The Drift Meridian didn't crash. It was torn out a tunnel that was still being born. Warp gates were the safe way to cross the stars, they were fixed anchors in space, linked by stable corridors of folded reality. Convoys trusted them, civilian pilots depended on them. But gates didn't connect themselves.
That was my job. Im a Pathfinder, one of the few trained to slip ahead of the network and carve those corridors piece by piece. I fly where maps fail, threading my ship through raw folded space, feeling for routes that could be stabilised and bound into the gate lattice.
It was dangerous work, but predictable, so long as you respected the physics of what you were doing. Folded space followed a different set of rules but there were still rules and some were the same as real-space. Gravity, mass and time for example still mattered.
A dying star however, doesn't have to respect the physics of folded space.
The Ember star collapsed faster than the models predicted. Its final gravity surge reached out into folded space like a blind, grasping hand and caught the Meridian while I was stitching my way through the gates. The half formed tunnel twisted, sheared and came apart.
Folded space rejected the Drift Meridian and violently flung it back into real space, its vectors scrambled, instruments screaming in protest.
Deep in the hull, the Crystal drive, the core that made Pathfinding possible, howled once and then went silent.
The tunnel was gone.
The gates unreachable.
The Pathfinder was stranded on the wrong side of the stars.
"Fuuuuck," I said. Then, louder, "Fuck, fuck, fuck. Silver, where the hell are we?"
The ship's computer whirred to life, emitting a sequence of beeps and screeches, its irritating way of announcing that it was thinking. I'd always suspected it did that purely to annoy me. After a moment, it finally decided to contribute.
"It appears we have been exited from folded space somewhere near the Erythos Reach. The ship is in desperate need of repair before further tunnelling can be attempted."
I stared at the instrument panel, a forest of red alarms blinking back.
"The word "Desperate" is doing a lot of work there," I muttered.
The computer emitted a brief, noncommittal tone, somehow conveying a shrug better than any physical gesture ever could.
I clenched my jaw. It's fair to say I've had more than a few frustrating encounters with the ship's AI. It had a habit of being sarcastic at exactly the wrong moments and an equally strong habit of not offering practical solutions unless explicitly asked.
"Could you check what we still have to work with," I said carefully, "and see if there's anywhere we can land?"
Scanning
More screeching noises... again really had to get that checked.
"There is a faint power source coming from a small planet not far from here, we should be able to reach it on current power reserves."
A stroke of luck at least. "Plot a course and let's go" I replied. Hopefully, whatever was down there would be enough to get the ship back in working condition.
The planet was one of those frontier worlds the central governments had quietly written off. The kind that didn't want interference and was content to mind its own business. No patrols. No bureaucracy. Just distance and indifference. The power source was the interesting part. It didn't match anything in my databases. Not that I was an expert of course, there were plenty of things in the galaxy I'd never seen, but this was different. Something about it called to me in a way I couldn't explain.
I attempted to set the Meridian down. The ship spluttered, lurched, and argued with gravity every metre of the way, while I hovered over the controls doing little more than persuading it not to kill us outright. Thrusters coughed, warning tones stacked on top of one another, and the ground rushed up with far more enthusiasm than I would have liked. We came to rest near the settlement the power source was coming from, but not too near. Close enough that I could reach it on foot, far enough that, if things went wrong, the Meridian might still have room to limp back into the air. If I was going to get the ship flying again, I think this was my best chance.
Now that I was planet-side, I could run deeper scans and finally get a clearer picture of where I'd ended up. It turned out the planet had been mapped before, just not recently, and not thoroughly. The nearby settlement was listed as Bramblewatch. The accompanying cartographer's notes were… informal. One margin comment read, "What kind of dumbass builds a town on a cliff edge?" Apparently, professional standards had been looser when this map was drawn.
