The past is a ghost in the machine, and we are always one click away from summoning it.
Thorne’s message hung in the safe house like a shroud, poisoning the fragile peace we had forged. ‘My property.’ He meant the ship’s log. ‘And I’m taking yours.’ He meant me.
Lysander moved through the sterile space like a caged panther, all coiled muscle and silent fury. The brief, tender vulnerability of the night was locked away behind a wall of impenetrable ice. He established a secure satellite link, and within an hour, a digital command center was live on the wall of monitors, his most trusted tech analyst, Rhea, a disembodied voice from a secure location.
“The chip is a mess, Lysander,” Rhea’s voice crackled, efficient and calm. “He wasn’t lying about it being corrupted. It’s like someone took
