Carson shuffled into the converted cargo bay, shoulders hunched against the press of bodies. He never understood why Link insisted on dragging him to these events. The recycled air felt thick with exhalations, the temperature noticeably higher than the station standard.

  "This better be worth it," he muttered, following Link's enthusiastic weaving through the crowd.

  "Trust me," Link called back, grinning over his shoulder. "Everyone's talking about her. Some singer who just arrived from Hera last week."

  Carson raised an eyebrow. Heran visitors were rare—their matriarchal society typically kept to themselves. His analytical mind immediately cataloged the anomaly: what would bring a Heran performer to a mining outpost?

  Link secured them spots against a support column with decent sightlines to the makeshift stage—really just a raised platform with hastily installed lighting. The crowd buzzed with an energy Carson rarely witnessed on Celestia 28. TITAN's emotional regulation protocols seemed momentarily suspended, or at least ignored.

  "Security's heavy," Carson noted, spotting three drones hovering at strategic points—twice the normal coverage for an entertainment event.

  "Guess they're worried about the Theist delegation getting too excited," Link joked, accepting two drinks from an automated dispenser and handing one to Carson.

  The lights dimmed suddenly, conversation dropping to a hushed murmur. A single spotlight illuminated the empty stage. Carson found himself leaning forward slightly, curiosity overcoming his practiced indifference.

  She appeared without announcement—simply stepping into the light. Carson's first impression was of contained power. The woman stood perhaps a hand shorter than him, with close-cropped dark hair and skin the color of burnished copper. Her clothing was distinctly Heran—layers of blue-green fabric that seemed to shift with each movement, neither masculine nor feminine but something entirely its own.

  But it was her eyes that caught him—sharp, evaluating, taking in the audience with a gaze that seemed to see beyond surface appearances. When she began to sing, Carson forgot to breathe.

  Her voice filled the space without technological amplification, somehow both powerful and intimate. The melody followed no pattern Carson recognized, sliding between notes that shouldn't harmonize yet somehow created something hauntingly beautiful. The language wasn't Standard—fragments of ancient Earth tongues woven with what must be Heran dialect.

  "That's Wind," Link whispered unnecessarily.

  Carson nodded, unable to look away. Something about her voice resonated at a frequency that bypassed his usual defenses. Goosebumps rose along his arms despite the room's warmth. His heartbeat synced with the rhythm of her song, an autonomic response he couldn't control.

  The crowd swayed as one organism, caught in the same spell. Carson found himself moving slightly too, his body responding while his mind tried to analyze what made her performance so affecting. Was it some technological enhancement? Some Heran technique designed to manipulate emotional response?

  Then Wind's eyes locked with his across the crowded room.

  The connection lasted perhaps two seconds, but Carson felt exposed, as if she'd glimpsed past every careful barrier he'd constructed. Heat rushed to his face, and he fought the irrational urge to step backward.

  Her gaze moved on, but Carson remained frozen. He noticed a security drone hovering closer to the stage, its scanning pattern focused exclusively on Wind. Not standard crowd monitoring—something more targeted.

  The song built toward some climax, Wind's voice reaching for a note that seemed impossible. As she held it, pure and unwavering, Carson's vision blurred. For a heartbeat, he wasn't in the cargo bay but standing before a golden flame, crystal pendant heavy against his chest, the same note ringing in his ears.

  The Light awaits its Keeper.

  He staggered slightly, Link's hand steadying his arm.

  "You okay?" Link whispered.

  Carson blinked, the vision gone, Wind's final note fading into silence before thunderous applause erupted. His pulse hammered in his throat, mouth dry.

  "Yeah," he managed. "Just... crowded in here."

  But his eyes returned to Wind, who stood acknowledging the crowd with a slight bow, her expression revealing nothing of what she might have seen when their eyes met.

  The crowd's applause faded as Carson pushed through the bodies pressing against him. Link had disappeared somewhere in the surge toward the makeshift stage, leaving Carson to navigate the crush alone. His head throbbed with a strange pressure that had started during Wind's final note.

