Corthane

The notification hit Ilya Renn's comm unit like a plasma bolt to the chest. Red numerals pulsed against the cramped quarters' steel bulkhead: CORTHANE EMERGENCE CONFIRMED. ARBITRATION ACCEPTED. COUNTDOWN: 2 CYCLES, 14 HOURS, 7 MINUTES. She'd been reviewing logistics reports when the universe shifted. Now her data tablets scattered across the narrow bunk as she lunged for her gear locker. Authentication codes, diagnostic tools, and—without thinking—her father's welding torch, the one memento she'd kept from the failed Unity Drive project. Her hands moved with practiced efficiency while her mind raced. After a thousand years of silence, the Corthane had crawled up from Kaldrin Hex's molten depths to answer their petition. "All hands, priority assembly," she broadcast to her team, her voice steady despite the gravity crushing her chest. "Neutral chamber, ten minutes." The habitat corridors blurred past as she jogged toward the rendezvous. Through viewport windows, Kaldrin Hex dominated the starfield—a dark asteroid pocked with volcanic vents that glowed like angry eyes. Somewhere in those depths, alien arbiters were preparing to decide the fate of orbital civilization. The sterile, recycled air of her refugee habitat felt thin compared to the weight of what lay ahead. The neutral chamber aboard Kaldrin Hex absorbed sound like a tomb. Walls of unknown material—smooth, dark, and faintly warm to the touch—curved into a dome overhead. Ilya stood at the center while her team arranged themselves in a loose circle: Avery Parks hunched over a

diagnostic tablet, their steady presence already calming her nerves; Dr. Mira Chen clutching a data pad thick with xenoarchaeological notes; Captain Xion Winters maintaining military posture despite the alien surroundings; and Jillian Mills reviewing legal frameworks with characteristic precision. The Corthane representative emerged from a floor panel that hadn't been there moments before. Tall as a human but built like a nightmare fusion of crab and mantis, its iridescent exoskeleton caught the chamber's phosphorescent lighting. Multiple eyes tracked each team member while translator nodes hummed to life. "Conditions are absolute," it announced, mandibles clicking between translated words. "No security technology above baseline parameters. All communications subject to scrubbing protocols. Proceedings logged under Corthane legal framework—fully binding, unappealable." The alien's mechanical voice flattened every syllable into cold precision. Ilya forced herself to meet its fractured stare. "We understand the terms. The derelict vault contains an inactive launcher core system with potential to fracture established orbital lanes. Union habitats require demilitarization and transfer to collective stewardship." "Corporate interests demand containment or reacquisition," the Corthane replied, somehow managing to sound bored despite the translator's monotone. "Conflict of jurisdiction acknowledged. Arbitration parameters established." Avery shifted nervously, their diagnostic equipment registering strange energy patterns from the chamber walls. Xion's hand rested unconsciously near his sidearm—a gesture that would have been suicide in most diplomatic contexts. The weight of a thousand-year precedent pressed down on them all. Dr. Chen pulled Ilya aside as holographic vault schematics flickered to life above the chamber's center.

"These Corthane legal customs haven't been practiced in over a millennium," she whispered, her academic composure cracking slightly. "Their arbitration methods can activate dormant failsafes—some of which were never intended to be reawakened." Before Ilya could respond, the chamber lights dimmed. Every display stuttered. A pulse—felt more than seen—rippled through the floor, the walls, the air itself. On the monitoring screens, a wave of energy emanated from the vault's coordinates like a stone dropped in still water. The team froze. Avery's fingers flew across their diagnostic panel, sweat beading despite the chamber's regulated temperature. "That signal wasn't broadcast externally," they reported, voice tight with concern. "It tunneled inward—straight into the vault's core systems." Xion approached, his military bearing rigid with recognition. "Classic deadman's trigger. Designed to alert hidden receivers when specific conditions are met." His eyes found Ilya's. "The arbitration itself might have activated something we can't control." The implications hit like decompression. They'd assumed the vault was truly dormant, a relic waiting for legal resolution. Instead, they'd just woken something that had been sleeping for centuries. The chamber doors hissed open with hydraulic finality. Gideon Holmes stepped through wearing corporate-issue attire that fooled no one—the cut too clean, the fabric too expensive for legitimate technical work. "I hear you could use assistance decoding the vault interface," he said with practiced casualness, holding up engineering credentials that gleamed with recent authentication. Ilya's posture shifted to stone. The last time she'd seen those credentials, they'd been signing off

