The blaring alarm was a spike of pure panic driven directly into Kaelen's spine. In the command hub, the air, once thick with the smell of ozone and intrigue, now crackled with a different kind of energy: the sharp, metallic scent of imminent threat.
Elara didn't waste a second. Her gaze, hard as flint, locked onto Kaelen. "Jax, get him to the secondary generator room. The lead shielding there might mask his signature. Lyra, go with them. If they try to take him, you know what to do with the core." She then turned to Kael, her voice dropping to a tactical whisper. "You're with me. We play this calm. We know nothing."
Lyra didn't hesitate. She grabbed Kaelen's right arm—carefully avoiding the glowing left—and pulled him. "This way. Quickly."
Jax led the charge, his heavy footfalls a grim counterpoint to the still-clanging alarm. They moved deeper into the bowels of the Kronos, away from the command hub, descending narrow, rust-streaked stairways into the engine decks. The thrum of the massive generators grew from a hum to a deafening roar, vibrating through the metal grates beneath their feet. The air grew hotter, thick with the smell of superheated oil and ozone.
The secondary generator room was a cavern of forgotten industry. A hulking, piston-driven engine dominated the space, its rhythmic chug-chug-thump a mechanical heartbeat. The walls were lined with thick, lead-lined panels, a remnant of some pre-Cataclysm purpose, now serving to contain the engine's noise and radiation.
"In here," Jax grunted, shoving Kaelen towards a small maintenance alcove shielded by more of the lead panels. "Don't make a sound. Don't even breathe too hard." He turned to Lyra. "You sure about this?"
Lyra was already at a control panel, her fingers flying across ancient, physical switches. "The Gleaners' sensors are tuned for bio-signatures and energy fluctuations. A concentrated burst from the generator's magnetic field should create enough interference to blur his… unique qualities. For a few minutes, at least." She threw a final switch. A high-pitched whine built in the air, layering over the engine's roar. Kaelen felt the fillings in his teeth vibrate.
Crouched in the alcove, the world narrowed to the pounding of his heart and the oppressive, mechanical din. He could feel the Weep, a distant, muffled song beyond the Kronos's metal skin. But here, inside this sealed, artificial world, he was deaf and blind. He was entirely at the mercy of the Rustwalkers.
Up on the main deck, Elara stood with Kael, her arms crossed, as the three Gleaner transports rolled to a halt just outside the convoy's defensive perimeter. The vehicles were brutal, angular things, armored in riveted plates and mounted with sonic emitters and spray-nozzles for chemical deterrents. Their hulls were scoured clean of rust, a statement of defiance against the world that sought to consume them.
A ramp hissed down from the lead transport. A squad of six Gleaner soldiers emerged, clad in fully sealed, pressurized environment suits. Their faceplates were mirrored, reflecting the hostile stares of the gathered Rustwalkers. They fanned out, weapons held in a ready, but not immediately threatening, posture. The one who emerged last was clearly the commander. His suit was marked with rank insignia, and he carried no visible weapon, only a data-slate. He removed his helmet, revealing a face that was all sharp planes and cold intelligence, his hair shorn to a grey bristle. Preceptor Valerius.
"Captain Elara," Valerius's voice was clipped, devoid of warmth. "You made exceptional time from the Iron Vault sector. The Glowing Mangroves are not a typical route."
Elara offered a thin, dangerous smile. "We're full of surprises, Preceptor. And we have schedules to keep. What does the Gleaner Compact want with my convoy?"
Valerius's eyes, the color of a winter sky, swept over the Kronos and its surrounding vehicles. "We are tracking a Category-3 biological contaminant. A psionic signature of unprecedented volatility. Our satellites detected its activation in the Glowing Mangroves six hours ago. A significant energy discharge, consistent with a forced mutation. Our models placed its vector on an intercept course with your convoy."
Elara kept her face a mask of bored indifference. "A lot of words, Preceptor. We see strange lights in the Weep all the time. It's why we wear these." She tapped her respirator, still hanging around her neck.
"This was not a 'strange light,'" Valerius countered, his voice hardening. "This was a weapon-grade emission. Our doctrine is clear. Any contact with a Weep-Touched entity, especially one of this potential potency, requires immediate quarantine and study. For the safety of all untainted humanity." He took a step forward. "We have reason to believe the contaminant is now aboard your vessel."
A low growl rippled through the Rustwalkers who had gathered to watch the exchange. Hands drifted towards weapons.
"You're accusing my convoy of being 'tainted'?" Elara's voice was dangerously soft. "You want to board the Kronos? To 'study' my people?"
"The Compact's mandate is preservation," Valerius stated, as if reciting from a manual. "This threat supersedes your sovereignty. We will scan your vessel. If you are clean, you may proceed."
"And if you find this 'contaminant'?" Kael asked, his voice a dry rasp.
