The data-condensate was cool and smooth against Kaelen's palm. He held it up to the light of his now-optimized lumina-orb. It was flawless, a droplet of captured midnight. He glanced at his tablet, still displaying Zyx's message. 0.4 seconds.
He walked to the section of wall near his desk. It looked identical to the rest—dull, featureless grey composite. According to Zyx, it was a cycling weak point in the interstitial damping field, the same technology that kept realities from bleeding into each other within the Versity's structure. A brief, regular vulnerability.
His tablet had no timer function he trusted, but his old-world brain knew rhythms. He'd timed pump cycles in the hydroponic farms by counting his own heartbeats, calibrated to a forgotten digital watch. He could approximate.
He placed a fingertip against the wall, closed his eyes, and began counting.
One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand...
He focused on the memory of the wall's earlier fuzzing. The visual static, the ozone-and-sugar smell. He counted to seventy, then slowed, his senses straining.
At seventy-three, he felt it. A minute vibration, a softening of the material under his finger, like pressing on firm gelatin instead of solid rock. His eyes snapped open.
The wall didn't fully fuzz this time. It just… wavered, like a heat mirage. For less than half a second, the boundary became permeable.
He spoke quickly, his voice a low whisper aimed at the exact spot. "Zyx. Can you hear me?"
The waver snapped back to solidity. Silence.
He waited, counting again. His heart thudded against his ribs. This was insane. Communicating through a temporal pinhole in reality.
...seventy-one, seventy-two—
The weak point cycled. This time, Zyx's voice, tinny and compressed as if shouted through a straw, came through. "—ear you! Next cycle—conduit map—synthesizer hack—"
Solid.
Kaelen exhaled. A two-way conversation was going to be a nightmare of missed connections. He needed a buffer. An interface.
He looked at the data-condensate in his hand, then at his tablet. The tablet had linked to the Versity's systems. Could it act as a relay? He placed the blue sphere against the tablet's cracked screen. The screen reacted immediately, glowing lines spreading from the point of contact like frost on glass.
[Data-Condensate detected. Decoding...]
[Content: Spatial and Mechanical Schematics. Integrity: 100%.]
[Installing local reference files... Done.]
A new icon appeared on his home screen: a simple, three-dimensional cube. He tapped it. A holographic map, about the size of a basketball, projected from the tablet's camera. It was a wireframe model of the Null Quarter's Sub-Levels 1 through 10. His berth was a tiny, pulsing dot. Dozens of thin, blue lines snaked through the walls and floors—power conduits, data-streams, environmental control channels. Several were marked with tiny, flashing red asterisks: Structural Fatigue Points. Others had green circles: Low-Security Monitoring Blind Spots (Theoretical).
One conduit, a thick primary line labeled [Quarter-Maintenance Grid - Auxiliary Feed], ran right behind the wall of Berth 42. According to the map, there was an access panel for it in the hallway, three doors down, but it was secured with a standard mag-lock. The schematic for the mag-lock flashed next to it, showing its power flow. It had a backup capacitor, and a tiny, almost ridiculous vulnerability: the capacitor's discharge regulator had a 0.05-second lag during its daily diagnostic cycle. If you introduced a specific counter-surge into the conduit at that exact moment, you could fry the capacitor and force the lock into a fail-safe "open" state for 15 seconds.
It was the kind of flaw only a being who saw reality as lines of code would notice.
The second part of the data was the schematic for the ration synthesizer in his wall. It was a simple machine: base matter resequencers, nutrient templates, flavor (optional) injectors. The highlighted "modification nodes" were input ports for overriding the template selection. Essentially, if he could feed it a different data signal, he could—theoretically—make it produce something other than nutrient paste and water.
He looked from the map to the weak wall point. He had tools. He had intelligence. He had a deadline—Brog and Vik'nar's "curiosity" would lead to more complex, likely more dangerous, tasks. He needed to leverage his advantage. He needed to turn salvage into assets.
The next "cycle"—a Versity time period roughly analogous to twenty Earth hours—began with another pounding on his door. This time, Vik'nar alone stood there, his sensor-bar gleaming.