on Unity Drive's catastrophic failure—system cascades, habitat evacuations, and three months of tribunals that ended her corporate career. The memory hit in flashes: Gideon's smooth explanations deflecting blame, his transfer to a better position while she scraped together refugee habitat work. "Generous offer," she replied, her voice carrying enough ice to freeze reaction mass. "But we have sufficient technical expertise." "Do you?" Gideon moved deeper into the chamber, his scan of the vault schematics just professional enough to seem helpful. "These interface protocols predate current standard by six centuries. I've worked with similar systems in corporate archaeological divisions." The Corthane representative observed this exchange with a divided stare that revealed nothing. Ilya caught Avery's subtle nod—they needed all available expertise, personal history aside. Gideon smoothly inserted himself into the operation, offering insights that proved annoyingly valuable while maneuvering for access to vault control queues. Meanwhile, Jillian worked quietly at a monitoring station, frowning at data streams most would have ignored. Signal routing, packet timestamps, communication protocols—the digital archaeology of sabotage. "Those routing errors Holmes reported," she whispered to Ilya during a brief lull. "They're not errors at all. Someone's been preparing backdoor access." The Corthane representative positioned itself at the chamber's center, surrounded by holographic displays of ancient legal texts and real-time vault diagnostics. "Arbitration officially commences," it announced, translator rendering alien clicks into flat authority. "Stabilization deadline imposed: vault must be rendered inert or proceedings terminate. Per doctrine: weapons unresolved void all claims."

The team exchanged glances heavy with understanding. Failure meant the vault remained in legal limbo—open to corporate seizure through planetary salvage laws. Avery worked frantically at their station, diagnostic routines painting their face in blue light. "I've located a dormant auto-scramble node inside the vault's security architecture," they announced, strain audible despite their usual calm. "It's beginning to cycle through activation sequences." The diagnostic screen displayed a cascade of changing protocols, security subroutines rewriting themselves in real-time. Ilya moved to Avery's side, watching ancient code restructure itself like a living thing. "That pulse triggered something," she concluded, looking directly at Gideon. He met her gaze with an innocent shrug that carried all the warmth of an unplugged vacuum. "Systems this old develop spontaneous faults. Nothing we can't handle with proper engineering protocols." The chamber fell silent except for the whisper of recycled air and the soft hum of alien technology. Outside, Kaldrin Hex continued its slow rotation, volcanic vents painting the asteroid's surface in hellish light. Somewhere in the void, corporate ships were already moving toward contested coordinates. The countdown continued its relentless march: 2 CYCLES, 11 HOURS, 43 MINUTES. They were racing against more than time now. Whatever slept in that vault was beginning to wake, and not everyone in the chamber wanted it to stay asleep. The vault's security system begins self-restructuring with a metallic groan that echoes through the chamber like a dying animal. Panels shift position with hydraulic hisses, conduits snap into