  "Excuse me," he muttered, shouldering past a group of off-duty technicians. The corridor outside the performance space felt too bright, the overhead lights stabbing at his retinas. Carson squinted, raising a hand to shield his eyes.

  Something wasn't right. The normal hum of the station's environmental systems warped in his ears, stretching and compressing like poorly calibrated audio. He pressed his back against the wall, trying to ground himself.

  Just the heat. Too many people.

  His heart hammered against his ribs at an alarming rate. Carson focused on his breathing, applying the same analytical approach he used for mining calculations. Symptoms: elevated heart rate, visual sensitivity, auditory distortion. Possible causes: dehydration, atmospheric contaminants, or—

  A wave of dizziness swept through him. The corridor tilted sideways, forcing him to brace against the wall. The voices around him stretched into unintelligible sounds, words pulling like taffy until they lost meaning.

  "ID scan required," announced the checkpoint drone as Carson stumbled toward the exit. He fumbled for his wrist unit, tapping it against the scanner with shaking fingers.

  The scanner flashed red. "Unrecognized credentials. Please try again."

  Carson frowned, focusing on the display. His ID had never failed before. He tried again, pressing his wrist deliberately against the pad.

  "Error. Resident not found in database."

  A cold sweat broke across his forehead. The drone hovered closer, its optical sensors focusing on his face. "Security override in progress."

  Carson backed away, panic rising. The corridor lights flickered as he moved, dimming and brightening in rhythm with his heartbeat. He needed to get somewhere private before someone noticed.

  "—diplomatic incident involving Princess Mira's unexpected absence from the Theist delegation—" The announcement cut through the distortion momentarily, then faded back into noise.

  He spotted a maintenance access panel and moved toward it on instinct, punching in the override code he'd memorized years ago. The panel slid open, and Carson slipped inside just as the security drone turned in his direction.

  The narrow passageway beyond was mercifully empty. Carson leaned against the cool metal wall, gulping air. The lights here flickered wildly, responding to his proximity in ways that defied station protocols. A faint golden glow rimmed his vision, pulsing with each labored breath.

  "Analyze," he whispered to himself, trying to impose order on the chaos of his senses. "Logical explanations."

  But logic failed him as the maintenance corridor dissolved around him. For three heartbeats, Carson stood in an ancient chamber of stone, a pedestal before him holding a flame that burned without fuel. The air smelled of earth and age—impossible scents on a space station. A weight pressed against his chest where no object hung.

  The Light awaits its Keeper.

  The words formed in his mind without passing through his ears. Carson reached toward the flame, fingers trembling—

  Reality snapped back. The maintenance corridor reappeared, but now Carson was on his knees, one hand clutched against his chest. Five seconds had passed according to his wrist unit, but it felt like minutes.

  He tried to stand, legs buckling beneath him. The golden light at the edges of his vision intensified, and Carson squeezed his eyes shut against the brightness. His analytical mind grasped for explanations but found none. This wasn't dehydration or atmospheric contamination. This was something else entirely.

  "You shouldn't be here."

  Carson's eyes flew open. Wind stood at the end of the corridor, her performance attire exchanged for simpler clothing. The golden light receded at her voice, the pressure in his head easing slightly.

  "I—" Carson began, but couldn't find words to explain.

  Wind moved toward him with surprising speed, kneeling beside him. Her eyes narrowed as she studied his face, then glanced at the still-flickering lights.

  "It's starting," she said, her voice neither surprised nor concerned. She placed cool fingers against his wrist, bypassing his malfunctioning ID unit and pressing directly on his pulse point.

  "What's happening to me?" Carson managed, hating the weakness in his voice.

  Wind didn't answer. Instead, she helped him to his feet with surprising strength, supporting his weight against her side.

  "You need to come with me," she said simply. "Before they find you like this."

  Carson's vision gradually stabilized, the corridor's harsh utility lights no longer pulsing with his heartbeat. He leaned against the cool metal wall of the maintenance alcove, grateful for its solid reality against his back. Wind crouched before him, her movements precise as she rummaged through a small pouch he hadn't noticed earlier.

