Torin stared at him. The silence stretched. Xylon could see the conflict in the man's face—the engineer's drive for truth warring with the soldier's instinct for chain of command.
"Elian," Torin finally said, the name a sigh of frustration. "The liaison. He overrode my recommendation for a full spectral analysis. He had the cores moved to Storage Bay 3 and classified the matter as a 'logistical recalibration.' His authority comes directly from the diplomatic office on the central spire. I filed a formal objection. It was dismissed."
"On what grounds?"
" 'Operational security and inter-nation goodwill.' A fancy way of telling me to mind my turbines." Torin pushed off the desk, pacing the small room. "But the signatures were wrong, Enderwood. They didn't just drift out of tolerance. They had a… a dissonant frequency. Like they'd been exposed to a corrupting influence. I've only seen that pattern once before, in a report from the Neravelle border. A core that had been tampered with by scavengers selling to…" He trailed off, unwilling to say it.
"To Chaos Beast cultists," Xylon finished quietly.
Torin froze, his face pale. "You know of this?"
"I've read reports. Corrupted cores can be used to destabilize regions, even attract Beast swarms. They're a weapon."
"And if ten of them are sitting in a storage bay in one of our most sensitive border outposts…" Torin didn't need to finish the thought. The implications were catastrophic. "Elian insists they are being held for 'secure disposal.' But disposal is handled by engineering, not diplomacy. He has refused to release them to my team."
Xylon's mind raced. Elian wasn't just covering up a quality control issue. He was stockpiling dangerous contraband. For what purpose? Sale? Sabotage? "Who has access to that bay besides him?"
"Officially? The quartermaster and senior logistics staff. But Elian had the lock codes reprogrammed. My access was revoked. Only his key-card and one other work now."
"Lieutenant Kieran's?" Xylon guessed.
Torin nodded grimly. "The Lieutenant handles liaison logistics. He's young, eager to please. I don't think he understands what he's involved in. He just follows Elian's orders."
Xylon had seen Kieran's nervousness. It fit. A pawn, not a player. The player was Elian, the smiling diplomat with a key-card to a vault of silent, singing ruin.
"I need to see them," Xylon said.
Torin barked a humorless laugh. "Impossible. The bay is monitored. The lock is Aether-keyed. Even if you bypassed it, the internal sensors would detect an unauthorized presence and alert security instantly."
Xylon's hand drifted to the pocket holding the charm. A ten-minute dampening field. "What if the sensors… malfunctioned? For a short time. A local Aether fluctuation, perhaps from a faulty relay."
The engineer's eyes narrowed, calculating. "A targeted null-pulse could blind the sensors. It would have to be precise, and strong. And it would leave a trace in the diagnostic logs—a blip of 'system interference.' But if it were brief, it could be attributed to the same ghosting you mentioned earlier." He was speaking theoretically, but his gaze was locked on Xylon. "Do you have the means to create such an interference?"
Xylon didn't answer directly. "If I could get inside, just for a few minutes, I could confirm the state of the cores. Visual inspection, maybe a basic scan with a handheld reader. With proof, you could take it to Captain Solara. Override Elian."
"Captain Solara trusts Elian. They have a long history. She would likely dismiss it without concrete evidence." Torin ran a hand through his hair, agitated. "But… if you could get a core signature, a clear read of the dissonance… I could authenticate it. My word as Chief Engineer might carry weight, especially if coupled with physical proof." He made a decision, his expression hardening with resolve. "There is a secondary maintenance hatch. It's a tight fit, for conduit servicing. It leads to a crawlspace above the main bay floor. It's not on the standard schematics. The lock is old, mechanical. I have the code."
He moved to his desk, scribbled a six-digit number on a scrap of film, and handed it to Xylon. "The hatch is in the sub-ceiling of corridor 5-G, near the waste reclamation unit. It's marked with a faded yellow circle. You'll need to move a ceiling panel. The crawlspace is cramped and dusty. It will bring you out over the storage racks. You'll have to drop down."
Xylon took the code, his heart pounding. "The sensors?"
"The main motion and Aether sensors are on the walls, at chest height. The ceiling area might be a blind spot, but I cannot guarantee it. You would need that… interference… the moment you drop into the main bay."
"Understood. And the cores? How will I know which batch?"
"They were logged under transfer code Sigma-Seven. The storage crates should be marked. They are standard gray alloy containers, about half a meter long, with reinforced handles. There will be ten."
Xylon memorized the details. "Thank you, Chief."
Torin's face was solemn. "Do not thank me. If you are caught, I will deny this conversation. You are a curious foreign aide who stole access codes. My duty is to the security of this outpost. If those cores are what I fear, then your risk is necessary. Go. And do not be seen near the bay entrance. Use the maintenance corridors."
Xylon nodded and left the office. The scrap of film felt like a live wire in his hand. He had a path, an ally of necessity, and a countdown. He checked the chrono on his data-pad. Astraxion's flight had begun. He had perhaps two hours before her scheduled return.
He moved, not back toward the main areas, but deeper into the service bowels of Level Five. The corridors here were narrower, lit by intermittent glow-strips. He passed humming recycling units and the entrances to atmospheric processing plants. The air grew warmer, more metallic.
He found corridor 5-G. It was a dead-end passage lined with piping. At the very end, near a large, silent filtration unit, he looked up. One of the ceiling panels was indeed marked with a faint, flaking yellow circle. He glanced around. The corridor was empty, the only sound the distant thrum of machinery.
He dragged a discarded crate over, stood on it, and pushed at the panel. It gave way with a soft scrape, swinging up on hidden hinges. Revealed was a dark space, about a meter high, crisscrossed with thick bundles of insulated cables and coolant lines. Dust motes danced in the light from the corridor.
He hoisted himself up, muscles straining. The crawlspace was claustrophobic, the air stale and warm. He pulled the ceiling panel mostly closed behind him, leaving a crack for dim light. On his hands and knees, he began to crawl, following the path of the largest conduit bundle, which Torin had said led toward the storage bay. The dust coated his suit and filled his nostrils. The only sounds were his own breathing and the occasional creak of the structure.