"Your performance was statistically anomalous," the logic-bound stated. "Hypothesis: latent spatial reasoning or manual dexterity exceeding your profile. You are reassigned. Follow."
They didn't go back to Sub-Basement 7. Instead, they descended further, to Sub-Basement 12. The air here was colder, and the hum of the Versity's core systems was a palpable vibration in the floor. The hall was narrower, lined with sealed vault-like doors.
"This is the Anomalous Materials Holding cell," Vik'nar explained, stopping before a door marked with a pulsating yellow hazard rune. "Objects from consumed realities that exhibit persistent, low-level autonomous activity or residual ontological effects. They are non-threatening but... messy. Your task is cataloging and preliminary containment checks."
The door slid open with a hiss of pressurized air. The room inside was a sphere about thirty feet across. In the center, floating in a stasis field of gently rippling silver light, was a collection of objects. A stone that wept black tears that vanished before hitting the floor. A twisted piece of wood that grew and shrank in a slow, breathing rhythm. A metal helmet that occasionally whispered in a language that made Kaelen's teeth ache. A book whose pages turned themselves, filled with shifting, unreadable script.
Around the edges of the room were workstations with simple manipulator arms and data-slates.
"You will use the slate to log each object's observed behavior for one full cycle," Vik'nar said. "Do not breach the stasis field. Do not attempt physical contact. Your safety is not a operational priority for this task. Begin."
The door sealed behind Vik'nar, leaving Kaelen alone with the whispering, weeping, breathing artifacts of dead worlds.
For a moment, he just stared, a profound sense of melancholy washing over him. These weren't just objects; they were the last, flickering echoes of entire universes. The stone's tears were the grief of a lost mountain. The book's pages held the final, fading stories of a civilization.
He shook it off. Sentiment wouldn't keep him alive. He picked up the data-slate. It was a heavier, more robust version of his tablet, but with a locked interface—only the cataloging software was accessible.
He looked at the stone. The slate had an entry for it: *[Object #4417: "Mourner's Core." Origin: Lithos-9 (Consumed). Status: Stable, weeping phenomenon constant. Log interval: every 100 cycles.]*
Kaelen started the log. As he did, he subtly angled his own tablet, still in his pocket, towards the objects. He couldn't pull it out with the room likely monitored, but he could feel it vibrate softly against his leg as it scanned.
He spent hours watching, recording. The work was monotonous but required attention. The breathing piece of wood had a cycle of 47 minutes. The whispering helmet's volume spiked every 22 minutes. He logged it all dutifully.
During the third hour, his tablet vibrated with a distinct, three-pulse pattern—a warning he'd set up after studying its basic functions. He casually shifted, pretending to stretch, and glanced at the reflection of the central stasis field in the polished metal of a workstation.
One of the objects, a small, ornate music box he'd logged as inert, was now glowing with a faint, internal purple light. It wasn't in the log's expected parameters.
He picked up the data-slate and called up the music box's file. *[Object #4421: "Lullaby Casket." Origin: Sonus-V (Consumed). Status: Inert. Last activity recorded: 10,043 cycles ago.]*
It was no longer inert. The purple glow pulsed in time with the humming vibration in the floor. A resonance.
His tablet vibrated again, more urgently. He managed to slide it out just enough to see a corner of the screen. Text scrolled.
[WARNING: Localized reality-stability index dropping.]
[Source: Object #4421. Activating in response to sub-harmonic frequency in Versity power grid (cycle peak).]
[Effect: Low-grade spatial lullaby field. Induces stupor, then catatonia in organic consciousness. Containment breach imminent if field overlaps with stasis field frequency.]
[Calculating overlap... in 6 minutes, 14 seconds.]
Kaelen's blood went cold. He looked at the music box. The purple light was getting brighter, and a faint, almost imperceptible melody began to weave into the air, a tune that made his eyelids feel heavy. A spatial lullaby. In six minutes, it would sing the stasis field to sleep, and all these active anomalies would be loose in a room with him.
He had no tools. No weapons. Only a data-slate and a tablet full of diagnostics.
