I followed the steady flow of people toward Central Plaza, where the city's heartbeat echoed through chrome-plated walkways and titanium-reinforced structures. The further in I walked, the more the rust gave way to polished surfaces, though looking close enough revealed the same decay, just better hidden under fresh paint and strategic lighting.

  The plaza opened before me, a sprawling expanse where no vehicles dared intrude. In its center stood the Last Tree, as people called it. Its branches reached toward the artificial sky, defiant against the metal forest that surrounded it. The sight hit differently now, knowing what I knew. Crowds gathered around it daily, hands pressed against the reinforced barrier, eyes filled with something between reverence and desperation.

  A child pointed upward, asking his mother about the green things. "Leaves," she whispered, like it was a sacred word. And maybe it was. Earth's forests were long gone, reduced to stories we told children about a world that used to be. Now we looked to the stars, hunting for new homes among distant suns.

  My gaze drifted to the massive screens surrounding the plaza, each one showing footage from the latest colonial expeditions. Paradise worlds, they called them. But I knew better. In six years, they'd find PS-217, a genuine garden world. Voss would claim the discovery, riding that success straight to the top.

  I clenched my fists. That future wasn't set in stone, not anymore. But first, I had credits to earn. Time to find somewhere quiet to work.

  I traced my steps through memory, weaving between the pristine storefronts until I found what I needed, single-use labs, perfect for a one time use. The prices displayed in holographic digits made my stomach turn. No way I could afford even an hour.

  But I had an ace up my sleeve.

  The gaudy golden sign of Goldfinch materialized before me, exactly as I remembered it. The storefront gleamed with an unholy amount of polish, practically a mirror. The display windows showcased "artifacts" that would make any historian cry, everything from "authentic" pre-collapse cutlery to "genuine" alien pottery.

  Inside, the air hit me like a wall of incense. A cleaning drone zipped behind my feet, erasing my footprints before they could "contaminate" the spotless floor. Another one assaulted me with a cloud of nano-cleaners and some ridiculously expensive perfume that probably cost more than what most people made in a day.

  "What do you want, urchin?" The voice cracked through the air like a whip.

  There he was, Finch, in all his diminutive glory. The man barely reached my chest, but he strutted toward me like he was ten feet tall, his silk robes swishing dramatically. Gold rings adorned every stubby finger, and a collection of "mystical" pendants clinked against his chest. His face twisted into that familiar scowl I remembered, bushy eyebrows drawn together over suspicious eyes.

  "This better be good," he waddled closer, "I don't have time for street rats looking to waste my-"

  I cut him off. Time to play my card.

  "Yesterday's map won't read tomorrow's sky."

  Finch froze mid-stride, his face draining of color. His rings clinked against each other as his hands trembled. The cleaning drone bumped into his leg, but he didn't even notice.

  "T-then we must be flying blind... on purpose," his voice shook, a mixture of glee and desperate hope painted across his features.

  "Only way to find where we've already been." I reached down and patted his head like a dog. Any other day, this gesture would've earned me a lifelong blood feud with the little tyrant. Today, it was the final confirmation he needed.

  "Follow me." He stormed off toward the back of the shop, his silk robes billowing behind him.

  The security system was a work of art. Triple-layered biometric scanners read his retina, palm print, and DNA. Laser arrays crisscrossed the corridor in patterns that would slice an intruder to ribbons. Each door required a different password, spoken in a specific tone. Beyond lay a museum that put his storefront to shame. Genuine artifacts filled climate-controlled cases: Earth relics, alien technology, items that shouldn't exist yet. Art pieces that would make collectors weep lined the walls.

  Finch made a beeline for an antique bar in the corner. He grabbed a dusty bottle of scotch, poured two glasses, and slid one toward me. He downed his in one go, poured another, knocked that back too. Then he just grabbed the bottle, apparently intent on drinking straight from it.

  "So..." He stared at me for a long minute. "What now?"

  I pushed the untouched glass away. "I need a lab, fully equipped. One day, complete isolation. Also prepare a Night Broken for me. The best you can find."

  Finch hesitated, studying me like my extreme request was nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

  "Avery is fine. She will return in 3 weeks," I added. His wife had vanished two months ago on a Union mission, though he didn't know who she really worked for. It wasn't my place to tell him, but I could give him this much peace of mind.

