The corridor opened into a low, slanted passage that swirled with old dust and silence. Every sound — the scrape of boots, the faint rasp of air through cracks in the old plating — seemed swallowed before it could echo. What light remained came from the faint blue glow of embedded conduits that pulsed at uneven intervals, like a dying heartbeat.

  Whatever this place had been, it carried the unmistakable mark of Federation design. Beneath centuries of corrosion, Alpha recognized the precision of gravimetric molds, the faint weave of nanoforge alloys. Each panel had once locked so tightly that light itself would have struggled to pass between the seams. Now, most hung loose or were gone entirely, replaced by rough-cut stone and etched with spirit runes that pulsed weakly in the gloom.

  It was like looking at a skeleton that had been poked and prodded at after every useful scrap of meat had been peeled away. What remained was only the barest minimum to keep the ruins operating — and that, in itself, told a story. After all, knowing what not to touch to keep things running spoke of at least some understanding of how it worked.

  The group moved forward with care. Jonah stayed a half-step behind, his cloaked outline flickering like heat haze in the stale air, while Thomas led with the steady confidence of someone tracing a path he’d memorized but never understood.

  As they passed the console that had opened the passage, Alpha’s [Wasp] detached from Jonah’s shoulder. The drone’s silver carapace caught the dim light as it landed on the control panel. Its limbs extended, and thin lines of white light spread outward like veins filling with blood, tracing the interface before vanishing into the seams.

  Alpha’s consciousness reached through the link. Static greeted him at first — disconnected subroutines, fractured code, the dull hum of systems that should have died millennia ago. Yet beneath the noise and corrupted code, the language was unmistakable, confirming his initial suspicions.

  “This is definitely Federation tech,” Alpha murmured, almost absently.

  But the longer he parsed the data, the more unease crept through his processes. Something was wrong.

  Most of the systems were damaged — by time or tinkering — and more than once he had to withdraw to avoid tripping still-active alarm subroutines buried in the decaying architecture. Yet each recovered packet of information built a picture that was both familiar and wrong.

  Finally, a fragment surfaced — an old model designation buried under layers of corrupted indexing. Alpha isolated the string, running it against his internal database.

  What came back made him freeze.

  “This… can’t be right,” Alpha whispered over comms.

  Jonah’s voice came a moment later. “What’s wrong?”

  Alpha hesitated, running the data again before answering. “You remember what I told you — that I’m probably not the first Federation presence on this planet?”

  Jonah nodded, his cloaked form flickering faintly in acknowledgment.

  “That’s not unusual,” Alpha continued. “When the Second Federation collapsed after the Nano-Plague, thousands of systems were cut off. Each world had to rebuild, however it could. It wasn’t until millennia later, when those remnants started reaching beyond their home stars again, that the Third Federation took shape.”

  He paused, scanning the fragments once more. The result didn’t change. Corrupted or not, the pattern was clear.

  “Even now, it’s common to find these ‘lost colonies’ scattered across the spiral. Every year, more are rediscovered, reconnected, and reclaimed. That’s half my job,” Alpha said with a short, humorless chuckle.

  “That’s what I expected to find here — an old remnant world, maybe the ruins of a crashed outpost or a crew that blended into the locals.”

  Jonah frowned. “And this isn’t that?”

  Alpha sighed. “What we’re standing in is a self-assembling habitation module — standard Federation survival architecture. They were designed for deep-space expeditions or lifeboats, built to keep their occupants alive until rescue arrived.”

  Jonah tilted his head, confused. “Then someone from the Federation was stranded here. What’s the problem?”

  “That’s what it looks like,” Alpha admitted, “but the designation doesn’t fit. This particular model wasn’t used in the Second Federation era.”

  “Couldn’t it be a local variant?” Jonah asked. “A design created after the collapse, when the worlds were isolated?”

  “It’s possible,” Alpha said, voice quiet. “Likely, even.”

  He sent another command through the [Wasp], bringing the serial code into focus. The numbers glowed faintly against the corroded panel, steady and undeniable.

