Chapter 5 – Between the Wires

  Aurelion Prime – Drift 3

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  The trip down into the undercity felt longer than he remembered. Each step was heavier and harder. It seemed to drag him down, stretching time with old memories and hope. The spiral ramp wound beneath his feet, its edge lit by flickering strips that buzzed like tired insects. The deeper he went, the more the world changed. Light faded into shadow, and silence turned into a low, steady hum. He loved the noise of Aurelion. It was always busy and alive.

  The smells came in waves: waste, old frysmoke, damp rust, and even the faint scent of his own nerves. Mixed in was the sharper, newer smell of brown leather from the jacket he’d taken from the cafeteria rack—Dawn’s jacket. It was too wide in the shoulders, and he had to roll the sleeves so they wouldn’t droop past his fingers. Still better than being seen in appointment gray.

  His pants were plain enough to blend in. He had bleached them so much they were now a dull, dirt-like color.His shoes remained a problem. He only had one pair, soft-soled and made of fabric, meant for indoors. Hopefully no one looked down when talking to him.

  Somewhere below, someone shouted over music. Somewhere else, metal clanged against metal in a rhythmic pattern. He followed the route he used to take with Emma, back when sneaking out meant innocent freedom. They’d come here just to watch real people and real lives—anything that wasn’t about the Library. But this time, he was alone. And it wasn’t a children’s game, though he felt just as silly. He’d spent the entire drift buried in the restricted archive, skipping rest, skipping meals.

  Emma would have called him an idiot. He felt like one.

  He’d found a forgotten article buried deep in the archive, barely a paragraph long. It spoke of a siren from Tera Folta, exiled after humiliating a smuggler den boss named Robin C. No photo. No proof. Just a designation: SulSul.

  After that, the trail went cold. No more records. No further mention of a siren.

  But curiosity had led him sideways. The smuggler had been arrested soon after. Locked up in the Lyra Correction Sanctuary, on a cold-as-hell moon. He’d kicked and screamed that he’d been forced to confess to crimes he hadn’t committed. Even managed to grab a Solar Accord officer’s stun gun and shoot himself with it by accident.

  Nothing about the siren. No follow-up. Not even one interview or mention of where she went next.

  But he had learned that the absence of data was still a kind of data. To him, that meant connections and power. If she had managed to hide from the authorities, maybe she could help him find something he desperately needed. And if the siren files were right, if voice-based compulsion was real, then maybe she was exactly the person he needed. Maybe she could get him a pilot or a ship, or both, in ways he couldn’t manage on his own.

  But sirens were rare. They barely left their planet. Tera Folta was sealed tight. Even Delegates needed absurd levels of clearance just to breathe near it. You had to get a permit signed by a Saltum Vera official, through the Off-word Delegate’s office.

  He’d combed every archive, every news article, everything he had access to. Official records described them as refined, graceful. Benevolent in nature. But reserved.

  They had made no effort to adapt Tera Folta for outsiders. There were no ports, no platforms to land, and no breathable air to share inside their trade center. Just a quiet, No, thank you. And the galaxy moved on.

  Whether it was pride or caution, no one could say. They were mysterious. And they liked it that way.

  Maybe that was why he kept reading. Maybe he was just curious. Or maybe, he hoped, he’d simply been lucky to find the article when he had no leads and nowhere to start. He couldn’t just search for a pilot to hire; the search would be flagged.

  And the alternative was worse: he had run out of ideas. He couldn’t find a way to get off-world. His ID tracker couldn’t be removed, and he had no friends.

  None.

  He’d rigged his station to send periodic search alerts during the day drifts. If anyone checked—and they probably wouldn’t—they’d see a long trail of browsing history. Proof he was studying.

  In silence.

  Just like everyone else was supposed to.

  They were honoring the future Librarian’s rite, his sister’s, with their own silence during the forty-two drifts. It was their own version of the Rite. No classes, no gatherings, just solitude and self-study.

  Mostly.

  His absence would go unnoticed if he returned before the Rite ended.

  And he had to.

  If not, they would call him a deserter and remove him from the line. It would bring shame to the family name.

