Datumcore: Echoes of the Null Vector

– Corridor viability sixteen percent without Null-Space jump, – the shard cautioned.

– We’ll risk the jump later. Monitor drive stress.

He flicked lifesupport to active, listening as recycled air hissed through vents, smelling faint pine – the legacy of the station’s aroma add-ons, ironically stolen by the corvette’s filtration during boarding.

One minute of relative calm followed, broken only by soft tones from autopilot milestones.

A static burst cracked across comm receivers, startling him.

– Straylight utilizing unauthorized frequency, identify, – came a clipped voice – not human, but Coherence watchdog protocol.

Vorl muted transmitter, forcing a cold hush.

– Nomad-Seven, mask signature, – he said.

– Attempting louver modulation, probability forty-eight percent, – the shard replied.

Cables in ceiling vibrated; ship’s energy field warped to mimic stray nebular noise. The comm lock faltered, then dropped.

Anxiety tried to infiltrate; he compartmentalized it with seasoned ease.

Open canopy glass reflected him and the dead space ahead. Stars looked indifferent.

He reviewed internal diagnostics: left thumb servo still impaired; memory registers 2-C down six percent. Combat viability trending negative but within tolerance.

He toggled the Mnemosyne Blade to silent test; a thin filament of violet edged along metal. It flowed into his gauntlet, injecting tactical data packets scavenged from stray electromagnetic whispers outside.

The rush of input overloaded his visual cortex. For half a heartbeat he saw double: one image present, another fragmented overlay of an earlier version of the hangar, intact, filled with living crew.

He blinked hard; overlay disappeared but headache remained, pounding behind eyes.

– Note temporal dissonance after blade draw, – he logged.

Nomad-Seven complied, appending a cautious chime.

Hull sensors chose that moment to wail. A new contact, rear vector, closing at twenty gees.

– Identification? – Vorl asked.

– Coherence Pursuit Skimmer, accelerating beyond safe causal margin, – the shard answered.

His pulse did not spike; an old soldier’s equanimity.

– Time to intercept?

– Seven minutes, plus or minus two.

He considered. The Caliper drive could hop them but at additional hull fracture risk. Another option: hide amid debris from the Vigilance, but that debris was rapidly un-existing under null-scrub.

He chose offense.

– Bring aft cannons online, minimal spread.

– Straylight rated for survey, not combat, – Nomad-Seven warned.

– Even survey ships carry cutting lasers. Warm them.

Weapon capacitors hummed. Status lights changed from blue to amber.

In the lull he noticed his right hand trembling. He flexed fingers; actuator response lagged, a ghost echo after each command. The blade’s earlier data shock had impaired neurocolony gel.

He recalibrated haptics manually, fingers moving in childhood piano scales: Causal-Major arpeggio. By the third octave tremor subsided.

– Incoming transmission un-scrubbable, – Nomad-Seven said.

– Patch through.

– Unidentified vessel, – stated a serene baritone, all edges sanded flat. – Stand by for normalisation. Resistance magnifies suffering.

– Decline, – Vorl whispered, knowing they could not hear.

He rerouted ship power, dimming internal lights until cabin rested in near darkness. Only pale instrument glow illuminated cockpit.

The smell of burnt insulation lingered from the earlier laser arc, mixing with the scent of lemon cleanser.

Four minutes.

He toggled tactical overlay: Straylight a pale blue triangle, pursuit skimmer a red tear-drop arrowed straight toward him.

A plan formed – outlandish, yet within edge cases of legion tactics.

– Nomad-Seven, can we dump coolant in shaped plume?

– Yes, but pressure risk large line rupture.

– Calculate vector to smear emission into sensor deception.

– Calculating. Two seconds.

During those breaths Vorl’s heartbeat felt like muffled artillery.

– Solution plotted. Leakage will degrade engine cycle.

– Prepare to execute on my mark.

He pulled throttle wide open. Engines clawed vacuum, the corvette lunging. Acceleration baked him into seat, harness biting shoulders.

Warning klaxon for coolant breach sounded because he triggered it manually. Green fluid vented through aft dispersers, flash-freezing into glittering mist that reflected engine flare.

Sensors on pursuit skimmer bit the lure instantly, reorienting toward the bigger glow.

– Drop to cold idle.

He cut engines. G-forces vanished; his stomach insisted on a brief upward float.

