The sensor chirped at 3:42 a.m.
Toren was already awake.
He didn't sleep much anymore—too many system overlays drifting across his vision when he closed his eyes. Too many calculations. Expansion plans. Resource deficits. Civil engineering subtrees.
And now, this.
A tiny blinking icon on the solar grid's diagnostic panel. He tapped it.
Anomaly DetectedSource: External EM fluctuationSignal Type: Repeating pulseFrequency Band: Non-native, multi-band echoStatus: Weak. Fading.Directional Vector: 283.9° SW
That wasn't wildlife.
And it wasn't coming from the wreck.
Toren stared at the display, watching the signal flicker like a dying heartbeat. It was low—barely above the forest's noise floor—but too precise to be background radiation.
"Should I be worried?" he whispered.
"Anomalies are rarely polite," Kora replied, her voice faint over the grid interface."Recommended action: investigate. If hostile, respond proportionately. If salvageable, integrate."
He was already putting on his boots.
By first light, he was halfway down the western ravine trail, Mira trudging behind him with a pack full of cutting gear and enough questions to sink a barge.
"You want to tell me why I'm chasing ghosts through the cliffs at dawn?"
"Because the last ghost we found gave us data cores and Force breadcrumbs?"
"Yeah, and almost collapsed on my head."
Toren held up a hand.
He squatted near a fork in the trail, brushed aside leaves, and pointed to a shallow indentation in the soft dirt.
Scorch marks.
Fresh.
Mira crouched beside him. Her sarcasm vanished.
"…That's a repulsorlift skid."
"I know."
She turned to him slowly. "Vale."
"I know."
They moved in silence for a while after that.
The path narrowed into a rocky slope flanked by twisted trees and stubborn brush. The smell hit them first—burnt ozone, melted wiring, and something faintly sour underneath. And then they saw it:
A ship.
Half-buried in the ravine wall, nose-first like a bird stabbed from the sky. Its hull was scorched, its plating peeled like bark, and one engine nacelle hung off its frame by sparking tendrils of cable.
Mira let out a low breath. "That's not old."
"No. It's recent."
"Which means someone sent it."
Toren nodded.
He reached for the hatch—already ajar, like the ship had coughed it open with its last breath—and stepped inside.