He looked at the stasis field generator. It was a series of emitters around the base of the spherical room. His tablet, if he could get a direct scan, might see its frequency. But he couldn't walk over without reason.
The music box's melody grew subtly louder. A wave of drowsiness washed over him. He pinched his own arm, hard.
Think. He was a technician. He fixed things. This was a system failure in progress. The music box was generating a harmful frequency. The solution was either disable the source or change the stasis field's frequency to avoid the overlap.
Disabling the source meant breaching the stasis field, which was forbidden and would likely trigger alarms. Changing the stasis field…
He looked at the data-slate in his hand. It was connected to the cataloging system. Was it only for cataloging? Or did it have low-level access to the containment systems?
He navigated away from the logging software. The main menu was sparse, but there was an option: [Containment System Status (Read-Only)]. He tapped it.
A simplified schematic of the room appeared. The stasis field was listed, its frequency a long string of numbers. It was on a fixed, automated cycle. But there was a sub-menu: [Manual Calibration Override - EMERGENCY USE ONLY. Requires Supervisor Code.]
He didn't have a code. But the system had to be accessible for a reason. What did Vik'nar say? "Your safety is not an operational priority." They wouldn't care if he was knocked out or killed by an anomaly. The override was there for someone else.
The melody was now a tangible thing in the air, a soft, purple-hued fog beginning to coil from the music box. The weeping stone's tears fell faster. The whispering helmet was silent, as if listening.
Four minutes.
His tablet buzzed against his leg. He pulled it out fully now, no longer caring about monitoring. He pointed it at the stasis field emitters. A rapid scan.
[Stasis Field Emitter Array: Model SF-44.]
[Frequency: 44.17 Terahertz (Stable).]
[Modulation Control: Hardwired to central system with software override possible via local access point.]
[Local Access Point: Maintenance port at base of Emitter #3.]
Kaelen's eyes darted to the ring of emitters. Number 3 was on the far side of the room. He'd have to enter the stasis field to reach it.
The purple fog was thickening. His thoughts were becoming syrupy. Lullaby field.
He couldn't enter the field. But maybe he didn't need to.
He ran to the workstation with the manipulator arms. They were simple, designed for moving objects within the field without entering it. Their range was limited. Emitter #3 was just outside their maximum reach.
Two minutes.
He looked at the manipulator arm's control interface. Basic joystick, extend/retract, grab/release. His tablet scanned it.
[Manipulator Arm: Standard-issue, Servo-motors, hydraulic assist.]
[Diagnostic: Joint 4 (wrist) has 14% reduced range due to misaligned feedback sensor.]
A misalignment. A flaw. If he could force it, overload the servo for a split second, he might get an extra few inches of reach.
He grabbed the joystick, extending the arm towards Emitter #3. It stopped short, the claw hovering a frustrating six inches from the maintenance port. He pushed against the joystick's limit. The motor whined in protest.
On his tablet, he pulled up the arm's schematic. The feedback sensor for Joint 4 was a small component. If he sent a jolt of power through the wrong circuit…
He had no direct access. But the control console was a system. He slammed the heel of his hand down on the console's housing, right where the main processor would be—a primitive, brute-force attempt to cause a momentary glitch.
The console flickered. The manipulator arm jerked violently, spasming forward those precious extra inches before the safety protocols kicked in and it froze.
The claw was now touching the maintenance port on Emitter #3.
One minute.
His fingers flew over his tablet. He commanded it to attempt a handshake with whatever was inside the port via the manipulator arm's conductive claw.
// Attempting connection...
// ...Connected. Security: Minimal (Local Maintenance Mode).
// Accessing frequency modulation sub-routines...
The purple fog was now waist-high. The melody was the only thing in his head. He fought to keep his eyes open, his fingers moving.
// Current frequency: 44.17 THz.
// Suggested non-interfering frequency (outside lullaby resonance band): 44.91 THz or 43.44 THz.
// Changing frequency requires authorization code.
Authorization code. The EMERGENCY OVERRIDE on the data-slate required a supervisor code. What code would a logic-bound like Vik'nar use? Something efficient. Standardized.
