The void currents tear at the hull of my ship, invisible forces that can shred metal as easily as paper. I grip the control yoke, my knuckles white beneath the worn fabric of my gloves. The Drifter's Folly shudders as I navigate through the treacherous debris field, remnants of the once-grand Celestial Temple of Aethys.
"Come on, old girl," I mutter, my voice barely audible over the constant hum of the ship's straining engines. "Just a little farther."
The viewscreen flickers, overlaying the chaotic tumble of stone and metal with a faint grid of navigation markers. Ahead, a massive section of what might have been a sacred altar spins lazily, trailing a comet's tail of smaller fragments. My eyes narrow as I calculate the trajectory, then jerk the yoke hard to port.
The Drifter's Folly responds sluggishly, its aging thrusters protesting the sudden maneuver. A chunk of debris scrapes against the starboard hull, the screech of metal on stone reverberating through the cabin.
"Shit!" I hiss, checking the damage readout. A yellow warning light blinks accusingly at me. Nothing critical, but another hit like that would be trouble.
The temple debris field shouldn't be this dangerous. The Guild reports classified it as a Category Three salvage zone—challenging, but manageable for a solo operator with decent equipment. This is at least a Category Five, maybe worse. The void currents are unnaturally strong, as if the very fabric of space is wounded here, bleeding invisible energy that tugs and claws at anything that dares pass through.
Something went very wrong when the temple was destroyed. The question is whether that something left anything valuable behind.
---
I ease the Folly into the shadow of a colossal stone arch, one of the few structures still somewhat intact. Here, sheltered from the worst of the currents, I activate the ship's scanners, searching for anything that might justify the risk I'm taking.
Movement catches my eye—not on the scanners, but through the viewscreen. Something drifting amid the debris, tumbling end over end. I frown, adjusting the external cameras to zoom in.
A ship. Or what remains of one. Smaller than the Folly, its hull torn open like a gutted fish. And tethered to it by a safety line, spinning slowly in the void, is a figure in an environmental suit.
"Damn it all," I mutter, already knowing what I'll find but needing to check anyway.
I maneuver closer, careful to maintain my position in the current shadow of the arch. The external grapples lock onto the drifting vessel, pulling it close enough for me to perform a direct scan.
No life signs. The figure in the suit has been dead for at least two standard days, according to the readout. Radiation levels in the immediate area are higher than they should be—not immediately lethal, but dangerous with prolonged exposure.
I run the ship's ID through my database. The Whisper's Edge, registered to a Kell Tovar, independent salvager out of Nexus Station. Not someone I know personally, but the name is vaguely familiar from Guild communications.
"Sorry, Kell," I say to the empty cabin. "Looks like you found something you weren't expecting."
I should turn back. That would be the smart move. If a fellow scavenger has already died here, the risk isn't worth whatever salvage might remain. But the Folly's fuel reserves are getting low, and my credit account is in even worse shape. I've spent nearly everything I have on the coordinates to this place, assured by my contact that it would be a "guaranteed payday."
The scanners ping, detecting a faint energy signature deeper in the debris field. Not the random discharge of damaged technology, but something steady, rhythmic. Deliberate.
I look at the dead salvager one last time, then disengage the grapples, letting the Whisper's Edge drift back into the void.
"I'll be smarter than you were," I promise the corpse, already knowing I'm lying to myself.
---
The radiation storm comes without warning, a tsunami of invisible particles washing over the debris field. Alarms blare throughout the Folly as the radiation shields strain against the sudden onslaught.
"Warning: radiation levels exceeding safe parameters," the ship's computer announces in its flat, emotionless voice. "Shield failure imminent. Seek immediate shelter."
I swear, scanning the debris field for anything large enough to provide cover. The sensors are already degrading, the radiation interfering with their ability to provide clear readings.
Then I see it—a massive structure drifting at the edge of the field. Not architectural like most of the debris, but organic in its design. It looks, impossibly, like a hand. A titanic hand, large enough to cradle my ship in its palm, the fingers partially curled inward. The material appears to be the same luminous stone that composes much of the temple, but shaped into a perfect simulacrum of human anatomy.
The hand of a god. Or what passes for one in this forgotten corner of the cosmos.
I don't hesitate. I fire the thrusters, pushing the Folly toward the structure. The radiation levels are climbing rapidly, the shields down to twenty percent and falling. If I don't find shelter in the next few minutes, I'll end up like Kell Tovar, another cautionary tale for salvagers who pushed their luck too far.
As I draw closer, I can see that the titanic hand is hollow, with an opening at the wrist where it has broken off from...whatever it was once attached to. The space inside will easily accommodate my ship, and the thick stone walls should provide adequate radiation shielding.
The Folly slips through the opening, thrusters firing in short bursts to slow its momentum. Inside, the space is eerily still, the void currents unable to penetrate the thick walls. I exhale slowly, watching the radiation readings drop to safer levels.
"Shield recharge initiated," the computer reports. "Estimated time to full capacity: three hours, seventeen minutes."
I lean back in my pilot's chair, tension draining from my shoulders. I'm safe, for now. But I'll need to be more careful when I venture back out. The radiation storm might last for hours or days; there's no way to predict its duration without proper forecasting equipment.
I bring up a holographic display, examining the interior of the stone hand more closely. The anatomy is unnervingly perfect, down to the smallest detail—creases in the palm, whorls of what might be fingerprints on the massive digits. This is no rough approximation of a hand; it's as if a titan's limb has been petrified, transformed into this luminous stone.
And there's something else. Now that I'm shielded from the interference of the radiation storm, the ship's sensors are detecting that energy signature again, stronger this time. It's coming from deeper within the structure, somewhere near the center of the palm.