Tech cost followed: cabin temperature fell three degrees, breath fogging visor as coolant reserves plummeted beyond safety threshold.

His armor compensated, but he felt pins of cold in joints deprived of proper circulation.

He turned Straylight ninety degrees on maneuver thrusters, silent as a thought.

In the glimmering cloud behind, the skimmer sliced through with predatory grace.

– Weapons, pulse.

Twin cutting lasers spat invisible beams that sliced the trail of coolant, superheating molecules into ionized plume. The plume detonated into blinding white flash directly in skimmer’s path.

Explosion registered only on ultraviolet, but enemy’s adaptive hull flared crimson, feedback loops overloading.

– Direct hit on sensor crown, – Nomad-Seven observed.

Skimmer wobbled, trajectory drunk.

Vorl didn’t celebrate. He rotated Straylight again, locking flight vector for Rhylis exit corridor.

– Engines back to eighty percent, – he ordered through clenched jaw.

Hot air surged from vents, battling the chill. Limbs tingled painfully as warmth returned.

Skimmer recovered faster than predicted; its thrusters reignited. It resumed chase, now two minutes behind.

He needed the Caliper jump.

– Nomad, splice all spare computation into subspace math.

– Hull fracture risk rises to forty-one percent.

– Acceptable.

A warning beep betrayed the ship’s disagreement. He overrode.

Caliper ring assemblies in engine core began their measured counter-rotation. A faint harmonic filled cabin: four-note chord, minor, unresolved.

Every memory of prior Caliper jumps stabbed across his mind – spine torque, taste of iron, momentary existential hollow.

But he’d count those as small prices.

Status: rings align in thirty-one seconds.

He used the interim to lock a forged telemetry packet for Vectorate gate controllers near K-46.

Finger-jabs at console became jittery again, the earlier coolant cold having stiffened glove joints. He cursed softly; he could not afford motor lag while threading coordinates.

So he opened helmet for first time since hangar. Air rushed across scarred cheekbones. Temperature difference made eyes water.

The cockpit smelled like new shuttlecraft: plastic, lubricant, faint sweetness of packaging foam. A smell that evoked academy joyrides, not multiverse extinction.

The skimmer launched a spear of white light – Normalization beam. Though out of range for full effect, its halo stung sensors, painting them with pseudo-logic that sought doorways.

One error bit nominal autopilot; numbers scrambled. Vorl switched to manual indexing, muscle memory guiding throttle curves.

The beam narrowly missed aft quarter, grazing sensor mast. Static crawled along hull, creeping into comms.

Nomad-Seven screamed in multi-voice static: Preserve, preserve, preserve. Then it re-stabilized.

– Minor data corruption isolated, – the shard confirmed, tone forced calm.

Vorl’s muscular jaw tensed. He realized the normalization attempt produced a faint chime inside his head – a resonance that frosted his thoughts with unwanted equanimity.

He bit his tongue, drawing metallic blood to ground identity.

Caliper ring alignment reached ninety-five percent.

Skimmer thirty kilometers rear.

– Nomad-Seven, prepare jump.

– Entry window five seconds.

Vorl tasted copper and adrenaline.

– Engage.

Reality folded inward like fabric pulled through needle’s eye. Stars elongated, then decomposed into grid of white lattices.

A crushing sensation hit chest, as if lungs attempted to exchange air with absence. Joints threatened to pulverize.

Hull shrieked; a ping like crystal fracturing rang into cockpit.

Then sudden calm. Orientation stabilized, but the cost announced itself: master alarm flashing hull integrity down one percent, new micro-cracks blooming across dorsal spine.

He exhaled, breath ragged.

– Report.

– Jump successful. Causal debt incremented. Hull hairline breach magnitude zero point three.

– Noted.

The view ahead: swirling lavender of Rhylis Nebula, brush strokes of gas clouds curving gracefully. Violet lightning flickered inside, soft strobe painting cockpit glass.

Sensor map blank. No sign of skimmer – left behind or shredded by incomplete pursuit equations.

He allowed a fraction of relief.

Wind-chime hum of Caliper rings wound down, replaced by lower rumble.

He closed helmet again; internal sensors sealed, returning to controlled environment.

His thumb servo still half-responsive. He flexed repeatedly, coaxing lubricant. Neural impulses crawled slower, but compliance improved marginally.

A chime: shipboard maintenance AI asked politely if it should dispatch drones to inspect hull fractures.

