EDGE OF THE VOID

The bridge of the Oblivion's Wake was silent, save for the soft hum of power conduits coursing through the deck plating. Kael Veyra stood at the forward viewport, arms crossed, staring into the endless black that now surrounded the derelict vessel drifting before them. No star charts had recorded it. No records in any Alliance archive matched its profile. It simply floated, a spectral shape obscured by shadow, tethered to nothing—and yet, the air around it felt charged, like a held breath.

"Still no response?" Kael asked without turning.

"None," Elara Toren replied. She sat hunched at the auxiliary terminal, her brow furrowed. "No transponder, no distress beacon. But it’s emitting... something. A pattern—five tones, every thirteen-point-three seconds. Not language, not noise. It’s like it’s waiting for an answer."

Kael moved to her side and watched the waveform flicker across the monitor. It wasn’t just a sound—it was layered, dense, and somehow alive. Each cycle sent a tremor down his spine.

Lieutenant Aras spoke from tactical. "The ship's design doesn’t match any known civilization. No propulsion signatures. Its hull’s composed of some kind of composite metal—we’re getting partial readings, but the surface is resisting all scans. It’s like it’s deliberately masking itself."

Kael's jaw tightened. "Give me an estimate on internal pressure."

Aras hesitated. "Still sealed. Gravity is active. Artificial. Bare minimum to sustain life."

"So someone’s still in there," Kael murmured.

Elara looked up. Her voice was quieter now. "Kael… I think it’s not just sending a signal. I think it’s listening."

The silence that followed was heavier than before. Kael’s fingers tapped against his forearm. Something about the derelict ship twisted at his instincts. A whisper at the edge of thought, like static bleeding into consciousness.

"Suit up," he said finally. "I want a team of four. Elara, you’re with me. Aras, you're in charge until we return. If we’re not back in three hours, you leave. That’s an order."

The launch bay of the Oblivion's Wake was dimly lit, bathed in a cold blue glow as the team assembled. Kael's exo-suit hissed as it sealed around him. The air inside felt thicker than it should. Elara adjusted her translator module, the device affixed to her forearm pulsing with faint blue light.

"Are you sure you're ready for this?" Kael asked as they approached the shuttle.

"Are you?" she countered.

He said nothing. The truth was, he wasn’t. But he’d seen the Void, stared into it during the final days of the Reaper Siege. He knew what silence meant in space: it meant something worse than sound.

They docked with the derelict vessel through a ruptured corridor—part of the ship's hull had been split open, though the breach had oddly resealed itself with a membrane-like material. Elara took a scan.

"Organic. Part synthetic. It's regenerating slowly," she whispered.

Kael drew his weapon. "Stay alert."

The interior was even stranger. The halls were symmetrical, impossibly clean, yet aged beyond reckoning. Alien glyphs lined the walls—etched, not painted—pulsing with a dull violet glow. A low hum vibrated beneath their boots.

"This place isn’t dead," Elara said. "It’s dreaming."

Kael turned to her sharply. "What did you say?"

"I—I don’t know. It just came out."

They moved deeper into the vessel, past doors that opened at their presence and corridors that seemed to shift when unobserved. Then, ahead, the corridor opened into a vast chamber. A throne of bone-like metal sat at the center, and floating above it—was a sphere.

It wasn’t mechanical. It wasn’t biological. It was Void. A black sphere, perfectly smooth, absorbing all light, all thought. And from it, came a voice—not in their ears, but in their minds.

"You have answered. Now you will know."

Kael staggered back, eyes wide.

Elara dropped to her knees, clutching her head.

The chamber lit with spiraling symbols. Time dilated. Kael saw flashes of stars dying, of planets screaming, of something waking in the abyss.

Then everything went black.