new configurations, and warning lights cascade across every surface in waves of amber and red. The transformation is mesmerizing and terrifying—ancient technology reconfiguring itself according to protocols no living human has witnessed. Jillian hunches over her console, fingers flying across holographic interfaces as data streams fragment and reform. The arbitration record suddenly loops, misroutes, and duplicates itself in impossible patterns. Her screen fills with corrupted timestamps and scrambled authentication codes. The Corthane representatives emit a sharp, clicking sound that cuts through the mechanical chaos—disapproval made audible. "Procedural violation noted," they announce, their translator rendering alien irritation into formal, stilted Standard. "Archive integrity compromised. Arbitration parameters require immediate correction." Sweat beads on Jillian's forehead as they dive deeper into the archive chain, parsing fragment signatures and data lineage with the desperate precision of someone defusing a bomb. "Found it," they whisper, highlighting a corrupted block on their display. "Tampered signatures in the primary data stream." Their finger traces the corruption back to its source—an upload timestamp that matches Gideon's system access perfectly. Xion storms across the chamber, his military bearing barely containing his fury. "He's sabotaging us in plain sight," he snarls to Ilya, hand hovering near his sidearm. "Give me authorization to remove him from the chamber." Ilya shakes her head with the finality of gravity. "The Corthane only recognize declared representatives. His removal forfeits our legal standing entirely." She glances at Gideon, who watches their heated exchange with the calculated indifference of a chess player contemplating an inevitable victory.

"We monitor him instead. Every move, every keystroke, every breath." The vault continues its transformation around them, and Gideon smiles. Mira kneels before one of the vault's central glyph structures, her archaeologist's instincts overriding the chamber's oppressive atmosphere. The ancient markings pulse with faint blue light, responding to her proximity like bioluminescent coral. Her gloved fingers trace the carved patterns with reverent precision, decades of xenoarchaeological training guiding her interpretation. The team gathers around as she deciphers the flowing script, excitement breaking through her professional composure like sunrise through storm clouds. "This isn't just a vault," she announces, voice tight with discovery. "It's a tribunal enforcement site—an active instrument of Corthane judicial authority." She points to specific symbols that indicate legal precedence and binding judgment. "Look at these enforcement markers. The launcher core wasn't built as a weapon of war—it was designed to enforce treaty compliance through economic deterrence. Threaten orbital economies with corridor collapse, force adherence to galactic law." Avery, working on an access panel nearby, calls the team over with urgent concern. "You need to see this." They've uncovered redundant control locks bearing the distinctive spiral insignia of Nexus Defense Systems—polished metal and precise engineering that stands out against the vault's ancient construction. Xion's jaw tightens as he recognizes the corporate markings, old wounds reopening like badly healed fractures. "Nexus Defense," he confirms, voice tight with suppressed emotion and personal history. "My former employer. These modifications are centuries old—they converted

an enforcement tool into a weapon of mass destruction." The revelation hangs in the recycled air as the team processes its implications. What they'd assumed was a derelict weapon was actually a corrupted instrument of justice, perverted by corporate interests into something far deadlier. The irony cuts deep—they'd petitioned the Corthane to arbitrate ownership of a vault that had originally served Corthane justice. "The corporations didn't just steal this technology," Mira adds quietly. "They broke it. Turned law into warfare." A sudden power surge erupts from Gideon's workstation, sending cascading sparks across the chamber in a display of electrical fury. The smell of ozone and burning circuits fills the air as diagnostic panels flicker and die. Avery, working on the core interface barely three meters away, throws themselves backward as a thermal flare shoots from the launcher housing. They hit the deck hard, tools clattering across the metal floor as superheated plasma sears their jumpsuit's shoulder. The fabric smolders, releasing acrid smoke that makes everyone's eyes water. "Avery!" Ilya shouts, rushing to their side while simultaneously keying emergency protocols. "Everyone step away from the interfaces," she commands with the authority of someone who's seen too many industrial accidents. "Full lockdown on direct tool access—now!" Gideon calmly steps over the scattered tools and approaches the Corthane representatives with the measured pace of someone executing a predetermined plan. "I need to file a formal obstruction claim," he announces, producing legal documentation from his corporate-issue jacket.

