The relay hung like a slow heartbeat against the dark, a lattice of filaments and coils that looked more like an art piece than anything that should be trusted with people's feelings. Lira threaded a soft-wristed spanner between two stubborn bolts and felt the ship's micro-vibrations travel up her arm—little tremors the way a piano player feels the last chord. Outside the maintenance bay, a crescent of the system's star carved a blade of light across the relay's ribs, making the metal look as if it had veins.
She moved with the fluid, economical motions of someone who had learned to treat a network as if it were a body: open the rib cage carefully, don't yank at the tendons, listen for the way the coils sigh. Her glove-tip probes sipped the waveform like a nurse taking temperature. The diagnostic slate pulsed a patient green, then blinked orange where phase drift scraped at the boundary of the entanglement filaments. Tiny micro-storms in Vela-3's exosphere had been worse than the forecasts; the relay couplers were showing fatigue.
Her repair drone, an overgrown hexapod someone had painted an eager teal and named Pip, scuttled along a tray and produced a tuneless little hum—an approximation of cheer that had been programmed years ago by an intern with too much optimism. Pip slapped a maintenance tag on the nearest bolt like it was tagging a tourist postcard.
Lira glanced sideways at the oscilloscope; it showed a spike. She swore under her breath, a short, precise word that jostled in the enclosed bay and came out like steam. Then the galley chime fluted: free-time coffee ration available. She tightened the last bolt, the head resisting, and felt the satisfaction of torque completing a sentence.
The comm ping cut across the bay. Alden's voice came through rough as gravel, carrying the thin warmth that the Chordline usually smoothed out. She wiped grease on the inside of her sleeve and accepted.
"Lira? You awake up there? We need you, Tam." Alden's laugh sounded brittle.
Lira kept her hand on the spanner and leaned the other shoulder against the relay's flank. "Alden. What's wrong? The telemetry said Vela-3's anchor lost a few phase windows but—"
Static licked the edges of his words. "It's not windows anymore. It's like someone took the pattern and shook it. People are... snapping into one another. Old Mara keeps waking up thinking she's sleeping in Akor's bed. Sera says some of the neighborhood are sharing nightmares, then blanking out for hours. If the anchor goes, we'll have days before the social fabric unravels."