We left the Cant early, before any Port Vorin inspectors could show up. I didn't call it fleeing. I called it "optimizing our departure window" in the filed paperwork. The paperwork did not object.

  The Ship slipped free of the docking clamps with something that felt like relief. The System, still slightly miffed about being rushed through pre-flight protocols, announced our vector with mechanical precision and no editorial commentary. Progress.

  "Clear of station perimeter," Tavi reported from comms. "No pursuit. No complaints. No goodbye cards."

  "The Cant's not sentimental," I said. "They'll forget we exist in about ten minutes."

  "Unless Port Vorin asks nicely." Quinn's voice on the channel, dry as recycled air. "Then they'll remember everything, including what we had for breakfast."

  Fair point. I programmed our heading toward the signal coordinates Dr. Lira had obtained-outer lanes, low traffic density, the kind of space where ships went to be forgotten. The System accepted the course, then added: "I note for the record that pre-flight diagnostic protocols were abbreviated by approximately forty-seven percent. I am not sulking about this. I am merely documenting it. Thoroughly."

  Sira's voice crackled through: "Engineering nominal. Jump capacitors at seventy percent and climbing. We can fold in two hours if needed."

  "Let's hope we don't need to." I stretched out on the couch, one monitor showing the Cant shrinking into just another piece of orbital architecture, another flickering slightly because I kept forgetting to fix it. "Keep an eye on those Port Vorin frequencies. If they start asking questions-"

  "I'll let you know," Tavi said. "But I'm also scanning for that signal the vendor mentioned. The looping one."

  "The probably-nothing signal," Quinn corrected.

  "The interesting probably-nothing signal," Tavi countered.

  I switched off and let them argue. We had eight hours of transit ahead, which meant eight hours for the crew to decide whether curiosity or pragmatism would win. Based on past experience, curiosity had better odds but pragmatism had better arguments.

  The stars stretched ahead. They didn't care. Stars never do. It's one of their better qualities.

  The comms bay was Tavi's favorite place on the Ship-not because it was particularly comfortable or well-lit, but because it was where information lived. Signals flowed through like weather: station broadcasts, cargo chatter, automated distress calls that had been looping for decades, and occasionally something interesting.

  She'd been monitoring the outer lanes since we cleared the Cant, filtering through static and relay noise, listening for the pattern the Gray Bazaar vendor had mentioned. Looping every six hours. Mathematical ratios that shouldn't appear in random noise.

  Three hours into transit, she found it.

  "Got it," she said, mostly to herself. Then louder, to the channel: "I've got the signal. It's exactly where the vendor said it would be."

  Dr. Lira's voice came back immediately: "Triangulated position?"

  "Working on it." Tavi's fingers moved across her console, isolating the signal and scrubbing away interference. The waveform materialized on her display-jagged but structured, like someone had tried to write music using only prime numbers.

  It repeated every six hours, almost precisely. She played it back at half speed, then double, then filtered by frequency bands. Underneath the garble was a pattern. Not language. Not quite music. But definitely something.

  "It's a distress call," she announced. "Or it was. Structure's all wrong for modern protocols, though. This is old."

  "How old?" Pilot's voice, interested despite the professional skepticism.

  "Decades, maybe. The encoding format matches pre-Charter emergency beacons." Tavi pulled up a reference database. "But here's the weird part-it's not degraded. It's looping clean, like the source is still powered and maintaining itself."

  Quinn's voice, flat: "Automated systems can run for a long time if nothing breaks."

  "Sure, but..." Tavi hesitated. This was the part where Quinn would accuse her of being dramatic. "It feels different. Like someone's still trying to say something."

  "Signals don't feel."

  "This one does." Tavi forwarded the waveform to Dr. Lira's station. "Dr. Lira, can you run pattern analysis? The vendor mentioned those mathematical ratios. I want to confirm."

  "Already on it," Dr. Lira replied. A pause, then: "Confirmed. Same ratios we heard about at the Cant: 5:8, 8:13, 13:21. Clean enough that it's not coincidence. Someone, or something, is really into their number theory."

