The isolation suite was a study in sensory deprivation. White walls, a white cot, a white floor. No windows. The only light was a diffuse glow from the ceiling panels. The air was still and tasted of filtered nothingness. A speaker in the corner allowed for one-way communication. A camera lens, dark and unblinking, watched from above the door.
Dan sat on the cot, back straight, hands on his knees. He was not a prisoner, he was a "quarantined asset." The distinction felt as thin as the air. He focused on the one thing he could control: his own mind. He rebuilt the walls the Custodian's touch had shaken, brick by mental brick. The memory of Arjun was locked in a lead box. The feel of Kiran's hand was filed away. The grinding voice was analyzed, stripped of its terror, catalogued as data: psycho-auditory intrusion, likely fear-amplifying frequency modulation.
But he couldn't lock away the pull. It was a physical constant now, a low-grade ache pointing west-southwest. A leash tethered to his sternum. He closed his eyes and tried to map it against his internal geography of Punjab. Amritsar? Farther? The Rajasthan desert? The direction felt… hollow. Like pointing towards a star that had died millennia ago.
Hours bled into one another. The only break was the soft hiss of the meal slot opening and a tray of bland nutrient paste and water sliding in. No utensils. Nothing he could use to harm himself or, more importantly, to inscribe anything. The I.O. was thorough.
He was meditating when the speaker crackled to life. It was Vyas's voice, stripped of all location data, flat and digital.
"Officer Singh. Debrief. Start from the moment you entered Sub-level 3."
Dan complied. His report was precise, emotionless. He described the pull, the viewport, the voice, the frost. He admitted the mental pressure. He did not mention the black corona in his eyes. That was his data. His only leverage.
"The technician cleared you of significant residue," Vyas stated.
"The technician was checking for empathic residue, Commander. This is different. It's not the Echo's emotion. It's a… a psychic scent the Echo left on me. The Custodian is a tracker. I am the spoor."
A long silence. Then, "Your analogy is noted. Can you feel it now?"
"Yes. A directional pull. West-southwest. It's constant."
"And if we moved you? If we moved the Echo?"
"The pull would shift relative to the Echo's location. I believe I am triangulating the Custodian's point of origin, or at least its current locus. It's not tracking me. It's tracking the Echo through me."
Another pause. He could almost hear her calculating the risk-reward ratio of a walking dowsing rod.
"Your connection to the vessel, Kiran. Describe its nature."
Dan kept his voice neutral. "Operational proximity. A resonant link formed during extraction to focus the resonator. It allowed for successful containment."
"Did it allow for anything else? A transfer of information? Impressions?"
You blame yourself. "She saw a fragment of a personal memory. A consequence of the Echo's empathic field, not the link." A half-truth, expertly delivered.
"And you saw…?"
"Her fear. Her exhaustion. The hollow space the Echo left." And a glimpse of an architecture of forgetting.
"The Echo showed her things, Singh. Visions. We need that intelligence. The link may be the only way to retrieve it cleanly, without breaking her mind. You will re-engage."
It wasn't a request. It was an operational pivot. He was no longer just a beacon; he was to become a bridge.
"Understood."
"Preparation in one hour. We are on the clock. The Custodian's attempted breach has accelerated our timeline."
The speaker went dead.
---
They came for him, not with guns, but with a silent escort to a different kind of room. It was a "soft" interrogation chamber adjacent to Kiran's living quarters. Instead of a table, there were two deep armchairs. A pot of chai steamed on a low table between them. The lights were warm. The camera was smaller, hidden. Vyas observed from a separate room, he knew.
Kiran was already there. She looked better. There was color in her cheeks, and the hollow look had been replaced by a wary alertness. She wore simple, clean clothes provided by the facility. She watched him as he entered, her eyes searching his face.
"Dan," she said. Not "Officer." A small act of defiance, or connection.
"Kiran. How are you feeling?"
"Lost. But… clearer. The quiet is starting to feel like my own quiet." She gestured to the chai. "They said you'd come. To talk."
He sat, pouring for both of them. The routine was calming. "We need to understand what the Echo showed you. The details. About the 'Empty Man,' his architecture. It's important."
She sipped her chai, her gaze turning inward. "It's not like remembering a movie. It's like… remembering a smell that tells a whole story. The Empty Man… he doesn't have memories of his own. He's a collection. He takes final moments—the rage of a murdered man, the despair of a drowning woman, the joy of a last breath—and he builds. He's making a… a place. A temple or a prison. I don't know. The Saint's moment, the forgiveness… it's the keystone. The one thing that can hold all the other, uglier memories in balance. Without it, his construction is unstable. Chaotic."
"A place where?" Dan pressed gently. "Did you see a location?"
She shook her head. "Not a where on a map. A where in… in the shape of things. In the cracks between what people feel and what they forget." She looked at him, suddenly intense. "He tried to reach you. In the night. I felt it."
Dan froze. "How?"
"The link. It's still there. Faint, like a thread. When he pushed against you, I felt a… a cold draft on my end of it." She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a whisper. "He's not just tracking the Echo, Dan. He's interested in you. You held the cornerstone. You felt its forgiveness and rejected it. You're a new kind of brick. A brick of… will."
The horror of it unfurled in Dan's gut. He wasn't just a beacon or a bridge. He was a potential component. His refusal of absolution was a unique psychic texture the Custodian lacked.
Before he could process it, Kiran's eyes glazed over. The Echo's after-imprint flickered within her. Her voice changed, becoming an eerie, multi-layered chorus, echoing the Saint's memory. "The well of tears is also the well of memory. He drinks from the deep, dry aquifer. Find the thirst… to find the drinker."
Then she snapped back, gasping, her hand flying to her mouth. "I'm sorry… it just…"
"It's okay," Dan said, his analyst's mind seizing the clue. A deep, dry aquifer. A place of historical, collective tears that was now dry. A place of forgotten suffering. In Punjab, with its layered history of partition, of wars, of pain… it could be anywhere. And yet, it felt specific.
The door opened. Vyas stood there, her face grim. "We're out of time. The transport convoy for the Echo was ambushed twenty kilometers out. It was a diversion. A smaller, sleeper team hit the main motor pool and the comms array. They're inside the perimeter."
The drama of the action was suddenly, violently real again. Distant, muffled pops of gunfire confirmed it. Not an attempt to steal the Echo—it was already on the move. This was chaos. A smokescreen.
"Their objective?" Dan asked, already on his feet.
Vyas looked at him, then at Kiran. "Disruption. And extraction of a specific asset. We believe they're here for you, Officer Singh. Or," her eyes flicked to Kiran, "for the vessel. The Custodian doesn't just want the cornerstone back. It wants its architect's tools."
An alarm, different from the psychic breach alarm—a shrill, pervasive whoop—began to blare. The lockdown alarm.
"Secure the vessel," Vyas ordered Dan, tossing him a compact stunner. "Get her to Panic Room Gamma. The route is still clear. Go."
Dan grabbed Kiran's arm. She didn't resist, her earlier clarity hardening into survival focus. He moved to the door, checking the corridor. It was empty, bathed in alternating red and white strobes.
The pull in his gut suddenly wrenched, not pointing west, but down, towards the heart of the facility. The Custodian wasn't outside. Its agents were.
And the hook in his soul told him they were very, very close. The cracks in his mental cup weren't just leaking light anymore. They were letting the darkness in.