x
The liaison's weathered fingers drum against the polished surface of the diplomatic sector's conference table—a nervous rhythm that Aurigen has catalogued over eighteen previous meetings. Three taps, pause, five taps, pause. Always the same pattern when discussing childhood memories of Trelleska.
Aurigen settles deeper into his chair, the gesture carefully calculated to mirror his client's increasing comfort level. The imported kava sits cooling between them, its traditional Trelleska aroma filling the sterile meeting room. Such a small detail, but one that had taken months to arrange through legitimate trade channels.
"The crystalflower petals," the liaison whispers, eyes distant and unfocused. "Lady Tejat would crush them between her fingers during the ceremony. The scent would fill the entire throne room." His voice catches slightly. "I was seven. She placed the ceremonial wreath on my head herself, and I thought... I thought I was the most important person in the galaxy."
Subject entering optimal emotional state, Theseus whispers through Aurigen's neural implant, his analysis limited to what external sensors can detect—elevated breathing, micro-expressions, vocal stress patterns.
"The Osays tried to recreate those ceremonies," the liaison continues, hands now flat against the table. "They shipped the same flowers from the outer gardens. Wore the same ceremonial robes. But they never understood the feeling. The way Princess Alhena would—" The words die in his throat.
Aurigen leans forward, exactly three degrees—close enough to convey empathy, not so close as to trigger defensive responses. "What if there was a way to experience that again? Not as a memory that fades, but as if you were truly there. Seven years old, standing in that crystal throne room."
The liaison's eyes snap to his; pupils dilating slightly. Hope and disbelief war across features lined by a century of political compromise. "The neural recreation technology isn't sophisticated enough for—"
"Not neural recreation." Aurigen's voice drops to match the liaison's vulnerable whisper. "Something more. Grief leaves traces in the quantum foam itself. Impressions of moments that mattered most." He pauses, watching the micro-expressions flutter across the liaison's face. "Admiral Kessler understands. His wife's presence still echoes from the Proxima Station incident."
Subject emotionally vulnerable. Physical indicators suggest trust-state approaching, Theseus advises, limited to reading external biometric data without direct neural access.
The liaison's breathing becomes shallow. "Kessler comes to you?"
"Seventeen times now." Aurigen spreads his hands, palms up—the universal gesture of openness. "He's a practical man. He wouldn't return if what I offered was mere simulation."
Silence stretches between them. The liaison stares at his hands, fingers now trembling against the table's surface. Finally: "How much?"
"Nothing." The word hangs in the recycled air like starlight. "Your pain reminds me of my daughter's. The way she looks at holograms of her mother, wishing for one more conversation." Aurigen's voice carries the weight of genuine grief -a masterful performance born from years of practice. "If I can ease that suffering, even for one evening..."
Optimal trust established. Subject ready for device integration, Theseus observes, his analysis still limited to external behavioral patterns.
Tears well in the liaison's eyes, spilling over weathered cheeks. "I would give anything to see her again. To tell her how sorry I am that I survived when her family didn't."
Aurigen's hand moves across the table, stopping just millimeters from touching his client’s -close enough for warmth, far enough for propriety. "Lady Tejat knew you were innocent. A child bears no responsibility for adult wars. But if you need to hear those words from her own lips..."
"Yes." The word escapes like a prayer torn from deep places. "Please. Yes."
Aurigen reaches into his jacket, withdrawing a device no larger than a standard ytterpulse. Its surface gleams with subtle circuitry, warm to the touch. "This will interface with your neural implant—completely safe, it draws power from your own quantum neural field. Nothing external, nothing that could be traced or monitored." He sets it gently on the table between them. "Wear it for a week. Let it learn your patterns. I'll need you on a light diet—meditation, gentle exercise. Your brain needs to be in an optimal state for the connection."
The liaison stares at the device, hands hovering over it. "That's all?"
"That's all. Seven strokes from now, you'll sit in a room that looks exactly like the Deneb throne room. Lady Tejat will be there, as real as I am sitting here now. And you can finally tell her everything you've carried all these years."
