The message from Vex arrived not as a text, but as a sharp, psychic ping that vibrated behind Rajendra's eyes, a sensation like a tuning fork struck against his skull. He was in a Shenzhen hardware market, inspecting samples of stainless steel for the pressure cooker line, when it hit. He excused himself, walked into a narrow, cluttered alley between stalls, and leaned against a damp wall.
Vex: *Urgent. A Void Lancet-class probe has entered your planetary near-orbit. It is performing a passive psychic resonance scan. Depth: superficial. Purpose: cataloguing. It is a scout for a Harvester civilization, likely the Gilded Swarm or a similar collective. It has not detected you. Yet. If it returns a favourable report, a deeper assessment will follow within 12-18 of your months.*
Rajendra's blood went cold, but his mind clicked into a different gear. This wasn't a political rival or a business competitor. This was a cosmic pest inspector, and Earth was the basement it was poking its nose into. Panic was useless. Negotiation was impossible. He needed a solution that was permanent, deniable, and didn't involve starting an interstellar war.
Rajendra (Earth-Prime): Can it be destroyed?
Vex: Possible. But destruction releases a beacon. It would announce your presence and capability. It would guarantee a military-grade follow-up. Not recommended.
Rajendra (Earth-Prime): Can it be misled?
Vex: The Lancet reads psychic and biological resonance. It is a palate tasting the soup of your world's consciousness and life-force. You cannot change the soup. But you can… spoil the taste.
That was the key. Not a fight. Not a hide. A deterrent.
He left the market, commandeered the company car, and told the driver to head to the nearest library with international periodicals. There, in a quiet corner smelling of old paper, he accessed the Auction Hall. He bypassed Weapons, Defense, and even Stealth. He went to Utility > Environmental > Psychic Modulation.
The listings were esoteric: Mood-Fog Generators, Empathy Dampeners, Joy-Siphons. He filtered for large-scale, temporary, non-lethal effects. And he found it.
Item: Psionic Echo Mine (Type-3)
Description: A single-use area-denial device. Upon activation, emits a massive burst of randomized, chaotic psychic "noise" across a planetary-scale biosphere. Duration: 24-36 standard hours. Effect: Masks all natural psychic resonance, renders biological signatures indistinct and unappetizing to resonance-based scanners. Analogue: pouring static over a beautiful song.
Warning: May cause mild, transient unease in psychically-sensitive native species (including most mammals). No permanent harm.
Price: 88 Void-Coins.
Seller: The Static Guild (Tier-2)
It was perfect. He didn't need to hide Earth forever. He just needed to make it look like a bad investment for the duration of the scout's scan. A spoiled taste. He bought it immediately. The mine materialized in his System inventory—a smooth, grey sphere the size of a cricket ball, inert and cool to the touch.
Now for delivery. He couldn't launch a rocket. But he didn't need to.
He called Ganesh. "I need a high-altitude weather balloon launch. Maximum altitude. From a remote location in Gujarat. Set up a shell company—'Atmospheric Ionospheric Research, Ltd.' Hire a local team, pay them triple, tell them it's for monsoon prediction data. The payload is a sealed instrument package. It must launch in 48 hours."
"Understood, bhai. The payload?"
"I'll have it couriered to you. It's fragile. Handle with care. No questions."
He used the Singapore shell company to hire a discreet international courier to take a small, shielded case from a Shanghai locker to Mumbai. Inside was the grey sphere, packed in non-conductive foam. The paperwork listed it as a "calibration device for lithospheric sensors." Nonsense, but convincing enough.
For two days, he monitored the System. Vex provided updates: "Lancet in holding pattern. Scan at 37% completion. It is methodical."
The launch happened at 4 AM local time from a salt flat in the Rann of Kutch. Ganesh reported via coded message: "Bird is airborne. Climbing. Telemetry green."
Rajendra waited in his Shanghai room, the System interface open. He had linked the mine's activator to the telemetry feed. When the balloon reached 35 kilometers—the edge of space—the feed blinked.
Altitude: 35,001 m. Conditions: Stable. Activate Y/N?
He took a breath. This wasn't an attack. It was a disruption. A merchant's trick—contaminating the sample.
He selected Y.
There was no sound, no flash. Three thousand miles away, in the thin, cold air at the edge of the atmosphere, the grey sphere dissolved into a pulse of invisible energy that washed silently over the planet like a tide.
Vex (30 seconds later): Interesting. The Lancet's scan signal has become garbled. It is attempting to recalibrate.
Vex (2 minutes later): The probe is aborting its scan. Resonance readings are returning as 'indeterminate noise—possible natural stellar interference.' It is marking the sector as 'low-priority, high-ambiguity.' It is departing.
Rajendra let out a long, slow breath. He hadn't won a war. He'd failed a quality inspection.
Rajendra (Earth-Prime): How long will the effect last?
Vex: *The 'static' will linger in the planetary psychic field for approximately 26 of your hours. It will dissipate completely after that. The natural resonance will return. The Lancet's report will likely recommend a re-evaluation in no less than five standard solar cycles.*
Rajendra (Earth-Prime): Five years.
Vex: Minimum. You have contaminated the well. They will seek clearer water elsewhere. A pragmatic, and cost-effective, solution. Your stock as a rational actor rises.
The feedback came an hour later. Ganesh called, sounding puzzled.
"Bhai, the balloon team. They're reporting… strange feelings. Headaches. Vivid, confusing dreams. One man says he cried for no reason. It passed in an hour. They think it was altitude sickness."
"Pay them a bonus for hardship," Rajendra said. "And close down the shell company. Wipe the records."
He leaned back. The cost: 88 Void-Coins. The result: Earth was now, in the ledger of whatever Gilded Swarm was out there, a static-filled radio station not worth tuning into. For five years, at least.
He hadn't fought. He hadn't hidden. He had simply made his planet look unprofitable. It was the most merchant-like solution to an existential threat imaginable.
He allowed himself a small, hard smile. Then he got up, straightened his jacket, and went back to the hardware market. There were pressure cookers to build, and a photo-op in Hainan to endure. The cosmic problem was solved. For now. The earthly problems, at least, were familiar.