Epilogue #2
I shake the pins and needles from my hands, flexing them in my gloves. The adrenaline from earlier is still ricocheting through my bloodstream, making my thoughts skip like a scratched audio file. Kael’s taste lingers on my lips, a ghostly tang I try not to lick away.
I drop my pack by the central plinth and slither down to a crouch beside the terminal I need.
It’s old—probably one of the original Volderen imports, scavenged from a decommissioned research post—and the status lights blink like the eyes of something waiting out a siege.
My breath clouds the screen for an instant before the heat from the processors evaporates it away.
The last logged-in user is ‘LCRD-A5,’ which is probably some dead postdoc, but I find myself whispering a greeting anyway.
I tap into the encrypted volume, fingers dancing familiar chords over the ancient keypad, and the display spits up a list of dead-end reports of atmospheric anomalies, seismic events, and network outages.
I scroll past them, hunting for the good stuff—the stuff they thought they’d hidden.
There. Clustered near the end of the sequence.
Two dozen flagged entries, their metadata scrubbed but not erased.
I probe the first at random, and a schematic flares into existence.
It’s hazy and half-rendered, but unmistakable.
A basalt core sample, sliced open in cross-section and overlaid with a pair of dark spirals etched into the grain.
I’ve seen that motif before, not just in the rocks we harvested from the trench, but somewhere less natural.
I flick the schematic onto a nearby panel and dig for the next report.
This one’s a series of lifecord diagrams, similar to the organic meshwork making up the outpost’s nervous system.
Someone—probably a Volderen—has annotated the branching fractal with the same double-spiral, highlighted in acidic yellow.
The pattern repeats, each turn echoing the one before.
I pinch the image and drag it next to the rock cross-section.
It’s a match.
My pulse thumps in my throat, thick and uneven. I pull up the most recent comms dump, a log from the wormhole scanner that’s raw and unparsed, but the UI at least lets me graph the power curves.
I run a quick check, and there it is again; a frequency spike at 42.7, peaking exactly as the last rift stabilization test collapsed. The double spiral isn’t just a symbol… I think it’s a signal, a resonance burning itself into everything we touch.
I fumble for my data pad, snap a few shots, and pull up my own files.
My last dozen days are a blur of low-res selfies, notes to myself, and fragments of Kael’s handwriting on the back of nutrition rations.
I thumb through the files, find a schematic I drew of the base layout, and overlay the spiral patterns.
It’s not a clean fit, but the mainline corridors and the power loops mostly match the motif—an echo of ancient geometry, something wired into the rock and steel and flesh of Ares Outpost itself.
A tremor shudders through the floor. It’s faint, but I feel it in my ankles. The edge of a data cylinder rolls off the table, clattering away under the racks. The spiral motifs pulse in time with the vibration, and for a second I swear I see the holograph lines flicker blue.
I can’t keep this to myself.
Toggling into the secure comms, I type out the message in a rush.
‘The lines intersect at Nexus Station. We’re on the brink of something bigger.
’ My hands are shaking. I encrypt the file with a double layer, slap on my hash, and route it directly to Kael’s private channel.
For good measure, I dump the supporting images into the same packet.
The moment I hit send, I’m swept with a wave of panic. What if I missed something, what if I just tagged us both for deletion by whatever protocol the Volderen left behind? I resist the urge to recall the message. Instead, I make myself count the seconds until the faint ping comes back.
‘RECEIVED.’
I exhale. My fingers ache from the tension, and I notice I’ve left sweaty fingerprints on the glass of the display. I close the lid, sweep the cylinder remains into my bag, and stand, letting my muscles shake out the last dregs of adrenaline.
As I leave the archives, the door slides shut behind me with a hiss, and the double spirals still burn in my mind.
Out in the corridor, the red pulse of the emergency lighting blends with the afterimage of the holo-maps, and for a second I’m not sure if I’m seeing signals or the inside of my own eyelids.
Either way, there’s no going back now.
***
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I'm including a two-chapter preview below. Enjoy!
Chapter 1:
“Well, if it isn’t the biggest piece of trash in town,” a high voice squeals. “Tilly Morgan. Ugh.”