  "I don't need medical attention," he said, voice rougher than intended. The lie tasted metallic on his tongue, like the residue of a faulty air filter.

  Wind didn't acknowledge his protest. Instead, she removed a small vial containing amber liquid and unscrewed its cap. The scent hit Carson immediately—sharp and botanical, nothing like the standardized TITAN medical solutions. It reminded him of soil and growing things, impossible smells on a station where hydroponics were sealed behind triple-filtered ventilation systems.

  "Hold still," she instructed, dabbing the liquid onto her fingertips. Before Carson could object, she pressed them gently against his temples.

  The effect was immediate—a cooling sensation that spread through his skull, clearing the lingering fog. Carson's analytical mind cataloged the impossibility: no topical solution should work that quickly.

  "What is that?" he asked, trying to maintain some dignity despite sitting slumped against a wall in a maintenance corridor.

  Wind hummed softly as she recapped the vial, the sound vibrating at a frequency that seemed to align with the station's background hum. The dissonance in Carson's head quieted further.

  "Just something we use on Hera," she said, her accent subtly different from standard TITAN English—vowels held a fraction longer, consonants softer. "For resonance sensitivity."

  Carson frowned. "That's not a recognized medical condition."

  Wind's lips curved slightly. "No, it wouldn't be. Not in TITAN databases."

  Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  Behind her, a maintenance panel displayed scrolling security alerts. Carson noticed how Wind had positioned herself to block any overhead scanners, her body angled precisely in the camera's blind spot. Not accidental. Deliberate.

  "You knew this would happen," he said, suspicion cutting through his gratitude.

  Wind tucked the vial away in her pouch, which bore intricate stitching unlike anything in TITAN's utilitarian design catalogs. Every detail about her seemed slightly misaligned with station norms—her posture too balanced, her movements too economical.

  "I recognized the signs," she corrected. "Your reaction during my performance wasn't typical."

  Carson tried sitting straighter, regaining some control. His senses felt strangely sharpened—he could distinguish the different tones in the distant hum of the station's recycling systems, smell the subtle differences between the standard-issue soap Wind had used and something else, something earthy beneath it.

  "Why help me?" he asked. "We don't know each other."

  Wind studied him with unnerving directness. "Don't we?"

  The question hung between them, nonsensical yet somehow weighted. Carson noticed her wrist unit—similar to standard TITAN tech but with subtle modifications, its casing decorated with what appeared to be actual plant material sealed under transparent coating. Impossible. Organic decorations were strictly regulated.

  "I should report to medical," Carson said, more to himself than to her, the responsible course of action warring with an inexplicable reluctance to involve station authorities.

  "That would be unwise," Wind replied, glancing at the security notifications scrolling faster now. "Your biometrics are currently... irregular. Questions would be asked."

  Carson's mind raced through implications. Irregular biometrics meant possible quarantine, suspension of work clearance, mandatory evaluation. Link would be notified, but separated during procedures.

  "We should find your friend," Wind said, as if reading his thoughts. "Link, yes? Before your absence triggers automated alerts."

  Carson's eyes narrowed. "How do you know about Link?"

  Wind stood in one fluid motion, offering her hand. "Everyone knows mining partners work in pairs. Basic station protocol."

  The explanation was reasonable, but something in her tone suggested layers beneath the words. Carson hesitated, then took her offered hand. Her grip was stronger than her frame suggested as she helped him to his feet.

  "The episode is already fading from your system," she observed. "You recover quickly. That's... promising."

  "Promising for what?" Carson steadied himself, testing his balance.

  Wind didn't answer, instead glancing toward the corridor exit. "We should move. Security drones will sweep this section soon."

  Carson found himself following her lead despite his lingering questions. His analytical mind struggled to categorize Wind—not quite threat, not quite ally, but something unprecedented in his carefully controlled existence.

  Carson's head had cleared, but his nerves remained on edge as they approached the security checkpoint between the Middle and Outer Rings. The harsh white lighting overhead felt more aggressive than usual, each beam seemingly focused on exposing any irregularity. He wiped his palms against his work pants, feeling the rough texture of mining residue embedded in the fabric.

