D. Raiz. Access level: provisional."
Dusty's breath caught.
"That's not—"
The figure turned—
And fired.
Each camera blinked out one by one.
The image cut.
Silence snapped back into the room.
Dusty's legs felt hollow.
"No," he said under his breath. "No—that's not me. I wasn't there. I was—"
"On the ridgeline," the lieutenant said.
Calm.
Measured.
"Alone. No witnesses."
Dusty shook his head, harder now.
"That's not me on the feed! You saw—there's no face. They destroyed the cameras!"
The soldiers shifted slightly at the rise in his voice.
The lieutenant didn't move.
"Your badge was used," he said. "Your clearance opened the second lock. Your name is attached to every log."
Dusty stared at him.
"…When did that happen?"
"Last night," the lieutenant said. "Between shifts. Data wiped. Years of work gone."
He inhaled deep.
"Because of you."
Dusty's voice broke.
"I wasn't there."
The lieutenant held his gaze.
"We have enough."
Gunther shifted in his chair, the restraint at his wrists giving a soft metallic click.
"Harrow," he said.
The name came out like both a warning—
and a plea.
Harrow's eyes flicked to him.
Just for a second.
Then back to Dusty.
"Your rank doesn't apply here," he said. "Not today."
Dusty let out a short laugh.
It came out wrong.
Thin. Unsteady.
"You think I can wipe a Tier Three lab?" he said. "I barely passed systems theory. I fix conduits. I scrape slag out of vents."
"And you go where others can't," Harrow replied. "Access tunnels. Maintenance shafts. Blind spots."
A glance at the slate.
"You're known for it."
Dusty's jaw tightened.
Harrow continued, almost idly—
"'Pathologically incapable of staying where he's supposed to stay.'"
The words landed harder this time.
Not a joke anymore.
A record.
A label.
"I didn't do this," Dusty said. Quieter now. "I didn't."
The room felt smaller.
Closer.
Harrow studied him.
Silent.
The slate cast a cold wash of light across his face.
"You know what happens to people who interfere with Tier Three projects?" he asked.
Dusty didn't answer.
"Protocol sends them to Viora," Harrow said. "No trial and no appeal. Just a transfer order."
Dusty's throat tightened.
"I didn't—"
"It doesn't matter," Harrow cut in.
Calm.
Final.
"What matters is that every piece of evidence Command cares about points to you."
Gunther leaned forward as far as the restraint would allow.
"Harrow," he said, low. Controlled. "You've seen my son. You've worked the yards. Does he look like someone who could do this?"
A pause.
Harrow's jaw flexed.
Something shifted behind his eyes—
Gone almost as quickly as it appeared.
"I've seen what he is," Harrow said. "Smart. Restless. Curious."
A beat.
"The kind of kid who pushes until something breaks."
Gunther's glare hardened.
"That's not an answer."
Harrow exhaled slowly.
"Command doesn't need an answer," he said. "They need a name."
His gaze didn't leave Dusty.
"They have one."
Dusty felt something inside him drop.
"A name?" he echoed. "What does that mean? What does my name have to do with anything?"
For the first time—
Harrow looked away.
Only for a moment.
But it was enough.
Dusty never saw where his eyes went.
Hands tightened on his arms.
The soldiers moved.
Fast.
The room lurched.
The doorway rushed past—
Gunther still in the chair—
watching—
getting farther—
Dusty's voice caught in his throat.
"Dad—"
The door slammed.
The sound cut everything clean.
By the time the question stopped ringing in his head, he was already on the ship.