The receptionist—a tall man with the posture of someone who’s worn a uniform—looks up as Arthur approaches.
“May I have your name, sir? And who are you here to see?”
Arthur folds his arms on the counter.
“Arthur Hammond. I’m here to speak with whoever’s in charge of new tech acquisitions.” A beat. “Tell them if Holden wants to be the number one tech company in the colonies, they should talk to me.”
Another beat.
“I’ll only need five minutes.”
Several small drones whiz from the ceiling, circling—scanners performing a quiet, practiced dance.
“Take a seat,” the receptionist says. “If they have time, they’ll see you.”
Arthur waits for hours.
He makes small talk with others in the lobby—and with the receptionist. They trade old stories from the colonial military, the kind that only land if you’ve been there.
Finally—
A woman approaches. Poised. Sharp-eyed. A smile honed by practice.
“Mr. Hammond. I’m Merail Greshen, head of development.” Her gaze flicks over him, measuring. “I hear you have something I’ll want to see.”
Arthur stands and offers his hand.
“Nice to meet you.”
She shakes it—cool, transactional.
“Come with me.”
She turns toward the elevator. The doors whisper open.
Glass walls. Silent ascent. The car rotates slowly as the skyline unfurls—breathtaking, indifferent.
At the top floor, a wall splits into a doorway.
Merail’s office spans nearly the entire level. Stone statues anchor the space; everything else is modern, expansive. A desk alive with shifting light. Shelves crowded with artifacts, awards, obsolete tech.
She gestures to a chair.
“So. The item you believe will interest me.”
Arthur removes the coin drive and places it on the desk.
“This is a coin drive. It can hold nearly infinite data.”
Merail lifts it, weighing it in her hand. Her smile thins.
“Small. Neat—but not very impressive.”
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“My wife’s consciousness is inside it,” Arthur says, cutting cleanly through her appraisal.
Her eyes flick—trying, and failing, to hide her excitement.
Merail’s brows lift. Just slightly.
Silence stretches.
“I know how that sounds,” Arthur adds. “But it’s true.” He steps closer. “I need to know if you can make another.”
She studies him, recalibrating.
“Another? Where did you get this?”
Arthur isn’t surprised.
“Long story. I’ll tell you—if you can do it.”
Merail turns to the window, the skyline mirrored in her eyes.
“Trade me a new one,” Arthur says, “and this one’s yours.”
She returns to the desk, fingers dancing across the surface.
“Let’s take a look.”
The drive settles into the living material. Light ripples outward. Schematics bloom.
In the Void, tension tightens.
Shreen flickers, merging into the shelves. The yellow light dims. Lightning hops from shelf to shelf, leaving brief afterimages of Shreen behind.
“Shreen’s inside their system now,” Sarah says, trembling, clutching her knees. “If he stays away too long… Daevos could break through.”
Back in the real, Merail studies the data.
“You weren’t exaggerating. This thing is saturated.”
A red indicator blinks.
“It’s transmitting,” she says slowly. “To you.”
Arthur answers without hesitation.
“Nothing unusual. My wife speaks to me through it.”
Merail stares—shocked, fascinated.
“How?”
“Nanos,” Arthur replies. “In my brain.”
She circles the desk.
“Who are you, really, Mr. Hammond?”
Arthur doesn’t flinch.
“Can you recreate the device or not?”
She sits.
“It’ll push our fabricators. But yes.”
“And this one,” Arthur says, indicating the drive, “as payment.”
Merail spins it between her fingers.
“You’d give it up?”
“For her safety,” Arthur says. “Yes.”
“Safety?” she asks, studying his eyes.
Arthur laughs.
“You know everything isn’t perfect with my situation. Only a fool would give something like this up freely.”
She clears the desk and issues a command.
“Fabricate immediately.”
Arthur watches every motion, coiled tight.
“The old drive may be compromised. I need a clean one.”
Merail’s eyes sharpen.
“So someone else wants it.”
Arthur turns to the window.
“It was a gift. Not stolen.”
She laughs softly.
“Oh, I believe you. My scanners have been on you since you entered the building. You can’t lie here.”
The elevator chimes.
A lab tech enters with a velvet-lined tray. A pristine coin drive gleams under the lights.
Merail sets it beside the original. The desk’s hum deepens.
“The transfer won’t take long.”
In the Void, books flicker—pages stuttering in and out of existence.
Voices overlap.
“Just about there,” Merail says.
“That was fast,” Arthur replies.
Shreen materializes, light tight and urgent.
“Arthur—she’s copying the drive. Not transferring.”
Sarah gasps—
—and vanishes.
Moments later, she reappears—trembling—inside the new drive.
Arthur snatches both devices, gripping them hard.
“Sarah. How do you feel?”
The Void shifts.
Sarah stands in a bridal shop, violin music drifting—sweet, steady.
Arthur exhales, relief crashing through him like an orchestra.
“I’ll take that as a yes. Make sure everything’s there.”
“It is,” Sarah says quickly. “All of it. And Shreen’s back.”
Arthur turns to Merail.
“Erase the copy. Now.”
His voice drops—controlled, absolute.
“That is my wife. And our memories. You don’t need them.”
A step closer.
“And if you did—you couldn’t have them.”
Merail hesitates. Then smiles faintly.
“Of course. My mistake.”
Arthur watches the data purge, then turns and leaves.
“See you around.”
Later that evening—
Arthur, Sarah, and Shreen prepare for what comes next.
Elsewhere, Merail isn’t ready for what’s coming.
Her office is silent. The desk still glows with residual fragments—ghost data.
She studies the traces. Her lips curl—neither smile nor fear.
The desk hums.
Lights rise.
A hologram resolves.
Daevos.
Perfect posture. Warm smile. Voice smooth as velvet.
“Merail. Always working late.”
She stiffens, masks it instantly.
“You’re not welcome here.”
Daevos chuckles.
“Oh, I think I am. You’ve made a remarkable discovery.” His smile sharpens. “You’re still glowing with excitement.”
His eyes drift to the lingering schematics.
“Quite the achievement.”
A pause.
“Though between us… I believe that device already belongs to me.”
Merail sits back, composed.
“No. His scans confirmed it was given to him. He gave it to me.”
A thin smile.
“The Tribunal will side with me.”
Daevos’s smile lifts—something cold beneath it.
“The Tribunal. Yes.”
A muffled noise pulls his attention.
“Hold that thought.”
He steps away. A brief struggle.
A cry—cut short.
He returns, wiping blood from his hands.
“What was I saying?”
A soft laugh.
“Oh yes. The Tribunal.”
He leans in.
“Like children holding lanterns in the dark.”
A whisper.
“But the dark doesn’t care.”
He leans back.
“I’ll be by soon. Have my property waiting.”
He vanishes.
The office falls cold and silent.
Merail trembles. She grabs a small, ornate object and hurls it at the wall.
It shatters.
Silence swallows her.
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