  Link stood close beside him, a reassuring presence of normality in what had become an increasingly abnormal day. Wind walked slightly behind them, her footsteps nearly silent compared to their heavier tread.

  "You sure you're good?" Link muttered, his broad shoulders angled protectively toward Carson. "We could call in sick, head back to quarters."

  Carson shook his head. "Better to maintain routine. Less attention."

  The security checkpoint loomed ahead—a bottleneck of scanner gates and uniformed officers with enhanced tablets. Carson had passed through this transition point thousands of times, the process so mundane he usually did it half-asleep. Today, every detail seemed magnified—the electronic beeping of scanners processing IDs, the subtle change in air quality between the rings, the bored expressions of officers who rarely encountered actual problems.

  "Next," called the officer at their gate, not bothering to look up.

  Carson stepped forward, pulling his ID chip from his pocket and pressing it against the scanner. The familiar green light failed to appear. Instead, a harsh red flash illuminated his face, followed by an error code scrolling across the screen.

  "ID not recognized," announced the automated system. "Please step aside for secondary verification."

  The security officer finally looked up, annoyance crossing his features. "Problem with your chip. Step over there."

  Carson's stomach tightened. Every instinct screamed to remain inconspicuous, yet here he was, literally highlighted by the red error light that continued to pulse above the scanner.

  Link immediately stepped forward. "Must be a system glitch. We just used our IDs to clock in for shift preparation."

  The officer's expression didn't change. "Secondary verification. Standard protocol."

  As Carson moved to the indicated area, the overhead announcement system crackled to life: "Attention all personnel. Enhanced security protocols are now in effect following yesterday's diplomatic incident. All station residents are reminded that unauthorized access to restricted areas is punishable by immediate suspension of station privileges."

  Carson caught the glance exchanged between two nearby officers.

  "Can't believe they're making this much fuss over a spoiled princess," one muttered.

  "Diplomatic nightmare," the other replied. "TITAN Central's furious she slipped away during official negotiations. Makes us look incompetent."

  "Or complicit," the first added. "Bet someone's losing their position over this."

  Carson's mind raced, connecting disparate pieces. His ID malfunction coinciding with a missing Theist royal couldn't be coincidence. But why would station systems link them?

  The verification officer scanned Carson's face with a handheld device. "Craft, Carson. Mining Division. Your biometric scan matches records, but your ID chip has been deactivated."

  "Deactivated?" Carson kept his voice neutral despite his racing pulse. "I haven't received any notification."

  "System says your credentials were flagged for review following..." The officer frowned at his screen. "Following proximity to restricted diplomatic areas during unauthorized hours."

  Link stepped closer. "That's impossible. We were both in our quarters after shift yesterday."

  The verification officer looked unimpressed. "System doesn't make mistakes."

  "Perhaps I can help," Wind interjected, her voice carrying a subtle authority that hadn't been present before. She approached the verification station with practiced ease. "Standard protocol allows for emergency override using supervisor credentials during system anomalies."

  The officer's eyebrows rose. "And you are?"

  "Cultural Exchange Division," Wind replied smoothly, producing an ID that Carson hadn't seen before. "We've had several similar malfunctions following the diplomatic lockdown. Central issued temporary override codes to prevent workforce disruption."

  Carson watched, stunned, as Wind entered a complex sequence into the verification panel. The screen flashed amber, then green.

  "Override accepted," the system announced. "Temporary clearance granted. Flagged for follow-up investigation."

  The officer looked surprised but nodded them through. As they passed the checkpoint, Carson felt a chill despite the warmer temperatures of the Outer Ring. His ID had been deactivated at the same time a princess had vanished from the station. And somehow, Wind had known exactly how to circumvent security protocols.

  "We need to talk," he murmured to both of them as they cleared the final scanner. "Now."