  Finch's eyes widened to comical proportions. His mouth opened and closed several times, like a fish yanked from water. The color returned to his face in a rush, followed by something I'd never seen on him before; genuine relief.

  "The lab is ready. Follow me," he said, his voice steadier now. He reached under the bar and clicked something.

  A series of mechanical clicks echoed through the room as a section of wall slid open, revealing a hidden passage. Finch led me down a short corridor that opened into a massive laboratory that would make Union scientists weep with envy.

  The walls were lined with equipment I'd only ever seen in high-end research facilities. Quantum processors hummed quietly in one corner, their holographic displays showing complex calculations. A molecular scanner stood against the far wall, capable of breaking down any substance to its atomic structure. Next to it sat a neural interface station with enough processing power to simulate an entire ecosystem. The centerpiece was a massive holotable that could render objects in perfect detail, down to the subatomic level.

  "If you need anything, call my name," Finch said, backing away. The door slid shut behind him with a soft hiss.

  I surveyed the room, my eyes drawn to a specific piece of equipment—a large vial filled with yellow fluid. I carefully removed it from its housing, feeling its weight in both hands. The viscous liquid inside shifted lazily, almost alive.

  I emptied the contents into a vibration bath tub, the yellow gel settling with a soft ripple. From my backpack, I pulled out the hundred damaged chips I'd bought from Daisy and tossed them in. The moment they hit the liquid, electricity sparked across the surface. The yellow substance danced and swirled, attacking years of grime and corrosion.

  On the large screen to my right, data began appearing—random fragments, corrupted code, chopped sequences. Useless information no one would want, except me.

  "Your turn, Mylo," I said, looking at the cat still lazily draped around my neck.

  Mylo's eyes opened, fixing me with a look that could only be described as concern. He jumped down to the counter, tail swishing slowly.

  "Just a hair," I assured him, waiting.

  Mylo rolled his eyes in an eerily human gesture. I bent down and grasped a single hair from his back, pulling firmly. Instead of coming away with just a hair, the entire cat dangled from my fingers, hanging by the single strand.

  "Mylo..." I sighed, disappointed.

  With a soft 'poc' sound, he landed perfectly on his feet, leaving me holding a two-centimeter strand of dark hair. It glistened with impossible colors under the lab's neon white lights, mesmerizing in its otherworldliness.

  "Just the tip!" I said, inching slowly toward the yellow gel. As the tip of the hair touched the liquid, an explosion of electricity followed, shocking even me. The lab's lights flickered violently, and the computers groaned under the tremendous influx of information.

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  The screens filled with cascading data, fragments of impossible information flooding every display. Star charts from unexplored sectors, classified Union reports, trade routes that wouldn't exist for decades, and one blip, buried deep in corrupted code; organic. Unknown. I ignored it. Probably nothing. Probably.

  "Well, that is overwhelming," I muttered, watching the quantum processors strain under the load. Understatement of the century.

  The data generated errors that even I haven't seen before. Areas of space that shouldn't exist

  My fingers flew across the haptic interface, writing a purge subroutine. Every byte of data needed to vanish without a trace. Finch's computers couldn't retain even a fragment of this information. He was too valuable to risk; my ace in the hole, my escape route when things inevitably went south.

  I could squeeze him for credits, sure. But that would leave a paper trail, a connection that could be traced. When the Union eventually marked me as a threat, I'd need to disappear. And Finch? He was my ticket off this rock. Better to keep our relationship strictly business, at least on the surface.

  A soft 'meow' interrupted my coding. Mylo tugged at my pants, his eyes fixed on the hair still pinched between my fingers.

  "Right, I guess you want this back, right Mylo?" I asked, not really expecting an answer.

  He nodded. Not a cat-like head tilt or random movement, but a clear, deliberate nod.

  I blinked. Well, that was new. Apparently, I had a proper communication channel with my resident voidling now.

  When I released the hair, it didn't fall. Instead, it hung suspended in the air, slowly transforming into a perfect sphere of absolute darkness. The drop shot toward Mylo like a bullet, merging seamlessly with his form before vanishing completely.