"Union interference with technical assessment protocols violates arbitration neutrality requirements." The Corthane process his claim with mechanical efficiency, their translator clicking through procedural text. "Obstruction claim validated. Technical assessment suspension imposed— duration: regulation standard intervals." "This delays us by six hours minimum," Gideon explains to the chamber, though a slight smirk plays at the corner of his mouth like a predator savoring anticipated prey. Meanwhile, Jillian's communication array goes dark with the finality of a snuffed candle. They run emergency diagnostics, fingers dancing across backup interfaces as system after system reports the same result: external silence. "Signal jammers," they announce, showing Ilya a tactical display dotted with hostile interference patterns. "Positioned strategically around Kaldrin Hex in a perfect containment grid." The jammer locations form a sphere of electronic isolation, cutting them off from habitat-union support ships, legal counsel, and emergency extraction. "We're completely cut off," Jillian continues, their usual diplomatic composure cracking slightly. "No one knows what's happening in here." The isolation settles over the team like a physical weight, pressing down with the certainty of a closing trap. The Corthane representatives gather in a tight formation, their elongated limbs folding into the formal postures of judicial authority. The chamber's lighting shifts to match their mood—harsh, clinical, final. "Arbitration paused," they announce with the weight of absolute law, "pending resolution of functional destabilization." As if summoned by their words, the vault's central column illuminates with pulsing red numerals that burn against the darkness like malevolent stars.

Ancient chronometer systems emerge from dormancy, displaying countdown sequences in symbols that predate human spaceflight by millennia. Avery, still nursing plasma burns but refusing medical attention, translates the ancient chronometer with growing dread. "Two hours until proof-of-function launch," they announce, voice barely steady. "The system is preparing to demonstrate operational capacity." The team watches in horrified fascination as the launcher core begins a cycling sequence that hasn't activated in centuries. Internal components rotate and lock into position with mechanical precision, each movement accompanied by deep harmonic vibrations that resonate through the chamber floor. Warning lights pulse in rhythm with the countdown, bathing everything in hellish red illumination. Xion moves to a secondary console, his fingers dancing across interfaces with the muscle memory of his corporate training. He accesses a hidden database using credentials he'd hoped never to use again—clearance codes from Nexus Defense Systems that still carry his biometric signature. "Corporate self-verification systems," he explains grimly, pulling up schematics that display the launcher's true purpose. The main screen fills with technical readouts that paint a picture of calculated devastation. "Designed to demonstrate deterrence integrity through functional proof," Xion continues, his military bearing unable to hide the horror in his voice. "If arbitration fails, if the vault remains contested, the core automatically fires into the Helios trade lane." His eyes meet Ilya's across the chamber, and she sees her own understanding reflected there. "Corridor collapse," she whispers. "Not just one route—the entire network. Thousands of habitat

ships stranded between stars, supply chains severed, orbital economies collapsed within weeks." The Corthane representatives observe this revelation with eyes that reveal nothing of their thoughts. Their translator remains silent, offering no guidance, no reprieve from the ticking clock that now dominates every sound in the chamber. Jillian stares at the countdown display, watching the numbers decrease with mechanical inevitability. Each pulse of light brings them closer to a catastrophe that would reshape human civilization. "How long before the corporate extraction teams arrive?" they ask quietly. "They're already here," Xion replies, checking his tactical displays. "Hidden in the asteroid field, waiting for the vault to demonstrate its capabilities before moving in." The trap is perfect in its simplicity—force the arbitration to fail through sabotage, let the launcher prove its devastating potential, then swoop in to claim salvage rights over the wreckage. Gideon's corporate masters would own the most powerful weapon in known space, purchased with the blood of every habitat that couldn't reach safe harbor in time. The countdown continues its relentless progression: 1 HOUR, 23 MINUTES, 14 SECONDS. In the vault's depths, ancient mechanisms prepare to wake fully for the first time in a thousand years. In the vault's radiation-flooded node chamber, Mira's voice cuts through the hum of failing containment systems with barely contained excitement. "I found it," she announces, her archaeological training overriding the chamber's oppressive atmosphere. "A tribunal override code hidden in nested Corthane logic structures—three layers deep in the original enforcement protocols."