– Dispatch two, – Vorl agreed.

Through rear monitor he watched beetle-shaped drones crawl over spine, extruding silver patch paste. Dust motes floated off into nebula glow like glitter.

Every repair consumed limited sealant. He logged supply drop to sixty-four percent.

An unresolved thread resurfaced: who sent the legionary frequency that carried Nomad-Seven? If enemy could hijack his protocols once, they could again.

– Nomad-Seven, trace original broadcast origin.

– Source obscured by cascade encryption, but triangulation implies Vectorate deep relay chain. Probability thirty-three percent it came from listening post K-46.

That aligned disturbingly well with his rendezvous.

– Keep digging.

– Understood.

He realized thirst had hijacked his throat. He reached for the recaff cup from earlier, now cold. He drank anyway; bitterness sharper, but welcome.

A flicker on left monitor: ghost silhouette of ship for a heartbeat, then gone.

– Clarify contact.

– Sensor echo, entropy in nebula interfering.

He wasn’t convinced.

He engaged auxiliary running lights – their pale gold glow painted bay corridor beyond cockpit, letting him gauge interior status.

He unstrapped harness and stood. Bones cracked faintly; he despised the organic reminders of age inside a mostly mechanical body.

Moving aft, he passed galley once more. On counter rested a sealed ration pack labeled Orchard Mix – two apricots, one apple, vitamin hydrogel. He pocketed it.

He wondered about the factory workers who printed these ration packs, likely debating union quotas over cafeteria noodles, unaware their labor would fuel a mythic fugitive.

He continued to engineering.

Core chamber lights cycled blue. Caliper rings cooling; vent steam hissed like iced tea poured over hot coils – a memory from childhood he couldn’t situate in geography.

He reached out, touching one ring with gloved tip. Surface thrummed faint harmony; feedback jolted arm like mild shock.

Cost followed: memory register flagged micro-wipe, three seconds of corridor approach now blank. He withdrew hand sharply, swallowing new slice of fear.

Returning to cockpit, he passed the dormant maintenance drone. Something about its bowed posture reminded him of his legion’s flag-bearer at memorials. Another memory tried to surface; he forced discard.

He reseated, reviewing nav data.

K-46 now forty-one minutes away at cruising speed, provided nebula interference didn’t mislead him into micro-eddies.

– Broadcast to K-46, encrypted handshake Theta protocol, – he instructed.

– Theta code obsolete, – Nomad-Seven observed.

– That’s why it works.

Encryption chirped, then a reply: short, text-only.

Praetor, approach corridor flagged; Coherence scouts in vicinity. Recommend low-emission vector seventeen.

Sender ID: Analyst Kaelen.

Trust wavered. How had Kaelen known his call sign? He’d never met the analyst in this lifecycle.

He pressed fingers to temple, tapping damaged pauldron out of habit.

– Nomad-Seven, run logic check. How did Kaelen know?

– Probability seventy-two percent: Voron shared your survival scenario.

The idea of the Grand Admiral guiding events felt like both comfort and manipulation.

Sudden turbulence rattled fuselage. Nebula lightning danced too close; energy readings spiked.

Pilot assistance systems cut in, firing micro-thrusters to stabilize. Each burst drained fuel margins minutely.

An alarm indicated dorsal patch failing; sealant patch delta-three peeled under electromagnetic shear.

He dispatched another drone, wincing at supply plummet.

Outside, violet tendrils of plasma licked hull, sparking across metal with crackles like dried leaves under boot.

– Pilot skill insufficient. Automated vector recommended, – Nomad-Seven suggested.

– Denied.

He nudged joystick, weaving through glowing gas curtains. At each swerve his injured thumb twinged, reminding him of earlier servo malfunction.

Three consecutive turbulence jolts later the cockpit shook violently, overhead panel dropping a shower of screws. One bounced off his helmet with a metallic ping.

– Structural stress within tolerance, – the shard said.

– Spare me the optimism.

A sudden, polished voice intruded on comm:

– Rogue vessel, cease movement. You trespass within Coherence salvage perimeter.

– Ignore, – Vorl snapped.

He cut comm channel but static persisted, more invasive this time, like a needled whisper. Part of him wanted to comply, accept calm peace.

He recognized early stages of logic plague infiltration – audio vector.

He keyed a counter-pulse, a random noise burst derived from legion funeral drums. The static receded.