  "Right…" I muttered, waiting for something more dramatic to happen, to no avail "Back to work then."

  ***************************

  Twenty-four hours melted away in a blur of code and quantum calculations. My hands trembled over the interface, muscles crying from the constant motion. The lab's harsh lights burned my retinas, leaving afterimages dancing across my vision. But it was done. One hundred void-touched chips, cleaned and processed, each containing fragments of data from beyond.

  The Union's current understanding of the Void was laughable: basic observations and wild theories. These chips wouldn't raise any red flags, just enough strange readings to fetch a decent price. Five thousand credits per unit seemed reasonable, maybe more from the right buyer. Enough to get started, not enough to draw attention.

  "Finch, I'm done," I called out, my voice rough from disuse.

  The wall split open instantly, revealing Finch's diminutive form. "Follow me," he commanded, already moving through the tunnel. We passed his private museum, taking a different route this time.

  The new room took my breath away. Above, a massive holographic display showed a familiar sector of space: the Dead Zone, they called it now. Dark, empty, supposedly uninhabitable. I knew better. Those deadly astral storms that kept ships away would become navigable with the right knowledge, but that was decades away.

  Below the display, plush sofas and armchairs were arranged in a perfect viewing circle. A beautiful young girl reclined in one, leg crossed over knee, nursing a glass of amber liquid. Her blonde hair was pulled back tight, her outfit screaming understated wealth.

  "Hello Moonpie. Nice to see you here," I said, dropping into the chair across from her.

  Lira's glass froze halfway to her lips. Her eyes widened, a flash of betrayal crossing her features as she glanced between Finch and me.

  "I didn't tell her anything," Finch said quickly, raising his hands in defense.

  "You know Finch, I thought you would bring me a great Night Broker, but your daughter? That is a surprise." I took a sip of the green liquid in my cup.

  Apple juice, and not the synthetic kind. Finch was always observant. The moment I didn't touch the expensive alcohol he served me yesterday he already had an idea in mind.

  "Adopted," Lira chipped in, her voice filled with annoyance.

  'Not entirely,' the thought remained in my mind. Not the time nor place to reveal the truth here.

  Mylo meowed, already taking an interest in her. I'm still not sure what he likes or for what reason, but it's always fascinating. He used to be far more distant, cold, but now he likes to be pet. And few resist the temptation. Lira isn't one of them.

  "Oh my, this is a surprise," she said, while petting the large black cat slowly. "How are you this clean?" Her eyes flickered with surprise while observing Mylo's exquisite fur and making a contrast to my dirty appearance.

  I smiled, waiting for the right moment. Attachment is dangerous, no matter how small or insignificant. Night brokers know this. But Lira is still young; not that she isn't great at her job. She is a rising star, one that will reach among the top in the next decade or so.

  To be honest I don't know that much about her. In my past life I met Lyra maybe three times. But Finch used to talk a lot, especially when drunk. And I liked to listen.

  "So," Lira said, her fingers buried in Mylo's fur, "What exactly have you called me here for?"

  Her serious demeanor cracked as Mylo's tail swept across her face, drawing out an involuntary smile. The sight sparked a nagging thought: was Mylo's charm natural, or something more? Another mystery for another time.

  I dumped my satchel onto the metal table. A hundred chips scattered across the surface with a musical chime.

  "Sell them."

  Lira's eyebrow twitched, her expression morphing from annoyance to anger. "Is this the big deal you promised me, Finch?"

  "Trust her," Finch said from his perch near the door.

  His faith warmed me, but it was a debt I'd need to repay. Half a million credits might seem like a fortune to me, but to a Night Broker? Barely worth the paperwork. Lira wasn't top-tier yet, but she was climbing fast.

  She exhaled sharply. "Any other details I should be aware of?"

  The cynicism in her voice rang familiar. Finch had a habit of overselling his leads; I'd heard enough of his drunken confessions to know that much. No wonder she looked ready to walk out.

  "Try selling a few and see what that leads to," I added, not disclosing any more details. "Also expedite it. I need at least 50k in three days time."

  I could almost hear Lira's teeth being ground to dust the moment she heard 50k. A normal Night Broker's cut is 10% of the deal. 5k for a few days of work is not bad but nothing special either. And for Lira, who is dreaming of the big leagues, it's almost an embarrassment.