  His pulse hitched. Jaw clenched.

  If he failed… if he came crawling back, he’d be assigned to delegation. Or worse, to diplomacy. Or even military work.

  He didn’t even know what he wanted, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t get to choose; the family did. None of them had reached out after Emma’s appointment. He didn’t really think of the rest of the Isos as family. For him, that was just Emma.

  They were probably just figuring out how to recover their investment. So, most likely, he would end up in diplomacy—a career of polite lies and forced smiles.

  He would rather disappear.

  He moved forward, into the heat, the noise, and the energy of the city. The decision gave him purpose. He had to find a way off Aurelion and get closer to that Variant. He had to act, or he would be alone for the rest of his life, locked away in some office.

  The city was denser now. Full with sound, with breath, with movement. He kept his eyes down and followed the map on his wrist device, and the faded trade script on alloy walls. A flickering arrow. A glyph shaped like a broken spiral.

  He went down the alleys, through a maintenance hatch, past the recycling units and the air filtration systems for the undercity. There, he found a symbol carved into rusted metal beside a sliding door. It was half-lit, worn down, and forgotten. Someone had scratched a newer tag above it, barely visible under the grime: SulSul.

  No sound came from within and no light escaped the sealed door.

  He reached for the push-to-open button but stopped.

  So he took a deep breath and stepped inside.

  The door slid shut behind him with a heavy click, and several heads turned at the sound. For the first time in his life, he wished he’d paid more attention in society lessons.

  The room was dim, lit by coils of copper filament hanging from the ceiling, swaying slightly in invisible currents. One of the panels in the far corner buzzed and flickered. Seven would have called it bad soldering.

  To his relief, the heads quickly lost interest and turned back to their conversations or bottles.

  The stench of smoke slammed into him, sweet and metallic, clinging to the back of his throat. It flew around the room as if in sentient patterns. Through it, grime and filth came into focus; hope dimmed.

  The bar counter glowed a faint red, like a dying battery warning, lit from underneath by a hacked filament strip. The surface was scratched metal, maybe ship-grade or just an old kitchen panel, stained in places where people had spilled drinks, chemicals, or worse.

  It smelled worse.

  A tangle of exhaust vents had been bolted underneath the bar, probably rerouted from an old air recycling unit like the one he had passed a few levels up. They rattled with the strain of doing a job they were never meant for.

  Behind the counter, shelves were jammed with dusty bottles and repurposed med containers. Some held liquids that looked drinkable. Others… questionable. A tall jar of pickled roots leaned precariously beside a cracked decanter labeled engine coolant.

  Something was floating in one of the flasks. It was green, gooey, and wrinkled. He looked away, then thought he saw it move. A sliver of gold caught the light. A ringed finger, with a stone the size of his thumb.

  And then, behind the bar, the siren.

  He knew it was her. The whole room seemed to shift when she moved, and the atmosphere changed around her. The mood itself changed. She reminded him of the Iso Matriarch: deliberate, intentional, and precise. She made no unnecessary moves. She wiped down the counter in slow, practiced strokes, said something quiet to a customer, nodded once, and turned away. Her eyes passed over him, then came back. She gave a small nod, inviting him closer.

  He froze. Swallowed. Tried to push air into his lungs. Tried to look casual. Failed.

  She leaned in to speak to a man at the bar. He laughed too quickly and left his chair.

  She slid a drink to another before he finished his order. Touched an angry woman’s hand gently, and her entire mood shifted to calm.

  He didn’t believe in rumors. He believed in patterns. Data. His thumb tapped once at his side. Then again. He hadn’t decided to approach her but his feet moved. A little too fast.

  He tried to smooth his jacket. Tried to walk like he belonged. Forced his eyes to stay fixed on the bar and the woman behind it.

  As he crossed the room, he watched her closely. She wasn’t exactly alluring, but she drew him in. Everything about her seemed intentional: her posture, her movements, her presence. Her skin was soft brown with a golden glow, almost as if it was lit from within. It looked poured into shape, like melted wax. Her hair was slicked back into a long tail down her back, pale at the top and darkening as it fell, looking wet and heavy. She moved like water.

