CHAPTER 1
JORDAN
Iknow I’m close to Yatori before I see it, because my teeth start to ache.
It’s subtle at first—just a faint vibration humming up through the shuttle’s hull and into the fillings in the back of my mouth—but it grows stronger as we descend through the moon’s thin atmosphere, until the sensation settles behind my eyes like the beginning of a migraine. The pilot calls it “normal gravitational shear interference.” I call it a bad omen.
The viewport darkens automatically to compensate for glare, and the prison moon rolls into view beneath us—an uneven expanse of cratered stone and metallic scarring, the surface fractured by old mining veins and newer containment pylons that stab upward like surgical pins holding a wound closed. There are no oceans to soften it, no clouds to lend it dignity. Just rock, dust, and corporate intent.
“Welcome to paradise,” the pilot mutters.
I press my tongue against the roof of my mouth, tasting recycled air and the faint bitterness of ionized fuel.
“If this is paradise,” I say, “I’d hate to see probation.”
He huffs once in amusement, then banks the shuttle toward the Operations Station.
The structure rises from a plateau of flattened stone, all sharp geometry and armored plating, its exterior lights glaring even in daylight as if the building distrusts the sun. The containment field surrounding the perimeter shimmers faintly, visible only when the light catches it just right, like heat rising off asphalt. Even from this distance, I can hear it—a low harmonic thrum that vibrates through the shuttle frame and settles into my bones.
When we land, the impact shudders through my spine, and the smell of hot metal seeps in as the ramp lowers.
The air outside is thin but breathable, tinged with mineral dust and something faintly antiseptic, as though the entire moon has been wiped down and declared hygienic despite the blood it undoubtedly holds. My boots crunch against the landing pad, the grit scraping under the tread, and I adjust the strap of my bag over my shoulder as my compad pings softly against my thigh, syncing with the local network.
Temporary contractor credentials accepted.
Tier three clearance granted.
That familiar blend of access and restriction settles over me like a second skin.
Inside, the Operations Station smells like coolant and overworked circuitry, with an undertone of protein rations that no amount of air filtration can quite erase. The lighting is merciless—white, clinical, unflattering—and the soundscape is a layered composition of distant machinery, faint electrical hum, and the almost subsonic vibration of the containment grid beyond the walls.
“Jordan James.”
I turn toward the voice.
Foreman Morazin Valeer stands at the far end of the intake corridor, hands clasped neatly behind his back, posture so perfectly aligned it looks rehearsed. He is thinner than Iexpected, his frame angular beneath his uniform, his expression controlled to the point of artificiality. Even at this distance, I notice how still he is, how little of him seems to move when he speaks.
“That’s me,” I reply, stepping forward. “You must be the welcome committee.”
His eyes flick over me, assessing, calculating.
“You were expected at fourteen-hundred hours.”
I glance at the wall clock.
“It is fourteen-hundred hours.”
“You docked at fourteen-oh-three.”
“Three whole minutes. I’ll write myself up.”
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, and for a moment I catch a flicker of something behind his gaze—irritation, yes, but also something sharper. He turns without acknowledging the comment.
“Follow me.”
We walk through the main atrium, and the space opens above us in a vertical column of exposed floors and steel catwalks that crisscross the interior like skeletal ribs. Civilian technicians occupy consoles along the perimeter, their faces illuminated by the cool glow of holographic projections. The air tastes faintly metallic here, as though it has passed too many times over hot circuitry.
The containment field hum is stronger inside the atrium, a vibration I feel in the cartilage of my ears and the back of my throat.
