The wreck’s lower levels formed a labyrinth of fissures and collapsed corridors. Most of it belonged to the sand rats—one misstep meant teeth, then bones, then nothing.

  Rex carried over a hundred scars; more than half came from rat skirmishes. Four years ago, he’d found this sanctuary. He’d survived here ever since.

  He squeezed through the narrow entrance, slotting a vintage charge-cell into the housing. Light flooded the chamber, chasing away the darkness.

  "Lightbrain. Three months. You still functional?"

  A flicker of blue light. A holographic screen materialized at the room’s center, its voice flat and mechanical. "Power restored. Hull integrity: ninety-nine percent compromised. Repair impossible. Warning. Repair impossible."

  A faint hum followed. Rex ignored it.

  "Enough with the warnings. Last shutdown, I was mid-exam in the intermediate curriculum. Pull the file. I don’t believe anyone a thousand years ago finished the full intermediate course at thirteen."

  "Accessing memory. Connecting to simulation archive. Please wait."

  Solitude bred hunger—for knowledge, for anything that might set him apart. Rex absorbed information like a sponge; no one in Wreck Village knew more. Improvised detonators. Eavesdropping on the Chief and Elder Brax. His capabilities spoke for themselves. Yet the Lightbrain’s archives, comprehensive as they were, had gaps. A millennium of isolation created discontinuity—hence Brax’s unfamiliar merchandise. Earth Ring’s isolation was absolute. Unavoidable.

  "Congratulations. Perfect score. Select your reward."

  "Reward? There’s a reward?" Rex’s eyes widened. Charge-cells were standard stellar-era batteries; he’d spent five years studying intermittently, the longest gap six months without power, reviewing from memory. But perfection? First time.

  "Available rewards listed. Based on current vessel status..."

  The Lightbrain cycled through countless options, rejecting each in turn. Finally: "Apologies. Severe structural damage prevents most rewards. Exception granted. Temporary administrative access activated. Sufficient power and safe arrival at designated chamber will enable one gene-tuning procedure."

  "Wait. Gene-tuning. Explain."

  "Gene-tuning: energetic reconfiguration of intracellular protoplasm. Enhances physical constitution. Minimal risk. Standard advancement incentive across First Galaxy noble academies. As a Cape Town Academy survey vessel, Article 360 of the Interstellar Convention authorizes gene-tuning for exceptional students. Proceed to designated chamber immediately."

  "Excellent. Physical enhancement."

  Rex—Lin Xisuo—grinned, producing the charge-cells purchased from Brax. "Lightbrain, check these. Enough power?"

  "Please wait."

  A cyan scan swept across the cells. "Power sufficient. Good fortune."

  Rex packed without hesitation. The map showed the destination nearby—familiar territory. But the Chief would send hunters. He frowned. "Lightbrain, one question. How long does tuning take? If it’s lengthy, can I defer?"

  A pause. Then: "Generally, duration correlates with efficacy. Longest recorded student: thirty-three minutes. Average: sixteen minutes, thirty-seven seconds."

  "Thanks. Must move. Delay means danger."

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  He grabbed spare clothes, scavenged tools from the ruins, and the "treasures" traded for special mycelium. He bid the Lightbrain farewell and sprinted toward the target chamber.

  Chitter. Chitter.

  Closer. Rex tossed a clump of tuberous root—the fibrous base of cave-velvet mushrooms, bland to humans but irresistible to sand rats.

  He activated the micro-lantern, mounting it on his shoulder, its brightness adjustable. Cumbersome, but essential in the dark.

  Two more root-clumps dropped along the way, detours taken to avoid detection. He reached the chamber, listened for movement, crossbow in his left hand, ceramic dagger in his right, and slipped inside.

  No rat signs. He exhaled, slotting the charge-cell into the housing. The screen activated. "Light-channel connection established. Fill chamber power reserves to enable reward."

  Rex kept watch while feeding cells into the housing—better to use them here than carry the weight.