  Her leather corset fit as if it was made for her. Her gloves molded to her skin. Every gesture—lifting, pouring, turning—was an effortless rhythm.

  She wore no jewelry, no metal, and no color. Only scars: thin metallic lines from her cheekbones to her ears, symmetrical and surgical. They had to be breathing implants, he realized, though he had never read anything about them.

  The closer he got to the bar, the more intense her gaze became and the fewer people surrounded her. Her pale brown eyes stared straight at him. She didn’t smile. She studied him, reading and measuring. His right foot caught on nothing.

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  She knew, she had to know.

  The bar hummed around him, thick with laughter and white noise. But he didn’t hear it anymore. Not over the sound of his thundering heart. Not with the clock already ticking.

  The siren was still watching him. Her attention felt like a silent calculation. Suddenly, he wished he was anywhere else, maybe reading in bed about new species on a museum planet, or even better, reading about the missions to reach Lyra Ten.

  But he was here now and he had to move. What was he going to ask? Are you the siren? She obviously was. Will you tell anyone I’m here? She might already know who he was. The Twelve had their faces broadcast across Aurelion when the old Librarian began to fail.

  He’d been heir David Iso. Future Librarian.

  A name worth knowing. A target worth tracking.

  Though he didn’t feel like that and hadn’t thought of it.

  Not until now. Now he was just David.

  Maybe that was why she hadn’t moved. Why her eyes hadn’t left him since he stepped inside.

  He clenched his jaw, the decision already set, and looked up.

  “Name’s Iliana,” she offered, with a smile a little too warm to be real.

  She definitely knew.

  His throat tightened. He swallowed the rising bile and sat down. The tall chair left his feet dangling just off the rest. His fingers twitched against the bar. He turned, just enough to meet her eyes.

  “I’m looking for someone,” he said. “A woman from Tera Folta.”

  She blinked, backing away and straightening her spine. “That’s not what my planet is called.”

  His chest seized. “But—”

  “That’s what the colonists called it,” she said calmly. “I am sulei from SulSul.” She leaned closer, her voice low enough that only he could hear. “What can I do for… David Iso?” She stretched his name into a drawl and it hung in the air like a threat.

  For a second, he couldn’t breathe. Yeah, of course she knew.

  Probably knew about Emma too.

  Would she turn him in?

  Mock him?

  Refuse?

  He gambled on the word benevolent and now he was faced with something he should have been prepared for: Reality.

  Yet, he hoped, with all his strength, that she was indeed benevolent. That she would agree to help him. She had to.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, swallowing his fear and forcing the words out. “I’m not good at this sort of thing. I need help. I need an old pilot. Someone who’s been around.” His voice stumbled, words coming out too fast and too sharp. “I need to get to this planet and find an herbalist who can help me make a cure.”

  “Shhh,” she said, cutting in gently. Her gloved hand touched his forearm. “Tell me what you need. Not why. Let’s see if I’m the one to rescue our precious princeling.”

  “I’m not—” he started, but the anger bypassing his anxiety at that nickname made no sense here. He swallowed dryly, took a deep breath and tried again.

  “I need a pilot. And maybe a medic or an herbalist. But the pilot comes first.”

  Iliana didn’t answer right away. She just looked at him, long enough that he had to fight the urge to look away.

  Look people in their eyes when you are talking to them, it’s important that you don’t flinch and don’t look away. It shows strength. And you are very strong, David. Use your strength. Emma’s voice sounded in his head.

  Then the siren’s gaze swept the bar, her jaw shifting slightly, like she was searching for something else or someone else, he hoped.

  Finally, she exhaled through her nose, not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh.

  “And if I send you there and you waste his time?” she asked, voice low and flat.

  He swallowed. “I won’t.”

  She considered him a moment longer, her expression unreadable. Then she nodded once, brisk. “Fine. I might know a guy. If you don’t mind the smell of burnt oil and spoiled onions.”

  All David heard was yes, and he would have kissed her if he’d been tall enough to reach over the bar. “I really don’t care what he smells like.” he said instead.