  Tavi grinned at her console. "See? Not just a broken distress beacon. This is a mystery."

  "Or," Quinn said, "it's an automated system that happens to use mathematical patterns because all automated systems use mathematical patterns. That's how computers work."

  "But-"

  "I'm not saying ignore it. I'm saying don't fall in love with it before we know what it is."

  Tavi made a face at the comm panel, which Quinn couldn't see but would probably sense anyway. "I'm not falling in love. I'm being curious. That's different."

  "Is it?"

  "Dr. Lira, tell Quinn that curiosity is scientifically valuable."

  "Curiosity is scientifically valuable," Dr. Lira said dutifully. "Also occasionally fatal. Quinn, do you have a risk assessment?"

  "Working on it," Quinn said. "But based on preliminary sweep-this region of space should be empty. No charted derelicts, no logged salvage claims, no recent transit records. So either our data's wrong, or something's out there that shouldn't be."

  Tavi pulled up the navigation charts and compared them to the signal's origin point. Quinn was right-the coordinates placed it in what the charts called "uncontested void." No stations, no shipping lanes, no hazards marked.

  "Maybe the charts are out of date," she suggested.

  "Maybe," Quinn said. "Or maybe someone doesn't want this location logged."

  That was less comforting. Tavi adjusted her scan parameters, looking for secondary signals-anything that might indicate other ships, active sensors, or surveillance. The static came back clean. Just the looping transmission and the usual background noise of the cosmos being itself.

  "I'm forwarding coordinates to Pilot," Dr. Lira said. "We can reach the source in approximately eight hours at current speed. Recommend we continue monitoring and schedule a crew meeting to discuss approach protocols."

  "Agreed," Pilot said. "Tavi, keep that signal isolated. If it changes, I want to know immediately."

  "On it." Tavi settled into her chair and pulled up her media archive-not to watch, just to have it nearby. There was something comforting about knowing that other people, even fictional people in pre-jump Ningen operas, had faced mysterious signals and made questionable decisions about investigating them.

  Usually it worked out. Eventually. After some dramatic setbacks and improbable rescues.

  If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

  She made a note to review the episodes where it didn't work out, just to be thorough.

  The signal kept looping. Six hours, on repeat, with those ratios embedded in the structure like a signature. Tavi had already watched three Ningen opera episodes about mysterious transmissions. In retrospect, she acknowledged that might have been too much opera, but the pattern analysis was taking time anyway.

  "Tavi," Pilot's voice broke through her thoughts. "You've been watching opera in the comms bay again, haven't you?"

  "How did you-"

  "You always hum the theme song when you're analyzing signals. And I can see your media player usage in the ship logs."

  "That's an invasion of privacy."

  "That's me being your pilot. How's the signal?"

  "Still looping. Still clean. Still mysterious." Tavi paused. "And yes, there's no such thing as too much opera."

  Quinn sat in the intelligence bay-a corner of the ship that most crew forgot existed, which was exactly how Quinn liked it. Two monitors, a comfortable chair, and access to every sensor feed and communication channel the Discordia could monitor.

  Privacy was a polite fiction on a ship this size, but Quinn believed in it anyway.

  They pulled up the signal data Tavi had forwarded and began systematic analysis. First question: Was this a trap? Second question: If not a trap, was it worth the fuel and time to investigate? Third question: What were they not seeing?

  The signal itself was clean-too clean for something supposedly decades old. Automated systems degraded. Broadcasts accumulated noise. Even well-maintained equipment showed drift over time. This signal had none of that.

  Either it was newer than Tavi thought, or something was actively maintaining it.

  Quinn flagged that as concerning and moved on.

  Next: the location. They cross-referenced the coordinates against six different chart databases-civilian, commercial, military (outdated but still useful), salvage guild, and two independent navigation collectives. All of them agreed: empty space. No derelicts, no hazards, no points of interest.

  But that didn't mean nothing was there. It meant no one had logged anything there.