The node chamber glows with an eerie blue-green light that makes everyone's skin look corpse- pale. Ancient conduits pulse with energy that predates human civilization, and the air itself seems to vibrate with barely contained power. Radiation meters click steadily, their warnings lost in the chamber's ambient noise. Avery prepares for manual disengagement with the methodical precision of someone who's done dangerous work before. The radiation suit they don shows visible wear spots—patches where previous exposure has weakened the protective material. "This gear's seen better decades," they mutter, checking seals with practiced efficiency. Inside the helmet, Avery's HUD displays a pulsing countdown timer showing less than an hour remaining. Sweat beads on their forehead despite the suit's cooling systems, each drop catching the chamber's strange light like liquid mercury. Their breathing comes in measured cycles, the sound harsh and mechanical through the helmet's respirator. Xion positions himself behind a makeshift barrier of salvaged panels, weapon drawn and trained on the chamber's multiple access points. "Clear approach," he reports, his military bearing providing stability in chaos. "You've got coverage." Avery's gloved hands work through the complex fuse tree connections with surgical precision, following Mira's translated instructions step by careful step. Each junction requires exact pressure, specific timing—one mistake would trigger containment failure throughout the vault. "Critical junction point," Avery announces, reaching toward the central node cluster. "Starting override sequence in three... two..." Gideon Holmes emerges from a maintenance duct with the fluid motion of someone who's planned this moment perfectly.

Before anyone can react, he triggers a feedback pulse device that sends arcs of white-hot energy cascading through the entire system. The override locks with a sickening mechanical clunk that reverberates through every surface. Avery is thrown backward by the pulse, their helmet cracking against a bulkhead with a sound like breaking bones. Radiation alarms blare throughout the suit, their warnings painting the inside of the helmet in hellish red light. The team deals with the immediate aftermath of sabotage with the grim efficiency of people who've seen too many disasters. Avery lies semi-conscious on the chamber floor, radiation warnings flashing across the damaged suit display like a Christmas tree of impending death. The helmet's faceplate shows spiderweb cracks that leak precious atmosphere into the contaminated chamber. Xion drops his weapon and rushes to help extract Avery from the compromised suit, his hands moving with practiced urgency. "Suit breach in multiple locations," he reports, fingers dancing across emergency release catches. "We need medical containment now." Ilya pursues Gideon into Kaldrin's lower access tunnels, her boots echoing against metal grating as she follows the saboteur deeper into the asteroid's bowels. The pursuit is brief but violent— emergency lighting strobes across narrow corridors as blast doors slam shut with hydraulic finality, sealing Gideon behind layers of reinforced titanium. "Lost him," she reports over comm, fist striking the sealed barrier in frustration. "He's got full access to the station's infrastructure." Back in the arbitration chamber, the Corthane representatives resume proceedings with visible reluctance.

Their crystalline interfaces pulse with patterns that Mira identifies as formal protest— displeasure rendered in alien bioluminescence. "Last recourse enforcement pending," they announce, the translator struggling with concepts that have no human equivalent. The clause trigger causes all vault systems to shift to higher alert status. Warning lights cascade across every surface, and the air itself seems to thicken with anticipation of violence. Meanwhile, Jillian works frantically at a data terminal, their diplomatic training focusing on the one thing they can still control—information. Archive fragments decrypt under their skilled manipulation, revealing truth that cuts deeper than any physical wound. "This vault wasn't abandoned," they announce to the team, voice tight with discovery. "It was quarantined. The original tribunal rulings marked this technology as inadmissible even under wartime law—too dangerous for any civilization to possess." Mira's face pales as she connects historical dots with the precision of an archaeologist uncovering genocide. "The Corthane retreat from human space," she whispers. "It coincided exactly with the vault's lockdown. They didn't withdraw—they were fleeing from what they'd created." The implications hang in the recycled air like a death sentence. The weapon they're fighting to control had been so terrible that its creators had abandoned civilization rather than risk its use. In the arbitration observation gallery, Ilya experiences a moment of terrible clarity as she studies the Corthane procedural patterns with the focused intensity of someone solving a murder. The alien representatives move in formations that follow no human logic, their actions guided by