“Those shoes,” another female, tone dripping disgust, chuckles. “Did you find them in a dumpster?”
Even over Breaking Benjamin’s “Evil Angel” playing in my ear, each hurtful word is a knife cutting into my chest. Gritting my teeth, I transfer a book from my locker to my backpack. With my spine to the girls, I bite my bottom lip.
One, two, three, four…
Emory Watson, one of Callahan High School’s most popular girls—and my number one enemy—never misses an opportunity to cut me down.
I don’t know why, but she’s delighted in my torment since kindergarten.
I shouldn’t let it get under my skin, but sometimes it can’t be helped.
I’ve never known anyone more hateful—or bitchy.
Don’t do anything drastic, I chide myself. If I go to the principal’s office one more time, Mamma’s going to have a heart attack or ground me forever—probably both.
“Come on, ladies,” Emory titters, and her voice lowers, reminding me of a purring cat toying with a mouse. “We don’t want to stand too close to this loser—she might rub off on us.”
“Good riddance,” I mumble, relaxing my shoulders.
It’s the end of the day—Friday, thank God—and lockers bang shut in the hallway.
Other voices echo throughout the corridor, creating a constant thrum of sound.
Sweat, fruity perfumes, and the faint whiff of pot slides through the air.
A few arms jostle me in passing. Some students call out good-natured insults to one another; others speak in excited tones and share plans for the coming weekend.
Me? I don’t have any, but I’m ecstatic to get away from all these douchebags.
“Hey, Tilly.” From the other side of my open locker door, Maximillian Jacobsen raps his knuckles on the metal, then jerks a wireless bud from my ear.
“Stop that.” Yanking it from his fingers, I refocus on loading my bag. What the hell does he want? Known as our school’s troublemaker and all-around bad boy, he doesn’t usually deign to talk to people like me.
“What’re you doing this weekend?” He tosses a blue stress ball into the air and catches it, leaning around the door and peering into the depths of my locker. A strong whiff of expensive cologne wafts my way.
“Do you mind?” I wave at the air and shoulder him out of the way.
“Not usually.” He smiles wickedly. “So, weekend plans? Yay or nay?” The overhead fluorescent lights catch on a small, silver stud in his earlobe.
“No.” Why in the world is he interested in my plans? “Why? You robbing a store and need a lookout?”
“Hmm.” The ball bounces against my head and he snatches it back. “You offering?”
“What? No.” Pinching my eyebrows inward, I still and search his face. What’s his game? He’s never said more than five words to me before, and they were usually “Get out of my way.”
His blue eyes shine. Dark brown hair slides across his forehead and into his vision. Day-old stubble covers his chin. Pushing himself closer, he forces me a couple of inches to the side.
“Dude, if you don’t step back, I’m gonna bust you in the nuts.” I try to ignore him and continue searching the catastrophe inside my locker.
The ball hits the back of my head and I count to ten and grind my teeth.
“So, you going to the dance tomorrow?” Pop.
Is that what this is about?
“Do I look like I want to go to the dance?” With the meanest glare I can muster, I elbow against his body and concentrate on which books I need for weekend homework.
It might be kind of nice to go, but I’ll never know because it’s almost the end of high school, and then I’m out of this crappy, busybody town.
“No, you don’t seem like the dancing-type of gal, which is why I was wondering what you’re doing tomorrow.
” An amused smile tugs at his lips. “If you get bored, I actually do need a partner in crime.” With one last soft thump of the ball against my temple, he saunters away, retro wallet chain swinging from his hip and black biker boots clomping down the hallway.
Shaking my head, I let out a breath and dig through papers. That was so freaking weird.
Something sharp pokes me in the shoulder. He must’ve forgotten something.
“Max, leave me alone. I’m not going anywhere with you.”
Several females chuckle.
I clench the strap of my backpack, now sitting on the bottom of the locker. Those giggles mean one thing: Emory Watson and her pack of laughing hyenas have returned.
Ignoring what was probably her long, manicured fingernail digging into my skin, I zip the bag closed and focus on breathing deep, cleansing breaths.
“Oh, poor little Tilly.” A high chuckle. “No one invited you to the Spring Dance. So sad.”
Grabbing a handle, I pivot to face her and the trio of sycophants.