  “All right then,” she said, ducking behind the counter to rummage for a napkin. “One pilot coming up.”

  His hands started to tremble, relief washing through him. He wasn’t a princeling. He wasn’t even an Heir anymore. He was nothing unless he found the plant, nothing unless someone could mix the compound. Time was slipping through his fingers like sand. But he wasn’t wasting it anymore. Not really. He was trying. What else could he do?

  Ask his family for help? The library? They wouldn’t care anyway. They already had a replacement.

  His fingers tapped the bar, quietly.

  Iliana slid the napkin toward him but didn’t let go. Her eyes lingered on his trembling fingers. She looked into his eyes and waited. He felt seen. Undressed in a way that was both uncomfortable and understanding. “That bad, huh?” she asked, voice soft.

  He didn’t answer.

  “What could be so important you’d risk coming here?” she insisted, boring into him with what seemed like tidal wave pressure.

  The air inside the bar changed. It grew heavy, like a vibration under his skin instead of in his ears. A faint, familiar resonance brushed the edge of his thoughts. For a moment, his fear faded. His hands stopped shaking. His shoulders relaxed, and his vault clicked in. He realized what she was doing.

  “You’re using it,” he whispered. Realisation striking at the same time as wonder. “Your siren song.”

  She tilted her head as if unsure whether to deny it or smile. Her eyes didn’t glow. Her voice didn’t sing. But something in the air curved gently toward him, like the shape of a melody he almost knew. Like Emma’s voice but not quite.

  A siren’s song; he was sure.

  He blinked, and the feeling passed. Just like that. A moment. A trace of melody in the air, already gone. he was left empty and cold.

  She tilted her head and frowned slightly.

  “It won’t work,” he said, sounding a little regretful. “They took that flaw out of my DNA in the vat. I can’t be influenced. But my vault can see it. It’s in the air, like electricity. It’s beautiful. It feels beautiful. But it doesn’t work on me.”

  “Sorry about that,” she said, pulling the napkin back. Less defensive than he would have expected. She grabbed her coat, shouted something toward the back of the bar, then came around to him, slipping the napkin into her pocket.

  “Come on,” she said. “I can show you where to find the pilot.” Then, placing a round cap on his head, she smirked. “You might want to pull the visor down a little. Those curls are iconic.”

  He stood and followed without a word as Iliana led the way out of the bar with no explanation and no hesitation.

  He wasn’t sure if she was leading him into a trap or to the pilot. But for the first time since Emma’s future had been decided, he felt like he was moving forward, and that was enough. It had to be. He had gained momentum.

  “How old are you, anyway?” Iliana asked without looking back.

  They had been walking in silence for two levels, past flickering neon, pipe-slick walls, and cracked signs half-swallowed by rust. The pungent smell of what passed for food around these levels was dissipating in the oxygen-poor environment.

  “Not old enough,” he muttered.

  Iliana didn’t slow.

  “How old is the pilot?” David asked.

  She ducked under a stuck, half-open door where the signage buzzed with static. Inside, the air got warmer, thicker with engine oil and charged coils. They’d reached the main platform. The docks were another two levels up.

  A mechanic looked up from a workbench, raised an eyebrow at them, then returned to polishing a coil extractor.

  “He’s not old,” Iliana said, with a dry laugh. “But he’s former military… might have more information than any of these recluses.”

  He scowled. “I was hoping for someone old.”

  “You asked for someone that’s been around,” she corrected, stepping over a bundled wire. “Old doesn’t always mean experienced. Sometimes it just means slower.”

  He followed, shoes shuffling behind her echoing boots. “You tried to sway me,” he said. “Back in the bar.”

  “You wanted me to answer your question. So you pushed it. Not a lot. Just enough to make it feel like the truth was my idea.”

  She turned slightly, one eyebrow raised. “And?”

  “Do you do that a lot?” he asked.

  Iliana glanced back at him, one corner of her mouth twitching. “I suppose. When the situation requires it.”

  “Everyone?”

  She laughed again, light and dry. “No. But more than you’d think. True humans, all. Except you, apparently. And maybe the modded ones. Depends on the splice. Some humanoid species, too. Our voice doesn’t work on everyone, just the… suggestible.”