Curiosity wars with caution in my mind. The smart move would be to wait out the storm, then leave this place and find a less dangerous salvage opportunity. But that energy signature...it's unlike anything I've encountered before. And if it's valuable enough, it might solve my financial problems in one stroke.
After a moment's hesitation, I rise from my chair and move to the equipment locker. I pull out my environment suit, checking the seals and oxygen levels before slipping it on. The helmet locks into place with a hiss, and the heads-up display flickers to life, showing suit integrity at 100%.
"Computer, maintain position and alert me to any changes in the radiation levels or void currents," I instruct.
"Acknowledged," the flat voice replies. "Exercise caution, Salvager Voss."
I smile grimly. The computer's caution protocols are one of the few systems I keep fully updated, a constant reminder of my own mortality in the face of the void's indifference.
"Always do," I lie, and cycle the airlock.
---
The interior of the stone hand is even more unsettling up close. My suit lights cast long shadows across the curved surfaces, highlighting the intricate details of the structure. Veins run through the stone like circuits, pulsing faintly with a soft blue luminescence that seems to respond to my presence, brightening as I pass.
I move carefully, using my suit's magnetic boots to stay anchored to the surface. Though the Folly detected no gravity within the structure, I feel a strange pull, not toward any particular surface but toward the center of the palm where the energy signature originates.
My scanner beeps softly, the sound transmitted through my helmet comm. The energy readings are growing stronger with each step, though they still defy categorization. Not electromagnetic, not nuclear, not any known form of power that the device can identify.
"Unregistered energy type," the scanner reports unhelpfully. "Caution advised."
"You don't say," I mutter.
As I near the center of the palm, the stone beneath my feet begins to change. The smooth surface gives way to intricate patterns, concentric circles and spiraling lines that remind me of ancient circuit diagrams I've seen in the archives back on Nexus Station. The blue luminescence is stronger here, pulsing in a rhythm that seems almost like a heartbeat.
I kneel, running a gloved hand over the patterns. They aren't carved into the stone but seem to be part of its very structure, as if the material had grown this way.
My scanner beeps more insistently. The energy signature is directly below me now, separated only by a few meters of stone. I examine the surface carefully, looking for any sign of an entrance or mechanism.
There—a circular depression at the center of the pattern, about the size of my palm. Not a natural formation, but deliberately crafted. I hesitate only briefly before placing my hand within it.
The effect is immediate. The stone beneath my hand grows warm, the blue luminescence intensifying until it shines through the gaps in my fingers. Then, with a sound like a long-held breath finally released, the center of the pattern begins to sink, spiraling downward to reveal a passage leading into darkness.
I check my suit readings one more time, then activate my helmet's enhanced vision mode and begin my descent.
---
The passage curves gently downward, following the natural contour of what would have been the lifeline in a human palm. The walls continue to pulse with that strange blue light, brighter now, almost eager. I can't shake the feeling that the structure is aware of me, responding to my presence in ways that go beyond simple mechanisms.
After descending for what feels like several minutes, the passage opens into a chamber that takes my breath away.
It's a perfect sphere hollowed from the stone, perhaps twenty meters in diameter. But it isn't the size that makes me freeze in my tracks—it's what fills the space.
Symbols float in the air, hundreds of them, glowing with the same blue light as the veins in the stone but far more intense. They rotate slowly, each following its own orbit around a central point. Some I recognize from ancient texts and religious iconography, but most are utterly foreign, complex arrangements of lines and curves that seem to shift subtly even as I look at them, as if they exist in more dimensions than my eyes can perceive.
And at the center of it all, suspended in midair, is a crystal shard about the length of my forearm. Unlike the blue luminescence that fills the rest of the chamber, the crystal pulses with a deep crimson light, like a heart beating in the chest of some cosmic entity.
My scanner goes haywire, the readings fluctuating wildly before the device emits a high-pitched whine and shuts down. I clip it back to my belt, not taking my eyes off the central crystal.
The pull I felt earlier is stronger now, an almost physical sensation drawing me toward the crystal. It isn't just curiosity or the prospect of valuable salvage—it's as if the crystal itself is calling to me, reaching out across the void that separates us.
Warning bells ring in the back of my mind. This is beyond strange; it's dangerous. I've survived as a void scavenger for fifteen years by knowing when to walk away. Whatever this thing is, it's far outside my experience.
But the crystal pulses again, its crimson light seeming to intensify as if in response to my hesitation. And with that pulse comes...not a voice, exactly, but an impression. A sense of urgent need, of time running out.
Help. Please.
I freeze. The words—if they are words—aren't spoken aloud. They form directly in my mind, bypassing my ears entirely.
"What are you?" I whisper, my voice sounding small and insignificant in the vast chamber.
The crystal pulses again, faster now. The symbols orbiting around it begin to spin more rapidly, their paths intersecting in increasingly complex patterns.
Dying. All dying. Last chance.
The sense of urgency is overwhelming now, a pressure building inside my skull. I take a step forward, then another, moving toward the center of the chamber as if in a trance. The floating symbols part before me, their orbits adjusting to allow me passage.
My hand rises, reaching toward the crystal. A distant part of my mind screams at me to stop, to turn around and run back to my ship. But that voice is drowned out by the crystal's silent call, the inexorable pull of its crimson light.
My fingers are inches from the surface of the shard when a tremor runs through the chamber. The stone beneath my feet shudders, and a deep groaning sound fills the air. Dust and small fragments of rock begin to rain down from the ceiling.
The structure is collapsing.
I hesitate, caught between the crystal's call and my survival instinct. The tremors intensify, the groaning becoming a roar as larger chunks of stone break free from the walls.
The crystal's pulse becomes frantic, its light flaring brighter than ever.
Now! Before it's too late!