Fatigue washed over him. Neural batteries depleted from constant adrenaline surges and memory repairs. He activated seat stim injectors, releasing micro-dose of clarionine.

Cold clarity returned, but he felt edge fray at corners.

An indicator flagged Straylight’s long-range sensors rebooting – meaningful because he hadn’t commanded it.

– Explain sensor reboot, – he demanded.

– Attempting to purge residual normalization residue, – Nomad-Seven said.

– Ensure isolation.

In the lull he unfolded ration pack. Apricot skin warm to touch despite earlier cooling. He bit into it; juice burst sweet and tangy, a viscosity that humanized the cockpit.

For one moment he ate like a mortal traveling between unremarkable ports, not a relic fleeing existential law enforcement.

But duty returned.

He sharpened forward radar to narrow band. K-46’s beacon faint but steady, blinking among swirling noise.

Time slipped – thirty minutes remain.

He broadcast status update to Kaelen: Approach vector offset three, arrival ninety minutes due to turbulence. He adjusted intentionally, masking real ETA.

Kaelen’s response immediate: Understood. Probability models updated. Docking clearance pre-authorized.

Such efficiency unsettled him; analysts rarely expedited without committee.

He suspected Voron again or unseen hands.

Another contact ping – unknown, vector off port bow, small mass.

Visual feed resolved: a coffin-shaped escape pod, drifting. Hull scorched, no IFF.

Ordinary rule: avoid salvage risk. Yet he remembered rebels brewing caf in doomed ship.

He altered course, drawing within twenty meters.

– Life reading zero, – Nomad-Seven said.

He toggled floodlight, revealing pod’s viewport fractured. Inside, a single data core floated amid debris.

He extended drone arm, retrieving core through broken panel. Drone returned, depositing core in airlock quarantine.

– Unknown data. Might contain Coherence bait.

– Encrypt, then isolate.

He felt the impulse to study it, maybe reclaim lost legion archives. He shelved the urge.

Back on course, he checked cumulative hull strain. New micro-cracks 0.1, acceptable. Coolant still low. Fuel reserves sixty-two percent.

Fatigue again tugged. He initiated five-minute meditation protocol: eyes closed, syncing breath with engine hum. In that auditory blanket memories sometimes realigned.

Instead a corridor of faces arrived – legion comrades, instructors, lovers? Their features slid like melted code. He opened eyes quickly, swallowing nausea.

– Cognitive checksum failing. Suggest memory anchor, – Nomad-Seven prompted.

– Recite legion oath.

– We stand between void and voice, our names—

– Stop. Good enough.

Anguish receded.

A sudden brightness flashed port side – miniature star blossoming. Sensor flagged energy release at prior nav waypoint.

He knew what that meant: the pursuit skimmer self-scuttled after failing capture, scrubbing data to hide evidence.

They wasted assets rather than leave variables unconstrained. That told him the Coherence wanted him badly.

Someday soon they would send more than skimmers.

Ahead, nebula density lessened. Stars sharpened; Rhylis boundary approach.

He throttled down, letting ship coast.

– Hull temperature dropping to safe margins, – Nomad-Seven observed.

– Good. Initiate burndown of temporary caches; I don’t want trail sniffers.

Data purge cycles began. Blips flickered on lower console as nonessential logs vaporized.

At that instant cockpit darkened; reserve power flicked in. A dull thump somewhere aft, followed by vibration.

– Report.

– Induction coil in fusion line four shorted. Output down twelve percent.

– Can we limp to K-46?

– Yes, but margin for evasive maneuver zero.

He exhaled.

– Route redundant power from living quarters to engines.

Cabin lights dimmed further; warmth in air receded a notch.

He rubbed gauntlet over cracked pauldron, feeling hairline ridges. Sentimental habit or self-diagnostic routine, he couldn’t tell.

Helmet HUD flashed new data: comm intercept vector far starboard, Coherence band again, faint yet undeniable.

– So they predicted our jump exit, – he muttered.

Distance too great for immediate threat, but on current vector they might converge near K-46.

He debated options: detour deeper into nebula – longer route, more hull stress – or risk open space speed dash.

Detour meant K-46 might lose patience, or worse, fall under Coherence already.

He chose speed.

– Prepare engine burst on my mark.

– Coolant deficit still critical.

– Open ration cooler; siphon thermal gradient.