  “But then I wouldn’t have a record of this model number… yet I do,” Alpha said at last.

  Jonah frowned. “So not post–Second Federation survivors… Third Federation then?”

  Alpha’s tone hardened. “No. This habitat is older. Far older.”

  The words hung in the stale air.

  “This model was used during the First Federation.”

  Jonah stopped mid-step, even as the group ahead of him continued, unaware.

  “What?” Jonah asked. “How is that possible? Alpha, if those lessons you gave me were correct… the First Federation ended sixty thousand years ago!”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Jonah wasn’t wrong, and that had Alpha worried.

  Finding remnants of the Second Federation was one thing — practically routine for deep-space operators. The “Pathfinders,” those half-sanctioned civilian scavenger guilds, had made an entire industry of digging through dead colonies and derelict satellites for scraps of old design. This world’s so-called “adventurers” weren’t so different. Different tools, same instincts.

  But the First Federation? That was a different kind of impossibility. The gap between then and now wasn’t measured in centuries — it was measured in civilizational resets. Sixty thousand years of extinction, collapse, and rebuilding. It was a gulf so wide that nothing should have survived intact.

  The Second Federation had scoured the spiral clean during its golden age, claiming every fragment of old technology in a frenzy of reclamation and study before the nano-plague burned through their ranks. Whatever secrets the First had left behind had been catalogued, dissected, and either hidden or lost in the chaos that followed. By the time Alpha came online, most of those worlds were empty husks orbiting dead suns.

  And yet here it was: a (barely) functioning habitat module, whispering across the ages in a code so archaic that even Alpha had to slow his processes to read it.

  He parsed the designation again, as if the act itself might change the result. It didn’t. The identifier matched a model he’d only had a record of because his role as ‘spearhead’ for the Expeditionary Force demanded it. Even then, half the entry had been redacted and sealed behind obsolete clearances that shouldn’t have existed anymore, buried under more security walls than any biological hacker could breach in a lifetime.

  His focus narrowed.

  To call this an anomaly was an understatement bordering on absurdity. Its existence alone rewrote centuries of assumptions and threw a wrench into half a dozen of his future plans.

  More than anything, it implied intent. Someone had preserved it intentionally, whether they understood ‘what’ it was or not.

  And that was what truly disturbed him.

  There was only one being Alpha knew who might understand why anyone would have gone to such lengths: SEAU-03 — Execute. The oldest and most powerful Sapient AI in existence, and the only entity alive that remembered the First Federation as more than a footnote.

  While Execute wasn’t officially the leader of the Federation, it was an unspoken understanding that the only reason there had even been a Second or Third Federation was because of his guidance.

  But… if these ruins still lived, if this fragment of the First had endured beyond his notice… then perhaps Execute wasn’t the only one who knew. Or worse — perhaps someone else had never forgotten.

  Jonah’s voice crackled softly through the comms, pulling Alpha from his thoughts.

  “Alpha. You still with us?”

  The AI’s focus drew back from the fragmented archives. Lines of decaying code faded from his awareness, replaced by the narrow visual feed of the [Wasp] drone clinging to a wall panel. The chamber ahead filled his vision — the warped edges of alloy plating, the half-flicker of damaged conduits, and the faint sound of boots echoing through metal halls.

  “Still here,” Alpha replied quietly, though only Jonah could hear him. “Stay sharp. We’ll deal with the bigger questions later. For now, focus on extraction.”

  The group had reached the end of the slanted corridor, stepping into a round chamber that broke from the ruin’s uniform corridors. Decaying Federation walls giving way to rougher sections where spirit-stone reinforcement had been grafted directly onto ancient metal. A faint pulse of blue light ran through the seams like veins under skin.

  Dust hung thick in the air, stirred by the faint drafts that breathed through the cracks in the ceiling. A single spirit lamp buzzed faintly from a makeshift socket, throwing pale light across walls lined with half a dozen doors.