  Quinn pulled up recent transit records for the region. Traffic was sparse-a few cargo haulers on long routes, one Navy patrol six months ago, nothing unusual. No distress calls, no salvage claims, no incidents.

  Clean. Too clean.

  They made a note: Pattern suggests either recent arrival or deliberate omission from charts. Recommend caution.

  Third question: What were they not seeing? Quinn ran probability models. If the signal was a trap, who would benefit? Pirates didn't usually bother with elaborate lures-easier to just ambush ships in high-traffic lanes. Privateers were a possibility, but privateers wanted valuable targets, and the Discordia was a small cargo hauler with a reputation for carrying paperweights and illegal lasagna.

  Not exactly a prize.

  If not a trap, then what? A genuine derelict broadcasting on loop? Possible. But then why wasn't it on any charts? Derelicts got logged-salvage rights alone made it worth reporting.

  Unless someone had claimed it and wasn't advertising.

  Quinn added another note: Check for active salvage claims, informal or otherwise. Contact salvage guild if needed.

  Finally: was it worth investigating? Quinn plugged numbers into their risk calculator. Fuel cost: moderate. Time cost: eight hours transit, unknown investigation time. Opportunity cost: whatever else the ship could be doing instead.

  Potential gain: salvage rights if the derelict was valuable. Data for Dr. Lira's research, which might translate into future contracts. Satisfaction of Tavi's curiosity, which admittedly had no monetary value but did affect crew morale.

  Potential loss: walking into a trap, wasting resources on nothing, or finding something that created more problems than it solved.

  The calculator returned a result: Marginal net value. Recommend limited investigation with exit strategy.

  Which was Quinn's way of saying: sure, look, but be ready to run.

  They forwarded the assessment to Pilot with a note: Not opposed to investigating. Opposed to committing without contingencies.

  Pilot's response came back almost immediately: Crew meeting in the galley, 20 minutes. Bring your concerns.

  Quinn sighed and saved their work. Crew meetings were where pragmatism went to negotiate with optimism, usually losing. But that was democracy-messy, inefficient, and somehow better than the alternatives.

  They checked the signal one more time before leaving. Still looping. Still clean. Still there, waiting for someone to be curious enough or foolish enough to take a look.

  Quinn suspected the Discordia qualified as both.

  The galley was where decisions happened on the Discordia-not because it was official, but because it was where people gathered when they needed to argue over food. Mina had laid out a selection of sandwiches with the air of someone preparing for a lengthy debate.

  The crew filtered in: Tavi bouncing with barely-contained enthusiasm, Quinn looking professionally skeptical, Dr. Lira carrying a data slate, Sira wiping grease from her hands, Rafe reviewing inventory on his handheld, Mara standing near the door like a sentry, Kellan arriving with two other marines who immediately claimed sandwiches.

  I waited until everyone had settled-or at least stopped moving-before starting.

  "We have a decision to make," I said. "Tavi found the signal the Gray Bazaar vendor mentioned. It's real, it's exactly where she said it would be, and it's strange. Dr. Lira confirmed those same ratios from the Cant lecture-the ones showing up in the signal timing and structure. Quinn's analysis suggests it's either a genuine mystery or a very elaborate trap."

  "Or both," Quinn added.

  "Or both. So: do we investigate, or do we log it and move on?"

  Tavi raised her hand like she was in school. "Investigate. Obviously investigate. How is this even a question?"

  "Because we don't know what it is," Mara said. "Could be salvage. Could be pirates. Could be a derelict that's been out here so long the radiation's turned it into a hazard."

  "That's why we investigate carefully," Tavi argued. "Full sensor sweeps, keep our distance, don't board anything without checking for hostiles and structural integrity. But we have to look. This is how you find things. This is literally how every good adventure starts."

  "And how many bad ones?" Quinn asked.

  "Statistically? Most of them. But we won't know until we look."

  "This is how you find trouble," Quinn said. "I'm not saying no. I'm saying we should be clear about what we're risking for what potential gain."