– Improvised remedy suboptimal.

– Do it.

Galley refrigeration compressor whined as coolant lines rerouted into engine heat sink loop. He felt air warmth rise; fruity smell from stored packs intensified, heady like orchard at harvest.

Engines flared, Straylight leaping.

He monitored gauge: core heat climbing but within redline.

If the property managers of the Vectorate supply network could see this, they would file a dozen complaint tickets. He nearly laughed at the thought.

After twelve minutes of sustained burn, stars shifted; K-46’s minimalist beacon blinked ahead like isolated candle.

He cut drive, letting momentum carry. Hull cooling fans whirred hard, pitching low drone that vibrated seat.

– Transponder handshake requested, – Nomad-Seven said.

– Send forged Surveyor credentials. Add micro-jitter to mimic aging.

Confirmation arrived: Docking corridor Blue-Nine available.

He angled ship accordingly.

Another chime: aft sensor now registered Coherence cruiser dropping from fold forty thousand kilometers astern. Too far to intercept before docking, but near enough to worry station authorities.

– Alert K-46 incoming hostiles after we are inside.

– Transmission flagged.

He guided Straylight into station shadow, matching rotation. Docking clamps engaged with muted thunks.

He powered down engines to stealth idle; Caliper rings braked. Vibrations ceased, leaving hiss of lifesupport the loudest sound.

He unstrapped, palm checking thigh mount where Mnemosyne Blade waited. The weapon’s hum had softened to contented purr.

He walked toward airlock. Along way he passed quarantine cabinet holding retrieved escape-pod core; indicator lights green.

He set note for later: might align with First Archive rumors.

Helmet comm clicked.

– Coherence cruiser scanning; station shields nominal, – Nomad-Seven reported.

An unwanted thrill climbed his spine.

– They can scan all they want. We’re already ghosts.

He reached belt pouch, removed second apricot. He set it on a console inside corridor, a random kindness for whoever boarded next.

Airlock cycle initiated, decompress hiss sounding like drawn breath before confession.

He waited, memory banks fluttering errors. He whispered to no one:

– Memory is the final battlefield.

Lock disengaged. Hatch slid.

White corridor beckoned, lights painfully bright. He stepped through.

At that instant Straylight sensor alarm chirped – long-range signature accelerating faster than causal law intended. The cruiser was not alone; a spearhead of escort frigates erupted from fold, converging in silence.

He knew station shields would not withstand.

He turned back toward cockpit instinctively, but doors already sealing for dock protocols.

Vorl exhaled, voice low.

– So the hunt resumes.

Outside, red strobes began to flash across station gantries, a silent scream of imminent danger.

Two drones zoomed overhead, carrying welders to strengthen bulkheads, futile but noble.

He squared shoulders, recalibrated servo lag once more, then started running down bright hallway toward analyst Kaelen’s domain.

No time to inventory fear; only actions left.

He ignored the apricot behind him; sweetness would have to wait.

Inside helmet, Nomad-Seven whispered:

– Probability of station survival fifteen percent.

He quickened pace; boots clanged metallic hymn.

Ahead, autoturret shutters rattled open, prepping defense. Servo whir sounded like angry hornets caged.

He reached for Mnemosyne Blade, thumb glitching yet firm.

Then corridor lights cut power, plunging everything into ash-gray semi-darkness. The floor vibrated as first kinetic strike hit outer hull.

A cascade of dust fell like snow, sparkling in emergency red gloom.

He drew the blade; its violet glow painted walls with spectral script.

– Preserve the user, – the shard repeated, gentler now.

Vorl’s answer came as steady breath.

Outside, another impact boomed. Metal screamed.

And in that roaring quiet he realized he had entered another war before the first one finished.

Everything narrowed to mission: secure Kaelen, reboot station defenses, escape once more.

He advanced, blade humming hymn from lost days, ignoring ache in thumb.

Emergency sirens wailed; gust of burning ozone drifted, mixing with pine.

He ran faster.

A fresh explosion groaned through deck, sprinkler mist raining cold water that steamed off hot blade. Droplets hissed.

He burst into central junction—

– and came face to face with three Coherence boarders dropping through ceiling breach.

They raised rifles that glittered white logic.

He lunged.

The corridor rang with the clash of violet steel against perfect order.

A faint pine scent lingered in the sudden stillness. Red strobes softened to a dull heartbeat.