On the star map, the planet was designated X-117-B—a nameless ice world, forgotten on the edge of the system. From above, it was nothing more than white rock and frozen plains, a geometry of desolation.
But a closer look—one trained to spot anomalies—would notice that one of the "rocks" was too round. And that it had two smaller, identical stones on either side. It was the Star-Mite, perfectly camouflaged beneath a layer of snow Ishtar had deliberately piled over it.
Nearby, hidden behind a slab of ice that could only be moved if you knew exactly where to push, was the entrance to a cave. And inside it, bathed in the cave's cold glow, was Ishtar.
The high-pitched whine of a small handheld drill echoed off the ice walls. Beside her, dozens of cryo-hybrid quartz crystals—white and translucent—lay in a growing pile. A rare resource, used in the manufacture of advanced weapon cooling systems.
At one point, her shoulders gave out. The drill slipped from her hand and fell, its diamond tip passing inches from her face. The jolt snapped her awake. She'd been nodding off. Not in the game—but in real life. Exhaustion was a debt her body collected without warning.
She gathered everything. The crystals wouldn't fit into her limited inventory. She had to make four grueling trips between the cave and the ship, each one a test of nerves, exposing her to the planet's endless white void.
When the last crystal was stowed, she lifted off. She found the nearest port—a small orbital station—and docked. She stored the ship and walked to a public logout booth. The Star-Mite didn't have one, and logging out without the protection of a port would leave the ship at the mercy of anyone who found it.
The click of the neuro-connector gave way to the low hum of her cubicle. Helen stood, the stiffness in her neck a sharp, biting pain. She lifted her arm, sniffed, and grimaced in disgust. Two days without a shower in an unventilated room had taken their toll.
The shower was quick, utilitarian. Wrapped in nothing but a towel, she went to the Food Printer, her credit balance blinking on the terminal. She allowed herself a small indulgence.
[Rice, Synthetic Steak, and French Fries. Cost: 4 SCL]
She ate fast, sitting on the edge of the bed, the flavor almost shocking after days of nutritional bread. It wasn't pleasure. It was fuel. The moment she finished, the tray discarded, she collapsed onto the bed. Sleep took her instantly.
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
The sound was strange. Alien.
Helen jolted awake, heart hammering. Someone was knocking on her door.
She stayed perfectly still, breath caught in her throat. She stared at the door as if it were a viper about to strike. She hadn't given that address to anyone. Anyone. In a world where all communication flowed through terminals and messages, a physical knock on a door was either an act of aggression—or a terrible mistake.
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
Louder this time. Insistent.
Her world—so carefully sealed—had been breached.