protocols that predate her species. "The arbitration process itself was designed as a lure," she explains to the team, understanding hitting like decompression. "A test to see if any civilization still recognized Corthane authority after a thousand years of silence." She gestures toward the alien representatives, who continue their ritualistic movements with mechanical precision. "By invoking arbitration, we've reactivated their enforcement doctrine across the entire system. We didn't just wake the vault—we awakened them." Mira's face drains of color as she translates more ancient glyphs, her archaeological expertise revealing horrors that should have remained buried. "Arbitration conclusion triggers automatic doctrinal execution," she warns, voice barely above a whisper. "The Corthane will neutralize all parties involved—union, corporate, everyone. They consider us all contaminated by contact with forbidden technology." A communication breach shatters the gallery's tense atmosphere as screens flicker to life with Gideon's face, his corporate smile unchanged despite the chaos he's orchestrated. "Impressive work," he says with practiced casualness. "But you still don't understand the real plan." His image multiplies across every display, surrounding the team with his smugness. "Force arbitration to end, let the Corthane disable the vault's custodians—then we extract the core while they're busy sterilizing the evidence. Clean acquisition, no witnesses." External sensors reveal the trap's final element: corporate vessels sliding into Kaldrin space under emergency evacuation protocols, their weapons systems powered but diplomatically concealed. The situation escalates to catastrophe as Gideon, now visible in the vault's extraction bay through

security feeds, activates a massive magnetic crane rig. The launcher housing tears free from its berth with a deafening metallic screech that reverberates through every bulkhead. Vault systems immediately destabilize, containment fields fluctuating wildly as ancient mechanisms struggle to compensate for the sudden structural change. The countdown timer abruptly shortens from hours to minutes, red numerals burning against every display. The Corthane declare arbitration suspended with the finality of a judge pronouncing execution. Their forms shift to combat configuration—exoskeletons extending razor-edged appendages, compound eyes focusing with predatory intensity. Auto-enforcement cycle begins with mechanical inevitability. In a move born of desperation and Mira's earlier advice, Ilya cites pre-tribunal law with the precision of someone betting everything on a single hand. "I invoke custodial override under ancient covenant," she shouts, her voice cutting through alarms and mechanical chaos. "Pre- annexation authority, human claimant assuming direct responsibility." The Corthane hesitate, their combat forms freezing mid-transformation as ancient programming conflicts with current protocols. Ilya's hands fly across archaic control surfaces, following enforcement protocols that predate her civilization. The countdown continues its relentless march, each pulse of light bringing them closer to either salvation or the destruction of everything they've fought to protect. COUNTDOWN: 00:07:34 AND FALLING. In a makeshift tribunal office aboard Kaldrin Hex, Ilya, Jillian, and Mira frantically work to finalize the override clause in tribunal law with the desperate precision of surgeons operating during an earthquake. Holographic displays flicker around them like dying stars, ancient

Corthane legal text scrolling in symbols that hurt to look at directly. The air tastes of ozone and fear. The room is cramped beyond reason—originally a storage closet pressed into service as their last hope. Data tablets cover every surface, their screens casting blue light across faces drawn tight with exhaustion. Emergency lighting pulses in rhythm with the countdown timer, which shows less than thirty minutes remaining before the launcher core demonstrates its planet-killing capabilities. Mira hunches over the central display, her archaeological training pushed beyond its limits as she translates pre-human tribunal code that predates her civilization by millennia. "This clause supersedes automated judgment," she explains, pointing to symbols that writhe like living things. "It predates their enforcement protocols—gives custodial authority to the claiming party." Jillian's fingers fly across the interface, adapting ancient law into legally binding language that the Corthane systems will recognize. Sweat beads on their forehead as they work, diplomatic expertise focused like a laser on the task of preventing galactic catastrophe. "Legal framework established," they announce. "Ready for authentication." Ilya stops pacing long enough to check the countdown again: 00:28:17 AND FALLING. "Do it." She presses her palm against the amber verification stamp, which hisses like an angry snake as it burns the override into the system with molecular precision. The terminal chimes confirmation— a sound like church bells in the darkness. "Avery," Ilya activates her comm link, "we've got your manual override. Tell me you're ready."

