After what felt like an eternity, he saw a faint seam of light ahead. A ventilation grille. He crept to it and peered down.
He was looking into Storage Bay 3. It was larger than he'd imagined, a high-ceilinged room lined with rows of heavy shelving units. The shelves were stacked with crates of various sizes, all labeled with codes. The light came from soft, omnidirectional panels in the ceiling. On the far wall, he could see the sleek panel of a sensor array, a small green light glowing steadily.
And there, on a shelving unit isolated in the center of the room, were ten gray alloy containers. A printed sticker on the shelf read: TRANSFER: SIGMA-7. HOLD FOR DISPOSAL.
Target acquired.
Below him was a narrow gap between two tall shelving units. It was a drop of about three meters onto a hard crystalcrete floor. He'd have to be quiet.
He focused his mind, reaching for the System-augmented instinct that let him activate his abilities. He touched the charm in his pocket. Now.
A sensation like a cool, silent bubble expanded from him. The air seemed to thicken slightly, and the ever-present hum of ambient Aether in the outpost faded into a muffled nothingness within a radius of a few meters. The green light on the sensor panel across the room flickered once, then went dark. The Aether-Nullification Charm was active. He had ten minutes.
He didn't hesitate. He wrestled the ventilation grille free—it was not secured, meant for maintenance—and set it aside quietly. He lowered himself through the opening, hung by his hands for a second, and dropped.
He landed in a crouch, the impact jolting his knees but silent on the smooth floor. He stayed low, listening. Nothing. The bay was utterly still.
He moved quickly to the Sigma-7 crates. They were sealed with simple mechanical latches, not complex locks. He unlatched the first one and lifted the lid.
Inside, nestled in molded cushioning, was an Aether core. It was a beautiful, dangerous thing: a hexagonal prism of polished, translucent crystal, about the length of his forearm. Within its depths, faint internal lights pulsed in a slow, rhythmic pattern. But the light was wrong. Instead of a steady, harmonious blue-white, it held sickly threads of violet and a deep, bruise-like indigo that seemed to writhe slowly. The core itself felt warm, almost feverish, to his Aether-null senses. A normal core would feel inert to him. This one felt alive in a malignant way.
He pulled out his data-pad. He had no specialized scanner, but the pad had a basic Aether-field detector for communication purposes. He activated it and held it near the core. The readings spiked erratically, the waveform on the screen jagged and chaotic, a stark contrast to the clean sine wave of a healthy core. He saved the scan.
He needed more. He needed to see if they were all like this. He checked a second crate, then a third. The same dissonant signature, the same wrong light. All ten. Proof.
A noise.
A soft hiss-click from the direction of the main door.
Xylon's blood ran cold. He slammed the crate lid shut, latched it, and dove behind the shelving unit, pressing himself into the shadows. The charm's duration was still active, but it wouldn't hide him from direct sight.
The main door slid open.
Elian walked in, followed by a man Xylon didn't recognize—tall, dressed in nondescript, dark civilian travel clothes, with a severe, gaunt face and eyes that scanned the room with cold efficiency. This was not a Valtheris officer.
"They are all here, as agreed," Elian said, his usual smooth tone replaced by a brisk, businesslike clip. "Ten Sigma-grade skiff cores, primed for resonance destabilization. The harmonic key is embedded. Trigger them remotely, and they'll create an Aether storm localized enough to cripple a district, but widespread enough to look like a natural calamity."
The gaunt man walked to the crates, opened one, and examined the core with a practiced eye. He pulled a small, black device from his coat and held it near the crystal. It emitted a series of low-pitched beeps. "The corruption is stable. The dissonance is pronounced. Acceptable." His voice was a dry rasp. "The payment has been transferred to the account on Draxmor. Half now, half on confirmed deployment."
Draxmor. The Iron Confederacy. A rival nation, known for its brutal pragmatism.
"The deployment site?" Elian asked.
"That is not your concern, Liaison. Your role was procurement and preparation within a secure Valtheris facility. That role is complete." The man closed the crate. "My team will collect them within the hour. The disposal manifest will show they were shipped for legitimate recycling to the Imperium. A neat loop."
"And Captain Solara?"
"Remains beneficially unaware. Your shared history ensures her trust. Keep her focused on the skies and her new Imperium guest." The gaunt man's lip curled slightly. "A Stromveil. How quaint. Their family's internal squabbles provide excellent cover."
Xylon's mind reeled. This was worse than he'd imagined. This wasn't just a black-market deal. This was state-sponsored sabotage, using the outpost as a laundering station. Elian was a traitor to the Sky Dominion, selling weapons of mass disruption to Draxmor. And the target… could be anywhere. Possibly even an Imperium settlement, which would inflame tensions and maybe start a war.
He had to get this information out. He had to warn Astraxion, Torin, someone.
But the two men were between him and the crawlspace exit. The main door was the only other way out. He was trapped.
The gaunt man turned, his cold eyes sweeping the room once more. They paused, just for a fraction of a second, on the shelving unit where Xylon hid. Had he seen a shadow? Heard a breath?
"Is the bay secure?" the man asked, his hand drifting toward his coat.
"Of course," Elian said, though a note of uncertainty crept in. "The sensors are active. No alerts."
"The sensors are offline," the gaunt man stated flatly, pointing to the dark panel on the wall.
Elian's head snapped around. His face paled. "That's… a malfunction. It happens with the energy fluctuations from the Divide."
"It happens when someone triggers a dampening field," the man corrected, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. He drew a compact, snub-nosed energy pistol from inside his coat. "We are not alone."