"The asset will be secured and transported to the Iron Vault for analysis. Any individuals in prolonged close proximity will be placed under a 72-hour observation hold." Valerius's gaze was unyielding. "It is the only way to prevent a localized outbreak."
Elara laughed, a short, harsh sound. "You want to take one of my people. You want to imprison others. On your 'mandate.'" She took a step forward, now toe-to-toe with the Preceptor, her head tilted back to look him in the eye. "The Rustwalkers have our own mandate. It's called survival. And we don't survive by letting bunker-dwelling ghosts dictate our movements. Your 'scan' ends at our perimeter. Take another step, and we'll see how your doctrine holds up against live artillery."
The Gleaner soldiers tightened their formation. The Rustwalkers on the watchtowers brought their rifles to bear. The standoff was a taut wire, ready to snap.
In the generator room, the magnetic whine was starting to make Kaelen's vision blur. He could feel a strange pressure building in his mutated hand, a resonance with the powerful fields Lyra had activated.
"They're not leaving," Jax muttered, peering through a tiny crack in the heavy door. "The Preceptor is just standing there. Calling her bluff."
"It's not a bluff," Lyra said, her face pale but determined. She held a heavy wrench in her hand like a club.
Kaelen's breath hitched. He saw it all unfolding. A firefight. Rustwalkers dying. The Kronos breached, all because of him. He was the contamination. The price of his survival was being paid by others, and the bill was about to come due in blood.
The memory of Rorin's horrified face flashed in his mind. Weep-Touched. He was a poison, corrupting everything he touched. First his home, now his only chance at refuge.
A new sensation began to bloom in his chest, cold and dark. It wasn't the Weep. It was his own despair, his own guilt. And as it grew, he felt his left hand react. The crystals grew warmer, the light pulsing faster, synchronizing not with the Weep, but with his own rising self-loathing. A faint, dark smoke seemed to curl from his fingertips, eating the light around it.
Lyra saw it. "Kaelen… what is that? Your hand… it's different."
He couldn't answer. The weight was too much. He was a liability. A weapon that endangered its wielder. Elara's words echoed in his head: "the moment you become more of a burden than an asset..."
He made a decision.
Before Jax or Lyra could stop him, he shoved past them and burst out of the generator room, back into the corridor.
"Kaelen, no!" Lyra shouted.
He didn't stop. He ran, not towards the exit, but deeper into the ship, towards the sound of the Kronos's main engines. He had a desperate, half-formed plan. If he could get to the engine vent, maybe he could slip out, draw the Gleaners away from the convoy. Let them hunt him. It was better than watching people die for him.
But the Kronos was a maze. He took a wrong turn, found himself in a dead-end corridor lined with storage lockers. He turned to retreat, but Jax and Lyra were there, blocking his way.
"You idiot," Jax snarled, advancing. "You think running helps? They'll just tear this ship apart looking for you!"
"I can't let them hurt anyone because of me!" Kaelen shot back, his voice cracking. The dark smoke was coiling around his wrist now, the light in his hand flickering erratically between white and a deep, bruised purple.
"Then stop being the reason they get hurt!" Jax yelled, grabbing him by the front of his tunic. "Control it!"
The physical confrontation, the anger, the fear—it was the final trigger.
Kaelen's control shattered.
A wave of invisible force erupted from him, a concussive blast of pure psionic energy fueled by panic and guilt. It wasn't light, it was pressure. The lockers on either side of the corridor shrieked as they were crushed inward. Jax was thrown backwards as if hit by a truck, slamming into the far wall and slumping to the floor, unconscious.
Lyra was thrown to her knees, but she scrambled up, her eyes wide not with fear, but with a terrifying, scientific fascination. "The emission… it's not bio-luminescent! It's a telekinetic wave! The crystals are acting as a psionic amplifier!"
The blast had shorted out the lights in the corridor. In the sudden darkness, the only illumination was Kaelen's hand, now glowing with a sickly, unstable purple-white light, tendrils of darkness snaking up his forearm. He stared at Jax's motionless form, horror washing over him.
He had done this. He had become the threat.
He heard the pounding of boots. The blast had been felt throughout the ship.
It was over.
He sank to his knees beside Jax, the fight gone out of him. He was exactly what the Gleaners said he was: a contaminant. A weapon that could not be controlled.
The door at the end of the corridor hissed open. Framed in the light from the hallway beyond were Elara, Kael, and Preceptor Valerius, his face a mask of cold vindication.
Valerius looked from the crushed lockers, to the unconscious Jax, to Kaelen kneeling on the floor, his corrupted hand blazing in the dark.
"The contaminant," Valerius stated, his voice cutting through the silence. "It appears your asset has just declared its own verdict, Captain."
Elara's face was unreadable, her gaze fixed on Kaelen. The cost of his contamination had just been paid, and the currency was the well-being of one of her own.