  Carson stared at the ceiling of his quarters, eyes wide despite the late hour. Exhaustion weighed on his limbs like gravity set too high, but his mind refused to power down. The events of the day replayed in an endless loop—Wind's performance, his blackout, the security checkpoint, and the strange override that had saved him from hours of questioning.

  "Maeve, run that security analysis again," he murmured.

  Maeve's holographic form shimmered to life beside his bed, bathing the sparse room in soft blue light. "Analysis confirms unusual deployment patterns, Carson. Security personnel increased by twenty-seven percent in sectors adjacent to the commerce district. Highest concentration outside Bowie's shop and surrounding corridors."

  Carson rubbed his eyes. "Any official explanation?"

  "Station management cites 'routine security enhancement following diplomatic incident.' However, pattern comparison with previous diplomatic incidents shows significant deviation from standard protocol."

  He shifted onto his side, inhaling deeply. Wind's scent lingered in the air—something earthy and unfamiliar to the recycled station atmosphere. His quarters felt different somehow, as if her brief presence had altered more than just the air composition. The usual mechanical hum of the station seemed muted tonight, the ambient sounds of life support and circulation systems barely audible.

  "What about my ID status?"

  Maeve's form flickered as she accessed the network. "Credentials restored but flagged for monitoring. Reason cited: proximity to restricted diplomatic areas. Time of alleged violation coincides exactly with Princess Mira's reported disappearance."

  Carson frowned. "That's impossible. I was here."

  "Correct. Station logs confirm your presence in these quarters at the cited time."

  "So someone deliberately falsified the record." Carson sat up, suddenly more alert. "Why connect me to a missing princess?"

  "Insufficient data for conclusion," Maeve replied. "However, the timing correlates with another station announcement: Prince Roman will lead an expanded Theist delegation arriving within forty-eight hours."

  Carson's fingers tapped against his knee, a nervous habit from childhood. The strategy that had guided his life—deliberate mediocrity, avoiding attention, staying beneath notice—was crumbling. Someone had noticed him anyway, had specifically targeted his identity.

  And then there was Wind. Her convenient appearance, her unexplained knowledge of security protocols, her intense interest in him after his blackout.

  "Replay Wind's exact words at the checkpoint," he requested.

  Maeve's voice shifted, perfectly mimicking Wind's distinctive cadence: "Cultural Exchange Division. We've had several similar malfunctions following the diplomatic lockdown. Central issued temporary override codes to prevent workforce disruption."

  Carson closed his eyes, analyzing each phrase. Cultural Exchange—a division with broad access but minimal oversight. Similar malfunctions—suggesting she knew of other targeted IDs. Temporary override codes—knowledge that even most supervisors wouldn't possess.

  "She's not who she claims to be," he whispered.

  "That appears to be a reasonable conclusion," Maeve agreed.

  Carson lay back down, a strange warmth building in his chest despite the chill of realization. It wasn't fear he felt, but something closer to anticipation. As if some part of him had been waiting for the careful constructs of his life to fall away.

  "I need to maintain routine tomorrow," he said. "Act normal. Meet with Link early, warn him to be careful. Then find an excuse to visit Bowie's shop."

  "The shop is under surveillance," Maeve reminded him.

  "Which means it's important." Carson's eyelids finally grew heavy. "Sometimes the best hiding place is where everyone's already looking."

  As sleep finally claimed him, the dream came with startling clarity. He stood in Bowie's shop, surrounded by Earth artifacts. But instead of the cluttered shelves he remembered, the room was empty save for a single pedestal. Upon it rested a crystalline object that pulsed with golden-white light.

  In the dream, Carson reached for it, feeling an impossible familiarity. The moment his fingers touched the crystal, warmth flooded through him—the same warmth he'd felt in his chest moments before falling asleep. The light intensified, engulfing his vision until nothing else remained.

  A voice, neither male nor female, whispered: "Keeper."

  Carson jerked awake for an instant, the word echoing in his mind, before exhaustion pulled him back into dreamless sleep.

