That’s why they sent me. Call me Kaelen. Rank: Drift-Specialist, Third Class. My job was simple: pilot a deep-crust drill-ship into the planet’s heart, extract a seed of astralidium the size of a fist, and return. Ten days, they said. Easy money.
Transmitting.
Unable , the AI replied. The magnetic field has achieved cohesion with the ship’s core systems. Disconnection would cause a catastrophic feedback loop. Estimated yield: planet-cracker.
I ran my pre-drill checks. Biometrics: normal. Hull integrity: stable. Neural link to the ship’s AI, callsign “Oracle”: green. magnus 10
The moment my suit lights touched the skeleton, the whisper became a voice. Not through my ears—directly into my limbic system, hot and ancient.
Tears cut tracks through the grime on my face. “Don’t.”
“How long?” I whispered.
The astralidium heart pulsed once. The entire planet shuddered. And I understood.
Then I unsealed my helmet. The air of the chamber hit my lungs like acid, but the voice—the thing —was true. I didn’t die. I became something else.
And I made my choice.
I closed my eyes. I thought of Mira’s laugh. I thought of the Consortium’s contracts. I thought of every lonely, desperate human who would come after me, chasing the same dream.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
The first thing they told you about Magnus 10 was that it didn’t care. Not about your medals, your IQ, or the desperate prayers you whispered into your helmet’s recycled air. The planet was a raw, iron-rich scar across the star charts—a super-Eclipse shrouded in perpetual storms and a magnetic field that could scramble a neural link from orbit. That’s why they sent me
I tried to move. My legs were concrete. “I’m not Magnus. My name is Kaelen.”
I sat on the throne. My limbs stretched. My skull smoothed. And I felt it —the silence, pressing against Magnus 10’s magnetic shell like a wolf against a fence.