The dead star pulsed in the dark like a final heartbeat.
Elias Thorne stared through the viewport of the Brinejack, his patched-together salvage rig barely holding orbit in the shadow of the thing. The star—if it could still be called that—was a collapsing ember, an ancient remnant of a system long forgotten. A place not marked on any of the modern starcharts. Which meant one thing:
Treasure.
Or trouble.
His gloved hand flicked a few switches on the console. The scanners swept again, slow and sluggish from the radiation interference, but there was no mistaking it—a ship was out there. Floating listless. No power signature, no IFF beacon, just a silent silhouette against the dark.
A ghost.
Elias leaned closer. The hull was scarred and scorched, its design old enough to be classified as pre-Echelon. Maybe even from the Exodus era, back when humanity first pushed beyond the Belt.
"Where the hell did you come from?" he muttered.
He locked in the Brinejack's magnetic clamps and suited up. The docking was rough—manual override, nothing automated—and when he stepped into the connecting tube, his breath caught in his throat.
Cold.
Not just the temperature. The kind of cold that settled in your bones. The kind that whispered of things left too long in the dark.
The derelict's airlock opened with a groan like a dying animal. Elias stepped inside, flashlight cutting a narrow beam through the black. Dust floated like ash. The corridors were silent.
He moved slowly, checking door after door. Most rooms had been stripped—panels pried open, wires scavenged, walls scorched. But when he reached the central cryo-bay, he stopped.
Only one pod remained.
It glowed faintly, powered by something the ship shouldn't have had—emergency backup still running. And inside the pod was a woman.
She looked… untouched. Mid-twenties, maybe. Dark auburn hair drifting like ink in water. Her vitals flickered faintly on the cracked display: stable. Heartbeat present. Cryo-cycle complete.
Elias blinked. The nameplate was barely readable under the frost, but he made it out.
MAEVE CALDER.
STATUS: MISSING — 50.3 YEARS
"No way," he breathed.
He stared at her for a long moment. She didn't stir. Just floated there, a sleeping question from a time that should've been buried.
His fingers hovered over the release panel. He knew the rules—salvage law didn't cover cryo-retrievals, especially not of the missing and presumed dead. But something in his gut twisted.
He pressed the button.
With a hiss, the pod began to warm. Her breathing quickened. Her eyes fluttered.
And then, she opened them.
Green. Sharp. Confused.
She gasped, sitting up, nearly colliding with the glass. Elias caught her before she fell.
"Hey—easy," he said, steadying her. "You're safe. Just… take it slow."
She looked at him like he was a ghost. "Where… am I?"
"Drifting near a dead star," he said. "You've been under for fifty years."
Her lips parted, but no sound came. Then she whispered, almost to herself: "I don't remember anything."
Before Elias could respond, the lights flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then he heard it.
A faint sound, deep in the hull.
A voice—no, not a voice. A whisper. Like static. Or breathing.
Maeve looked up at him, eyes wide.
"Did you hear that?"
Elias didn't answer. He just reached for his sidearm.
And in the cold silence of the ship, something moved.