Kaelen's fading mind grasped at straws. He typed into his tablet, sending it through the link: [Override Code: NULLQUARTER-SUB12-ADMIN.]
// Error: Code invalid.
[Override Code: BROG-VIKNAR.]
// Error.
Thirty seconds. The fog was at his chest. The music box was open now, a tiny, spinning galaxy of purple light inside it, singing the world to sleep.
He looked at the data-slate, still showing the emergency override screen. At the bottom, in tiny print, was a system identifier: [Apex Versity Containment - Node: AV-CN-4412.]
A node identifier. Could it be that simple? A default?
With numb fingers, he typed into his tablet: [Override Code: AV-CN-4412.]
// ...
// Authorization accepted. Emergency protocols engaged.
// Altering stasis field frequency to 44.91 THz.
A loud, rising whine filled the room. The silver stasis field rippled, its color shifting slightly towards the blue end of the spectrum.
The purple fog from the music box recoiled, the melody hitting a discordant note. The two fields were no longer in sync. The lullaby effect shattered.
The fog dissipated. The music box's glow dimmed, its lid snapping shut with a final, soft click. The other objects settled back into their recorded patterns.
Kaelen slumped against the console, gasping, sweat cooling on his brow. The crushing drowsiness lifted, leaving behind a hollow ache and the sharp tang of adrenaline.
The door hissed open. Vik'nar stood there, his sensor-bar sweeping the room. It paused on the now-dormant music box, then on the frozen manipulator arm touching Emitter #3, then on Kaelen, panting by the console.
"Anomalous activity was detected in this cell," Vik'nar stated. "The stasis field frequency was altered via the local maintenance port during an emergency protocol. Explain."
Kaelen's mind raced. "The… the music box. It activated. Started emitting something. I felt… drowsy. I saw the manipulator arm was malfunctioning, it jerked. It must have hit the port and triggered something by accident. The system must have an auto-response."
It was flimsy. Too many coincidences.
Vik'nar was silent for a long moment, his sensor-bar fixed on Kaelen. Then he looked at the data-slate, still in Kaelen's hand, showing the override screen. "The system log shows an override code was entered. The code used was this node's own identifier. A standard default for low-priority, automated systems." He looked back at Kaelen. "A manipulator arm malfunction striking the exact port, followed by an automated system using its default code to enact a perfect frequency shift to counter a resonant ontological anomaly, is a sequence of events with a probability of 0.000034%."
Kaelen said nothing, holding his breath.
"It is, however," Vik'nar continued, his tone unchanging, "the only sequence that does not require me to log a report on a Null-Type successfully hacking a containment system. Which would require investigation. Which would be inefficient and consume my processing resources."
Vik'nar stepped forward and took the data-slate. "Your cataloging is complete for this cycle. You have performed your assigned task. The anomaly was contained. The outcome is acceptable. You are dismissed. Return to your berth."
The logic-bound turned and walked away, leaving Kaelen standing in the silent sphere of echoing artifacts.
He stumbled out, his legs weak. Vik'nar knew. Or at least strongly suspected. But for reasons of pure, cold efficiency, the logic-bound had chosen to look the other way. For now. The curiosity had just turned into something more dangerous: acknowledged, monitored potential.
Back in Berth 42, the ration synthesizer had produced another bland bar. This time, Kaelen studied its schematic on his tablet. The modification node was an internal data port. To access it, he'd need to open the panel, which would certainly trigger a tamper alert.
Unless…
He looked at the map. The auxiliary power conduit behind his wall. The mag-lock on the access panel three doors down. The 0.05-second vulnerability.
He wasn't just a cataloger of broken things anymore. He was a man with a map, a plan, and a very narrow window.
He waited for the weak point in the wall to cycle. When it wavered, he spoke clearly into the brief opening.
"Zyx. Next cycle. I need to borrow a surge."
From the other side, through the solidifying wall, came the delighted, chittering reply.
"A specific surge? How delightful! Tell me the timing!"
Kaelen smiled, a tired but sharp thing. He was learning the rules of this broken, glorious, terrifying place. And the first rule was: every system has a flaw. You just have to find the weak point.