  Dr. Lira looked up from her slate. "From a research perspective, this is valuable data. Those mathematical patterns alone are worth documenting-they match the ratios I was hearing about at the Gray Bazaar presentation. If there's a spatial phenomenon causing the anomaly, we could be looking at something that hasn't been recorded yet. Or at least, not publicly."

  "And if it's just a broken distress beacon?" Rafe asked.

  "Then we log it, report it to the salvage guild, and collect a finder's fee. Low-value, but not nothing." Dr. Lira gestured at her slate. "I've been tracking similar patterns across the sector. This region has multiple reports of navigation inconsistencies. If we can correlate the signal source with spatial drift-"

  "That's science talk for 'I want to poke it with sensors,'" Rafe translated.

  "Yes. Extensively."

  Sira leaned back in her chair. "The Ship can handle the approach. I've been monitoring the jump capacitors-we're at full charge if we need to fold out fast. And the hull's rated for standard derelict investigation."

  "Define standard," Mara said.

  "No active threats, minimal radiation, structural integrity sufficient for close-range sensor work. If we find something hostile or unstable, we pull back and reassess."

  "What's the fuel cost?" Rafe asked.

  "Eight hours transit, maybe four hours investigation, eight hours return if we scrub the mission." Sira did quick math in her head. "Call it twenty hours total flight time plus reserves. We can afford it."

  "Opportunity cost?" Quinn asked.

  Rafe pulled up his inventory. "We're not on a tight delivery schedule. Next cargo pickup isn't for six days. So we lose time we could spend looking for work, but we're not defaulting on contracts."

  Tavi jumped in before Quinn could raise another objection. "And if we do find something valuable-salvage rights, research data, anything the gray market wants-we could make back the fuel cost and then some."

  "Or we find nothing and waste a day," Quinn said.

  "Wasting a day on something interesting is still better than wasting a day on nothing." Tavi looked around the table. "Come on. We all know we're going to investigate. We're just arguing about whether to feel good about it."

  Several crew members smiled at that. She wasn't wrong.

  I looked at Mara. "Security perspective?"

  "I don't like it," Mara said. "But I don't like most things until I've seen them up close. If we go, I want full sensor sweeps before we drop below safe distance. No surprises."

  "Agreed. Kellan?"

  Kellan, halfway through a sandwich, swallowed quickly. "Marines are ready if you need boarding protocols. But I second the no-surprises rule."

  "Noted." I scanned the room. "Anyone strongly opposed?"

  Silence. Even Quinn just shrugged-less an endorsement than an acknowledgment that the group consensus was already forming.

  "All right," I said. "We investigate. But carefully, with contingencies, and if anything looks wrong, we fold out immediately. Sira, I want Engineering ready for emergency jump. Mara, prep security protocols for close approach. Tavi, keep monitoring that signal-if it changes, everyone needs to know."

  Tavi grinned. "This is going to be great."

  "This is going to be something," Quinn muttered.

  Dr. Lira was already making notes on her slate. Rafe claimed another sandwich and updated the speculation pool on his datapad: Tavi: alien artifact. Quinn: broken beacon. Dr. Lira: both. Rafe: commercially viable salvage (optimistic). Mara: trap. The marines argued quietly about who got to suit up if boarding became necessary.

  Democracy in action: messy, loud, and somehow functional.

  Mina, watching from the galley counter, caught my eye and smiled. "You're all terrible at risk assessment."

  "Probably," I agreed.

  "Good thing I made extra sandwiches."

  Ven had claimed a corner seat during the debate, watching the crew argue with the focused attention of someone taking mental notes. When the meeting broke up, they approached me near the coffee dispenser.

  "Does it always work like that?" they asked.

  "The arguing?"

  "The deciding. Everyone gets a say. Everyone's opinion matters."

  "That's how we do it. Borf anti-hierarchy culture." I poured coffee that was definitely too old. "Though practically, decisions tend to follow whoever knows the most about the specific problem."

  "But you still vote."

  "We still vote." I sipped the terrible coffee. "Even when we already know what we're going to do."

  Ven nodded slowly, processing. They'd hear a lot more votes before they understood why we needed them.