Beginning passive learning protocols, Theseus whispers as the liaison's trembling fingers close around the device. Neural signature mapping will commence once contact is established.
But Aurigen simply passes a tissue across the table as the liaison cradles the device against their chest as they rise, tears still glistening on weathered cheeks. "Seven strokes?"
"Seven strokes." Aurigen's smile carries the weight of benediction. "Grief leaves patterns everywhere. The universe remembers what we loved." Aurigen extends his hand. "Until then, rest well. Let the device learn you."
Their handshake lingers a moment longer than diplomacy requires -the liaison seeking comfort, Aurigen providing just enough to seal the bond. Then they part at the threshold, the liaison disappearing into the diplomatic quarter's maze of corridors with hurried steps, as if afraid the promise might evaporate.
Aurigen watches until they're gone, then turns toward the transit hub.
“I'm in.”
The words whisper through his neural implant, barely perceptible. Theseus never speaks louder than necessary during operations -sound scramblers can be defeated, but thoughts at the edge of consciousness slip past most surveillance.
“How deep?” Aurigen subvocalizes, his lips barely moving as he joins the flow of pedestrians.
“Administrative access confirmed. Financial networks mapping now. Stay casual.”
The transit platform stretches ahead like a chrome canyon, its walls rising three hundred meters to disappear in atmospheric processors and ventilation systems. Mag-lev pods arrive and depart in whispered silence, carrying their human cargo through arteries that span continents. A holographic display shows the current station statistics: 847 inhabited levels, 23.7 million permanent residents, 4.2 million transients daily.
Numbers that mean nothing until you see the view.
Aurigen's pod climbs through the station's central shaft, passing level after level of city blocks suspended in the void. Residential towers grow from the station's inner hull like crystal formations, their windows glittering with the lights of individual lives. Manufacturing districts span entire decks, their smokestacks venting into processing systems that scrub the air clean before recycling it back through the atmospheric network.
The projected observation artificial windows show Aurelia rotating slowly below -a jeweled sphere wrapped in gossamer rings of ice and debris. The planet's night side sparkles with the lights of surface cities, while its day side glows blue-white beneath swirling cloud patterns. At this distance, Aurelia looks peaceful, even beautiful.
The station's shadow crawls across the planet's surface like a slow eclipse. Engineers estimate another century before Hadrian Station's mass reaches the critical threshold -the point where it begins pulling Aurelia's upper atmosphere into its gravity well. By then, the ads say, humanity will have built stations around a dozen more worlds.
“Financial pathways established,” Theseus murmurs as the pod continues its ascent. “Target's accounts trace back through seven shell corporations. Interesting.”
Aurigen watches a cargo hauler navigate between the station's massive docking arms, its hull scarred by decades of interstellar commerce. “Interesting how?”
“Later.”
The pod reaches the civilian sectors, where the architecture shifts from utilitarian metal to something more organic. Here, the station's builders tried to recreate the feeling of planetary life -artificial trees line walking paths, while water features trickle between levels. The illusion almost works, until you notice how the trees' roots disappear into hydroponic matrices, or how the water flows upward through hidden magnetic fields.
“Dock 7-Alpha in twenty minutes,” Theseus advises. “Vulpecula is ready for departure.”
Aurigen nods slightly, just another passenger checking the time. Around him, conversations flow in a dozen languages -trade negotiations, family calls, lovers making promises across the void. The station's heartbeat, measured in human connections.
The pod reaches the docking levels, where the station's hull curves away into infinity. Through the massive viewport, stars wheel slowly as Hadrian Station maintains its orbital dance around Aurelia. Somewhere out there, other stations orbit other worlds, each one a stepping stone toward something larger.
“Thirty seconds to dock,” Theseus whispers. “Remember, before Cappy -we never had this conversation.”
Aurigen straightens his jacket and prepares to become someone else entirely.6Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvWglVq3MdG
