Vesper Drift

The Peregrine hung at the edge of Neris' thin blue envelope, a slow, stubborn body that had learned how to wait. Outside, the colony lay like a patchwork of lights and shuttered windows, a small constellation clinging to the black where orbiting nodes had once steadied the currents of memory. In the absence of rhythmic synchronization those currents had frayed: people woke remembering parts of lives that didn't align, the oldest histories bled into trivial afternoons, and where a community had once had coherence it now had a kind of soft, persistent disarray.
Captain Mara Quell watched the settlement through the observation slit with a mechanical calm she did not feel. She had been an engineer once, someone who coaxed failing circuits back into reasonable behavior, but time and certain losses had taught her another craft: the management of personal stakes. The assignment log on her desk blinked an official green. A municipal node had failed, a contract to survey and retrieve damaged mnemonic archives. The contract was pay and risk in equal portions. The real sum, she suspected, would be the price of answers.
Onboard, Peregrine's hull thrummed with the careful noise of systems in watchful balance. CALYX ran diagnostics and stitched the ship's own pulsing history into neat packets—flight hours, hull stress, passenger manifests—an AI that had grown the soft edges of personality from the demands of routine. Her bridge crew moved with practised efficiency, but their faces carried the particular tightness of people who had been close to a fracture. Jun Koma, the chief engineer, checked harnesses and exhaled; Soren Vale, the mnemonic field specialist, folded and unfolded a thin sheet of scanned audio as if it were a talisman. The request had come through Elias Fort, a name Mara had heard before and had avoided considering; he was, by reputation, brilliant and cautious in a way that suggested private corners of guilt.
Neris received them with an economy of welcome. The docking clamps engaged with a hollow clank, and the Peregrine's airlock spat them into a breeze that smelled faintly of citrus and metal. The colony's plazas were calm but empty in the way of places that had been cleared of routine. There were people moving, of course: a woman with a child's fuzzed hair in her hands like a relic, an old man who kept asking how many times it had been Tuesday, a pair of technicians who argued in staccato fragments about a drive that had read as if written in two different hands. The sight of it pressed against Mara with the old, familiar ache—solutions demanded, and sometimes answers opened gates the living were not ready to walk through.