  His eyes narrowed. That was almost everyone. “So you manipulate people.”

  “I persuade people,” she corrected. “There’s a difference. And I don’t do it for fun.”

  “Just when it’s useful.”

  “Just when it gets me out of a sticky situation.” She didn’t sound ashamed. She sounded like someone who’d had to say that more than once.

  When he first read the article, he’d hoped to find her and study her. If he wasn’t in a hurry—if the only person he cared about wasn’t at risk—he would have found a way to sneak back into that bar and watch her change everyone’s mood. Her silent song seemed like magic to him, like water or vapor floating in the air. He guessed the reason he could see it was the same reason it didn’t work on him. He didn’t want to imagine what she could make him do if it did. Could he lie if she asked for the truth? He saved the scenes from the bar in his private data and let it go. He’d analyze it later.

  They climbed the next stairwell, where the lights were dimmer and the dock buzz grew louder; ships lifting, settling, drones calling out codes in clipped monotone.

  He kept pace beside her now, watching the tension in her shoulders as closely as he watched the way she moved through every doorway like she had the whole place memorized.

  He shifted his weight and leaned in so his voice carried over the noise. “Will you use it on the pilot?”

  Iliana turned and faced him with a smile; one of those smiles that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Are all Librarians like this?”

  “Like what?”

  “Nosey,” she arched an eyebrow.

  “Naturally,” he said, lifting his chin. “We gather information.”

  “Well,” she said, looking him over like she was redoing the math. “Not the pilot, no.”

  “Then how do you know he’ll help?”

  Iliana’s gaze flicked upward, toward the humming docks, toward the hangar bay lights spilling down from the level above. “I don’t,” she said. “But I helped him once. He still owes me. Just like you will!” She grinned and turned, climbing the last steps without waiting to see if he followed or agreed.

  He did.

  He was about to ask about the smuggler—

  But Iliana stopped short, and he had to sidestep to avoid crashing into her. “There it is,” she said, pointing ahead.

  The hangar crouched in the far corner of the platform, half-swallowed by rust. The walls were more corrosion than paneling, and the overhead lights flickered like dying stars, never quite staying on long enough to guide you.

  The entry arch was barely marked: a coded glyph burned into the metal beside the sliding door, smeared with soot and grease. No sign. No ship registry.

  Inside, the space stretched wider than David expected. A deep, echoing chamber with an uneven floor and the sharp smell of burned oil, old circuits, and closed air. No spoiled onions yet.

  A few hover tools hung from magnetic racks, half of them dead, the rest decades out of date. A pair of battered crates slouched against one wall. A single cot, unmade. A metal bench littered with parts, tangled wire, a discarded ration pack split at the corner.

  At the center loomed the ship, an old transport model, longer than what current legislation approved. Low-slung and gunmetal gray, it had probably been metallic once. Scorch marks striped its ventral plating, and the hull bore the look of a survivor: patch-welded, dented, tested. Long past her expiration date. One word stretched across the side, long faded and half-erased.

  “You-rid-uh-see,” he read aloud, tilting his head.

  Iliana smirked. “He calls her Dice.”

  He blinked. “I’m pretty sure that’s not how you pronounce that.”

  Iliana shrugged. “Well… don’t tell him that.”

  One engine bay was open, cables spilling across the floor like veins.

  And beneath it, boots sticking out, voice muttering into static, was his last hope. A man, twice David’s size. Dirty. Oily. Rough and rude-looking. Already losing an argument with a ship that shouldn’t have had an opinion, but clearly did.

  “If you cross those wires again, I will ignite the entire bay. Just so we’re clear.” A voice came from a nearby console, feminine, dry, and far too calm for someone threatening combustion.

  He blinked. “Was that…?”

  Iliana nodded. “That’s Dice. Don’t take it personally. She’s like this with everyone.”

  “That is a lie. I’m significantly meaner to strangers,” the ship said. A beat. Then: “Curly, if you even breathe on my coolant lines, I will singe your eyebrows.”