In the vault's radiation-flooded power corridor, Ilya follows Avery's instructions to complete the manual fuse cascade while death hangs in the air like radioactive fog. The corridor thrums with barely contained energy, ancient conduits pulsing with power that could atomize her in microseconds. Avery sits propped against a bulkhead, face pale as recycled paper from radiation exposure and the blood that seeps through a makeshift bandage wrapped around their leg. Emergency lights pulse red like a dying heartbeat, and radiation alarms chirp warnings that nobody has time to heed. "Third junction box from the left," Avery's voice is strained but steady, decades of engineering experience overriding pain and fear. "You'll need to cross-wire the primary and secondary circuits—careful, the housing is live." Ilya's hands move with surgical precision despite the pressure crushing her chest, sweat beading on her forehead as she works with tools that predate human spaceflight. The corridor vibrates around them as the launcher core begins another cycle, its mechanical breathing like a sleeping giant preparing to wake. Sparks fly from an overloaded panel, singeing her sleeve and filling the air with the smell of burned fabric and ozone. "Connection complete," she reports, trying to keep her voice steady. Avery winces in pain but continues the instructions with professional calm. "Now the failsafe sequence—you'll have exactly fifteen seconds before the system resets itself. On my mark... now." Ilya completes the final connection just as the system begins to whine with the sound of impending catastrophe.

For a heartbeat, nothing happens. Then the lights change from red to amber, and the mechanical breathing slows. "Core cycling suspended," Avery announces, relief cracking their professional composure. "Manual override confirmed." At the extraction bay, Xion intercepts Gideon beside the massive crane rig with the cold efficiency of a predator cornering its prey. The bay is industrial brutalism made manifest—metal catwalks, hydraulic arms thick as tree trunks, and the launcher core suspended above them like a sword of Damocles. Gideon's hands hover over the crane controls when Xion emerges from the shadows between support struts, weapon trained on the saboteur's center mass. "Step away from the console." Instead of complying, Gideon lunges sideways, grabbing a maintenance pipe with the fluid motion of someone who's planned for this moment. "Still playing the good soldier?" he taunts, swinging the improvised weapon. Their fight is brutal and efficient—two professionals trained in different methods of violence. Gideon strikes at Xion's knee with corporate precision, but Xion blocks and counters with a military elbow strike to the ribs that drives air from his opponent's lungs in a sharp gasp. They grapple against the safety railing, the launcher core swaying precariously above as their struggle shakes the entire platform. Metal groans under stress while sparks cascade from damaged control panels. "You're still following orders like a good soldier," Gideon pants, trying to twist free from Xion's grip. Xion responds by wrenching Gideon's arm behind his back with mechanical precision, years of training overriding any hesitation.

"Not corporate orders," he growls. "Not anymore." With a final decisive move, Xion slams Gideon against the control panel hard enough to rattle teeth. His free hand forces an emergency shutdown, fingers dancing across controls with practiced expertise. The crane freezes with a hydraulic hiss, and the launcher core stabilizes in its housing. Emergency lights shift from red to amber as systems recognize the manual override. "Extraction terminated," Xion reports over comm, keeping pressure on Gideon's twisted arm. "Core secured." In the control room, Ilya and Jillian watch as the launcher core collapses into containment with the slow majesty of a star being born in reverse. Screens display real-time diagnostics as power levels drop from apocalyptic to merely dangerous, then finally to safe parameters that allow them both to breathe again. The Corthane representative appears on the main viewscreen—a shadowy figure with geometric patterns shifting across its surface like living mathematics. When it speaks, its voice sounds like layered whispers from the bottom of an ocean trench. "Override protocol recognized," it announces with the weight of absolute authority. "Enforcement cycle suspended. Custodial transfer acknowledged." Jillian verifies the arbitration logs with diplomatic precision while Ilya confirms core containment through engineering displays that show blessed, wonderful inactivity. The room hums with decreasing energy as ancient systems finally power down from their millennium-long vigil. "Arbitration will resume under emergency clause," the Corthane continues, its form already beginning to fade. "Prepare final statements for binding judgment."