  "Fine," she added, downing the liquid in her glass in one big gulp. "But you owe me, Finch!" she said, storming off.

  Looking at the table, the chips were gone. Damn, a Vaultlace. Finch really loves her. That thing is even more expensive than some small-scale personal ships.

  The moment she left the room, I started looking above. The tapestry of stars and systems was beautiful, mesmerizing even. I spent quite a lot of time in the Dead Zone, or as it will be known a few decades from now, Stormreach, when I was still learning the hangs of things aboard a Union science vessel.

  "This is wrong, you know," I said, looking at a specific cluster of stars. The Ember Chain, a mystery that captivated the minds of so many scientists and researchers. They used to say that the symmetry hides the secrets of the universe.

  Finch approached me, a glass of hard liquor in his hand. His eyes didn't leave the Ember Chain as he passed me a control tablet.

  The holographic display zoomed in on the Ember Chain, fourteen stars perfectly aligned in a sweeping arc. Mass ratio: 1.3:1. Angular momentum consistent across all bodies. Probability of natural occurrence: 0.0000001%.

  "The Union's greatest mystery," I said, manipulating the controls to highlight each star. "Their shining beacon of hope."

  What a joke.

  The official narrative scrolled across the bottom of the display - how these stars represented the masterwork of an ancient civilization, their precise positioning defying natural formation. Basic orbital mechanics completely ignored. The Union had poured billions into researching the Chain, convinced it held the secrets to unlimited energy.

  Correlation does not equal causation, idiots.

  "They see what they want to see," I continued, tracing the arc with my finger. "Humans love finding patterns, even when there aren't any. Like seeing faces in clouds."

  Dark matter distribution patterns: completely standard. Gravitational waves: normal background radiation.

  The Union's propaganda machine had transformed the Ember Chain into humanity's destiny - fourteen perfect stars left behind by benevolent precursors, waiting to elevate us to their level. Every politician referenced it in speeches about progress. Every corporation used it in ads promising innovation.

  It's just gravity, you pompous morons.

  "The truth is much simpler," I said, pointing at the stars above "When that dwarf galaxy got pulled apart, its stars just happened to fall into this pattern. Pure coincidence."

  Basic n-body problem. First-year astrophysics.

  The Union's greatest minds had spent decades searching for alien artifacts around those stars, certain their perfect alignment couldn't be natural. They'd found nothing but kept looking, unable to accept the simple truth; sometimes the universe just does interesting things by accident.

  Confirmation bias at its finest.

  "But they'll keep searching," I said, watching the holographic stars twinkle. "Because admitting it's random means admitting they were wrong."

  "Interesting story," Finch said, his voice carrying a new edge of suspicion. "But no real proof, right?"

  I caught the shift in his tone. My little display with Lira had cracked his trust, even if just slightly. Now he was fishing, testing waters.

  "Maybe," I said, fingers dancing across the haptic interface, adding new variables to the simulation. "Maybe not." I hit enter.

  Trust is a fickle thing. If you don't hammer it when it's hot it tends to slip away. And in this case, this is exactly what could happen. Finch wouldn't show it, not fully, but I’d have to earn that trust back and make sure it's properly set in place this time.

  Above us, the holographic stars burst into motion. The Ember Chain transformed from a static display into a cosmic ballet. Each star traced precise mathematical arcs as time rewound millions of years in seconds. The quantum processors screamed under the load, calculating gravitational forces that would make Union scientists weep.

  Finch's mouth hung open, his eyes locked on the celestial dance unfolding above. More stars joined the simulation, streaming in from across the Dead Zone. They converged and scattered in complex patterns, revealing the ancient collision between a dwarf galaxy and this sector of space.

  But it wasn't really a collision, more like a cosmic sigh. The dwarf galaxy's central black hole merged with the cluster, its gravitational influence scattering its stellar entourage across space. Dark matter currents and competing gravitational waves shaped their paths into what would become the Ember Chain.

  "Have a nice day, Finch," I said, leaving him frozen in place, still staring at the impossible dance above. "And keep this to yourself," I called back as I headed for the exit.