The Architects of Dust

Chapter 6: Dead Signal

The Vanta traveled through the orbit of a dying moon, her engines low and purring like a sleeping monstrosity. Beyond the bulletproof observation glass, the face of the moon flashed with the slow beat of dead solar panels—no longer taking in light, only pretending to the heartbeat of a thing gone long dead.

"Signal loop is looping," Nix stated via the internal comms, her voice flat, the color changing unevenly like a buggered file. "Origin: Orbital Settlement Six-Twenty-One. Language: Pre-collapse variant of Obsidian C."

Riven sat by himself on the command deck, elbows on his knees, leaning forward, observing the spinning waveform of the transmission on the main console. The static-filled message replayed:

"—ash to code… code to memory. Don't trust the glass. Repeat—don't trust the—"

Then quiet. A vibration. Then the start over.

Obsidian C had not been used since before the initial breach of the Veil—decades before the Collapse rendered the center of the galaxy a threadbare imitation of its former self. No one used it any longer. It lay in dusty archive storage and infected linguistics AI. For it to be used once more—and here—indicated someone had taken the effort to ensure only the correct individuals would comprehend it.

Which meant it wasn't a distress signal.

"Nix, anything living down there?"

A hesitation. "No life signs within scan range. Thermal reflections only. Dead." 

"Sounds about right." He rose and grasped his equipment. His rifle—custom, vintage—snapped into the mag-lock on his back as he moved.

"Preparing drop shuttle."

The little vessel—barely big enough for two—shook loose from The Vanta's underside and started its fall. The orbital station was visible: shattered edges, scaffolding bereft of covering, and docking rings curled as if giants had chewed on them.

Riven watched as they drew near. It was a research station once, by the symbols. He could still see remnants of the Interzone insignia burned into the side of the docking platform: a spiral galaxy intertwined with the infinity symbol.

It had once represented hope.

Now it seemed like a warning.

Inside, the air was thin and dry. Riven's mask was hissing with filtered breath. The lights on the station were flickering, some still operating on emergency power from long-dead fusion cores. Cracks streaked down the corridors. Mold was growing in veins along the walls, as if the station had started to decay.

He walked by the first corpse in the main atrium—kneeling, facing the wall. Skeletal and lesh mummified. Hands clasped in prayer.

There were markings cut into the metal wall above her head. Hundreds of them. All with trembling hands. The same one, repeatedly:

⟁

Three lines, crossing. A rough triangle. Not a symbol—an obsession.

Riven swallowed hard and made further.

The audio logs were still active on Level 3. He accessed them from a command console using his old override codes—half of them still worked. Most of the files were corrupted, but a few fragments slipped through the static:

“…not sickness. It’s memory. We’re remembering things that didn’t happen to us.”

“They said she saw her own death. Every time she closed her eyes.”

“The sigils showed up after the dreams started.”

He breathed slowly. The same cycle was repeating itself again. Hallucinations, sigils, madness.

The same as Halvex.

The same as the Veil.

Riven discovered the room where they were broadcasting. Five additional bodies were inside, slumped around a comm console. One of them had a broken helmet still on his head, visor misted from the inside. They'd all been endlessly loop-broadcasting that warning.

But it hadn't been intended for rescue.

They'd been warning anyone who approached.

He saw the pattern once more, carved into the wall behind the console. Not with a device with nails. Rust and blood.

⟁

What was it trying to say?

His hand touched against his collarbone out of habit—and stopped.

He pushed aside the inner lining of his suit and peered. The mark remained, just beneath his skin. He had thought it was the scar of surgery from his war days.

But now that he was paying attention, he knew better.

It was the same mark.

Not a scar.

A brand.

Seared there before he'd even awakened.

Riven staggered back, heart pounding. His breath misted the inside of his helmet. He wasn't supposed to recall. Interzone Council had explained to him memory loss was natural—side effect of cryo.

But that wasn't memory loss.

That was erasure.

Something moved behind him.

He turned.

Deserted hallway. Just darkness.

"Riven…" A voice.

It resonated distantly from the distant corridor—difficult to discern whether it was through his comms or station acoustics. Woman. Someone he knew.

"You left us in the dark…"

He raised his rifle, finger closing on the trigger.

Nothing.

"Nix, do you have interference?" 

"No interference detected. No signals but the loop."

"I heard something."

"Unknown. Flushing scanner resolution.

The hallway ahead appeared to be longer as he entered it. Lights flashed. Things darted at the corner of sight, always disappearing when he looked straight.

Another door at the end of the hallway—half-closed, twisted inwards.

He pushed it open.

There was a room in the center lined with black-glass panels. A control station. Riven entered and swept the consoles. The glass picked him up a dozen times—only a few of the images moved when he did.

All of the screens showed scenes from the final days at the station. Not sequentially. Not sequentially at all.

He watched the same man die three different times.

He watched a woman lock herself inside a cryo pod—and then walk past herself a few minutes later.

He watched himself, standing where he was standing now, looking back at the screen.

Riven blinked.

The reflection had vanished.

And so had the recordings.

He spun on his heel and departed, heart racing. As he retreated toward the shuttle, he didn't glance back. He did not want to know if the walls behind him began bleeding.

Back on The Vanta, he tore off his helmet and collapsed into the pilot's seat.

"Report recorded," Nix replied, matter-of-factly.

"What in the world is going on out here, Nix?" he whispered.

"Your query is malformed. Do you want data, or meaning?" 

"Both," he replied, looking at his hand—at the brand under his skin.

The looping signal had ceased the moment he'd departed the station.

And now he understood why.

It had been for him.

Not to keep him away.

To bring him back.

To remember.

⟁

Something behind the Veil was calling his name.

And it already knew who he was.