Ilya exchanges a look with Jillian, both exhausted but alive—a victory that seemed impossible mere minutes ago. The immediate danger has passed, but the formal process remains. In the alien logic of Corthane law, they've earned the right to be heard. "Ready?" Ilya asks. Jillian nods, fingers already moving across interfaces to prepare their closing arguments. "Let's finish this." The arbitration chamber fills with representatives as the final ruling is delivered with the ceremony of justice finally served. The Corthane tribunal officer stands at the center, its form shifting like smoke contained in glass, geometric patterns flowing across its surface in hypnotic waves. "Vault ownership and disarmament authority is granted to habitat-union council under permanent audit," it announces, each word carrying the weight of galactic law. "Custodial responsibility acknowledged. Enforcement protocols transferred." Without ceremony or farewell, the Corthane representatives begin to withdraw, their forms dissolving into the chamber walls like mist at sunrise. A thousand years of isolation resume as if the arbitration had been merely a brief interruption in their eternal sleep. Union communications restore with a flood of relief as Jillian works at a terminal, establishing contact with support ships that have been holding position beyond the jamming field. The first incoming transmissions show habitat vessels approaching Kaldrin Hex, their crews eager to extract the arbitration team. On the main communications deck, Jillian broadcasts evidence of corporate war crimes tied to the vault conversion, their face grim but determined as data streams to every habitat channel

across the system. Corporate stock prices will plummet before the transmission completes, and tribunal investigations will begin within hours. Meanwhile, Xion stands at a security terminal, deliberately deleting his corporate clearance ID with the finality of burning bridges. Each keystroke removes another connection to his past, another tie to the system that corrupted the vault's original purpose. In another section of the chamber, Mira begins cataloging the rest of the vault's pre-human tribunal code, her eyes bright with academic excitement despite their recent brush with extinction. The archaeological discovery of the millennium awaits her careful documentation. The immediate crisis has ended, but the larger implications are just beginning to unfold across human space. Ilya stands alone in the now inert vault bay, staring at the disconnected launcher housing with the quiet satisfaction of someone who has prevented the end of the world. The massive chamber is silent except for the occasional ping of cooling metal, ancient technology finally resting after its millennium of patient waiting. Emergency lights have been replaced with standard illumination, revealing the true scale of the Corthane construction—architecture that dwarfs human engineering while somehow feeling organic, as if grown rather than built. The launcher core sits dormant in its cradle, power conduits detached and hanging loose like severed arteries. She runs her hand along the edge of the housing, feeling the cold metal that once threatened to destabilize their entire orbital network. The surface is smooth as glass but marked with symbols

that seem to shift when she's not looking directly at them. "Not a weapon. Not a relic," she murmurs to herself, understanding finally settling over her like gravity. "Just a decision no one made until now." She smiles slightly, thinking of all the people who will live because they chose to act—habitat families who will never know how close they came to being stranded between stars, traders who will continue moving goods through routes that almost collapsed, children who will grow up in a universe slightly less dangerous than it was this morning. As she turns to leave the vault bay for the last time, she adds with the dry humor that has kept her sane through years of refugee life, "Next time, let's arbitrate something simple—like who gets the last coffee ration." The chamber echoes with her laughter as she walks toward the exit, leaving ancient justice to its eternal sleep.