Conduit | The

"You’re the best we have," Vaelen countered, stepping closer. "And the Core will pay handsomely. Enough credits to get you out of this rust bucket of a sector and into the Upper Spires."

"Focus, Silas," Vaelen’s voice echoed dimly from the physical world. "Find the tactical logs." The Conduit

The heavy iron door of his workshop groaned open, admitting a blast of the metallic air and a tall figure wrapped in a dark, synth-leather duster. Silas didn’t look up. The rhythm of the visitor's boots on the metal grating told him everything he needed to know. It was Commander Vaelen of the Core Guard. "You’re the best we have," Vaelen countered, stepping

Silence filled the chamber, broken only by the steady beep of the backup drives signaling a successful transfer. "Find the tactical logs

Vaelen stepped over to Silas, looking down at the shivering Weaver. The commander checked his wrist display and nodded. "Forty years of data, perfectly intact. Remarkable."

Silas was drowning. The digital leviathan swallowed him whole, and for a moment, he was nothing but a ghost in the machine. But in the belly of the beast, he saw it—the pure, uncorrupted core of the tactical logs, trapped like a pearl in an oyster of malice.

Silas lay on the cold floor, staring at his palms. The silver filaments were charred black, ruined. He had traded his memories and his gift for a handful of credits and a broken body. He closed his eyes, trying to remember the green field from his childhood. All he could see were the blueprints of a railgun.