  Three minutes. Most cells depleted. The gauge filled. The decorative crystal panel on the left wall retracted, revealing thousands of microscopic probes—nauseating to behold.

  "Hidden mechanism. No Lightbrain, no access."

  Time pressed. He stashed his pack and stepped inside. The crystal sealed behind him. Darkness erupted into blinding light. Numbness spread through his body, his consciousness drifting, dissolving. Time, fatigue, self—all fading into something transcendent.

  He emerged from the crystal unaware, his mind blank. It took five minutes for coherence to return.

  Blinking, he demanded: "Lightbrain, display elapsed time. I feel like I slept for days."

  "Human perception frequently errs. Duration: sixteen minutes, thirty-seven seconds. Precisely the database average. Gene-tuning benefits will manifest gradually over fifteen days. Maintain adequate exercise and nutrition. Critical."

  Explosions echoed in the distance. Rex’s face tightened—the Chief’s hunters had reached the wreck’s depths.

  No time for questions. He seized his swollen pack and gear, sprinting outward, praying to avoid rat swarms. Capture by the Chief meant a quick death. Rats meant a slower, more painful one.

  He ran a hundred meters, then stopped short.

  Ahead: a pair of crimson eyes, raised sentinel-high.

  "Scout rat." No hesitation. He raised the luminescent crossbow and fired. The rat died mid-squeal, pinned to the wall.

  Half a meter long, including its tail, with an armored skull and razor-sharp foreclaws.

  Danger. Blood scent would draw dozens, hundreds. His personal record: twenty-eight rats at once. Near-death. His equipment was improving, his life too—no need for risks.

  He tossed three clumps of cave-velvet root, hoping for a distraction, and fled, choosing his path with desperate precision.

  The Chief had committed serious force. Distant detonations shook the wreck.

  "Particle grenade launcher? The village’s legendary weapon? I’ve never seen it, only heard rumors. From the sound, they’re advancing fast—but fast and blind. Louder means more rats attracted."

  He leaped onto a slanted platform. The gene-tuning—already working? The heavy pack felt lighter than it should.

  "Three hundred meters. Cross the platform, reach the hull breach, enter the tunnel network. Then freedom. They’ll never find me."

  Ten minutes later, he froze.

  A rat colony had established itself ahead. He counted the crimson eyes—fifty-three pairs.

  Retreat? He shook his head. The swarm was agitated; the lower levels were compromised. He calculated quickly. The tractor beam—swing across. Angle was everything. Survival demanded the attempt.

  Deep breaths. He hurled his smallest pack into the colony, stuffed with cave-velvet. Let them feast.

  The moment came. He dialed the lantern to maximum, surveyed the geometry, estimated his position, and fired the beam.

  Three attempts. Three failures. Sweat soaked his palms. He steadied himself, fired again.

  The rats charged. Fear coiled in his chest, but he pushed it down. Angle still wrong. Stay and die. Move and—

  He tightened the beam, launched upward, suspended in mid-air. Too much cargo, too much momentum—uncontrollable speed.

  A scream tore from his throat as he fell like a meteor. Impact. The world spun, blood filling his mouth.

  "Typical. Too fortunate lately. Violated my usual luck. Now paying for it. Dearly."

  He lay still, waiting for the teeth, the gnawing—but nothing came. He sat up, dazed, and realized: he’d reached the safe zone.

  Rex wiped sweat from his brow, clutching his chest. "Tough life. Mom, Dad, watch over your son. May he feast and prosper. May he never be chained to this world again."

  He gathered his scattered belongings. The expensive plant had snapped at the stem—a companion in misfortune. He plucked a medical leaf from the broken stem and chewed it. Injured now, of all times. Perfect timing.

  Unbearable heat dissolved into coolness spreading down his throat. Effective, actually.

  He dusted himself off, shouldered his ruined possessions, and strode into the darkness ahead—toward freedom, or whatever passed for it on this godforsaken planet.