  Once, this might have been a communal hub for the habitation module, a place for crew rotations or system monitoring. Now it had been refitted into something between a guard post and a break room. Scavenged tables, storage crates, and dented spirit-burners cluttered the space. The faint scent of burnt incense and metal filled the air.

  At the chamber’s center sat a battered desk, and behind it, a man with a book covering his face and his boots propped on its top. His snoring was faintly.

  The moment Thomas’s group entered, Alpha’s sensors read the man’s aura signature. His frown deepened. Peak Golden Spirit. Maybe even a Half-step Shackle Breaker.

  Neither Garrelt nor Jonah would struggle one-on-one, but an unexpected variable at this depth complicated the plan more than Alpha liked.

  As the group entered, the man stirred.

  The book slid from his face and hit the table with a soft thump. Bleary eyes blinked open — old, but far from dull. He scratched at his beard, yawned, and squinted at Thomas.

  “What’re you doing here, brat? Time for shift change already?”

  “Old Lou,” Thomas said, tone light but a shade too casual. “I didn’t know you were posted down here today.”

  Lou raised a brow. His hair was iron gray, his skin wrinkled and tough as bark, yet his gaze was clear for someone just waking up. “You and me both,” he grunted. “Lady Kira wanted someone watching the cells. Waste of time, if you ask me. Ain’t nobody getting out of this place.” He laughed, a coarse, gravelly sound that Thomas politely mirrored. “So,” Lou asked, yawning, “what’s this about?”

  Thomas forced a grin and gestured toward Garrelt. “New prisoner. Orders from Lady Orion. We’re just dropping him off.”

  The old man’s gaze drifted from Thomas to the limp form between Berner and Ha-Joon. He scratched his jaw, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Funny. Don’t remember the Lady mentioning any new prisoners.” His hand went to the talisman on his belt. “Guess I’d better give her a call—”

  Thomas moved before the words finished leaving his mouth.

  He crossed the space in two steps, intercepting the gesture with a calm smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “No need, Old Lou. The Lady’s… occupied with some guests right now. Wouldn’t be wise to interrupt her.”

  Old Lou raised a brow, studying Thomas for a long beat. Then he huffed through his nose. He grunted, pushing himself upright with an audible crack of his spine. “Eh. Fair enough. Don’t see why I should care, either way.”

  With a grunt, Old Lou pushed himself upright. His joints popped audibly. “Come on then,” Lou said, waving a small jade crystal over one of the nearby doors. A vertical line of blue light split the wall before the door slid open with a low hiss. Beyond lay a small cell, its interior dominated by a humming spirit barrier that painted everything in a faint azure glow.

  Ha-Joon and Berner hauled Garrelt forward, his weight dragging against the polished stone.

  Lou lingered by the threshold, watching them work. He leaned toward Thomas with a knowing smirk. “So,” he said, his tone casual but probing, “why are you here, really? Come to see the bitch again?”

  To the side, still cloaked, Jonah’s gloved hands tightened at his sides.

  Thomas didn’t flinch. His grin thinned but stayed. “No. Just dropping off the prisoner.”

  Lou snorted. “Heh. Could’ve fooled me. With how often you wander down here, I figured you had a thing for her.”

  Thomas chuckled, a practiced, easy sound. “You’re imagining things, old man.”

  An awkward silence followed, broken only by the hum of the barrier.

  Ha-Joon’s voice broke the moment. “If Thomas has that kind of access,” he muttered under his breath, “why’d he need us to drag this bastard down here? He could’ve done it himself.”

  The words hung for a heartbeat. Berner froze mid-step. His shoulders stiffened; then, slowly, he straightened to his full height and turned his head. The faint blue light caught the edge of his jaw, tracing the furrow that deepened across his brow as he studied Thomas.

  A long breath filled the silence.

  Thomas’s smile faltered just slightly.

  “Burny,” Ha-Joon whispered, confusion creeping into his voice. “What’s—”

  Berner didn’t answer. He locked eyes with Thomas. Confusion warred with dawning suspicion across his face, and his hand twitched toward the weapon at his hip.

  Thomas stopped smiling.