  Carson stared at the ceiling of his quarters, the familiar geometric patterns of station architecture barely visible in the darkness. His body ached with the leaden exhaustion of a double mining shift, but his mind refused to power down. The day's events replayed in endless loops—Wind's haunting melody, the security checkpoint malfunction, the strange woman who'd appeared from nowhere to rescue him.

  "Maeve, run security analysis on Celestia 28, past twelve hours," he murmured.

  The AI's holographic form materialized beside his bed, bathing the sparse room in soft blue light. Her customized appearance—which he'd programmed to resemble an old Earth academic rather than TITAN's standard utilitarian design—studied him with programmed concern.

  "Analysis complete," she replied. "Security deployment shows a twenty-seven percent increase in personnel throughout the commerce district, with highest concentration surrounding Bowie's artifact shop and adjacent corridors."

  Carson pushed himself up on his elbows. "Official explanation?"

  "Station management cites 'routine security enhancement following diplomatic incident.' However, comparison with previous diplomatic protocols shows significant deviation from standard response patterns."

  He nodded, pieces clicking together in his mind. "And my ID status?"

  Maeve's form flickered as she accessed the network. "Credentials restored but flagged for monitoring. Reason cited: proximity to restricted diplomatic areas during security lockdown." She paused. "Time of alleged violation coincides exactly with Princess Mira's reported disappearance."

  "That's impossible." Carson frowned. "Station logs would show I was in my quarters."

  "Correct. Your biometric signature remained in these quarters throughout the cited timeframe."

  Carson inhaled deeply, detecting an unfamiliar scent lingering in the recycled air—something earthy and organic that didn't belong on a space station. Wind's scent. His quarters felt different somehow, as if her brief presence had altered more than just the air composition. Even the familiar mechanical hum of life support systems seemed muted tonight, the ambient sounds of the station barely audible, as if the entire structure held its breath.

  "Someone deliberately falsified my location data," he muttered, more to himself than Maeve. "But why connect me to a missing princess?"

  "Insufficient data for conclusion," Maeve replied. "However, station management has announced Prince Roman will lead an expanded Theist delegation arriving within forty-eight hours."

  Carson's fingers tapped against his knee—a nervous habit from childhood that surfaced whenever his carefully constructed world shifted. The strategy that had guided his life—deliberate mediocrity, staying beneath notice—was crumbling. Someone had noticed him anyway.

  "Replay Wind's exact words at the checkpoint," he requested.

  Maeve's voice shifted, perfectly mimicking Wind's distinctive cadence: "Cultural Exchange Division. We've had several similar malfunctions following the diplomatic lockdown. Central issued temporary override codes to prevent workforce disruption."

  Carson closed his eyes, analyzing each phrase. Cultural Exchange—a division with minimal oversight. Similar malfunctions—suggesting she knew of other targeted IDs. Temporary override codes—knowledge that even most supervisors wouldn't possess.

  "She's not who she claims to be," he whispered.

  A strange warmth bloomed in his chest despite the chill of realization. It wasn't fear he felt, but something closer to anticipation. As if some part of him had been waiting for this disruption, for the careful constructs of his life to fall away.

  "I need to maintain routine tomorrow," he said. "Act normal. Meet with Link early, warn him something's happening. Then find an excuse to visit Bowie's shop."

  "The shop is under surveillance," Maeve reminded him.

  "Which means it's important." Carson lay back down, the warmth in his chest spreading through his limbs. "Sometimes the best hiding place is where everyone's already looking."

  As his consciousness finally began to drift, the dream came with startling clarity. He stood in Bowie's shop, surrounded by Earth artifacts. But instead of the cluttered shelves he remembered, the room was empty save for a single pedestal. Upon it rested a crystalline object that pulsed with golden-white light.

  In the dream, Carson reached for it, feeling an impossible familiarity. The moment his fingers touched the crystal, warmth flooded through him—the same warmth he'd felt in his chest moments before falling asleep. The light intensified, engulfing his vision until nothing else remained.

  A voice, neither male nor female, whispered: "Keeper."

  Carson jerked awake for an instant, the word echoing in his mind, before exhaustion pulled him back into dreamless sleep.