Cartography's a dying art unfortunately. Most modern charts are stitched together by drones and prediction models, clean and soulless. So it was strangely comforting to scroll through an older, handcrafted map with inked contours, uneven annotations, and the unmistakable sense that a real person had stood here once, looked at the same impossible terrain, and felt compelled to say rude things about it.
I ran a full external and internal diagnostics check on the Drift Meridian, circling her slowly while the scanner droids probed and prodded every exposed surface. From the outside, there was no obvious damage, no breaches, no scorched plating, no tell-tale distortions in the hull. In a way, that was reassuring. In another, it was deeply unhelpful. At least visible damage tells you where to begin.
Whatever was broken was buried deeper, somewhere inside the systems that actually mattered and I couldn't figure out these diagnostic reports.
I could handle the basics: patch a conduit, reroute power, bodge a reluctant thruster back into alignment. The ship's AI, a delightfully frustrating piece of software called Silver, could shoulder some of the heavier thinking, fill in gaps where my knowledge thinned out. Between us, we might even convince the Meridian to limp back into something resembling flight.
But Pathfinding hardware wasn't like swapping out a cracked panel or recalibrating a sensor array. This was engineering well above the basic level. folded-space mathematics wrapped in crystal lattices, held together by theoretical physics most people only ever caught brief glimpses of in science-fiction movies or university lecture halls. Standing there in the dust, staring at a ship that looked perfectly fine while being fundamentally broken, I had the feeling that I might be out of my depth.
I had to hope there was someone in Bramblewatch who was smarter than I was.
"Silver, how long will it take to walk to town?" I asked.
"That depends," it said. "Are you walking with intent, or enjoying the scenery?"
I hate this machine.
"Going at an average walking pace," I said, making no effort to hide the irritation in my voice, "for a human, how long would it take?"
"Oh, about two hours for most people," it replied. "For you, in your current condition, perhaps a little longer."
As far as I was aware, there was no shrapnel sticking out of me, no broken limbs, no dramatic internal bleeding. I had no idea what it was referring to but assumed it was some kind of jab about my general health and lack of decent diet and exercise. I decided the best course of action was to deny it the attention it so clearly craved.
"Right," I said. "I'm going to make the trek and see what I can find. Can you lock down the ship until I get back?"
"Yes, Master," it replied, in the most dutifully sarcastic tone it could muster.
I'd be amazed if it lifted so much as a finger, or whatever the ship's computer equivalent was, if trouble came near the Meridian. Unless, of course, the trouble filed the appropriate request in advance and was considered within scope.
I suppose you get what you pay for and right now, I was stuck with it.
The walk to Bramblewatch was… interesting. I didn't often get to spend much time planet-side, let alone wandering through a forest at the bottom of a deep valley. This valley wasn't on the map at all, which meant either the landscape had changed dramatically since it was drawn, or the cartographer had been looking to make a quick bit of cash and hoped no one would ever bother to check his work. It did mean my journey was longer than anticipated. As long as that damn ship's computer never found out how long it was taking me to reach my destination, it didn't matter to me. It was a warm day, and so far I'd had no run-ins with the local wildlife, which I took as a small mercy.
The valley, despite being thick with trees, carried sound exceptionally well. I was still a mile or so out, but I could already hear the town. Not voices, and not quite machinery either. Just a low, constant hum that carried through the rock and the air alike and was steady, almost patient.
There was no information on what Bramblewatch actually did in my databases, but whatever powered it clearly ran deep and ran hard. In theory, that was a good sign. Where there was power, there were engineers, and with any luck, one of them might be able to help me get my ship flying again.
I finally reached it. The last stretch was a steep climb, lungs burning by the time I hauled myself up and over the ridge, but I made it.
What waited for me on the other side wasn't quite what I'd been expecting. Bramblewatch looked like a mining town. Cut stone, scaffolded platforms, heavy gantries clinging to the rock. The kind of place that chewed its way into scenery and called it progress.
It didn't quite match the sounds I'd heard on the way in but at this point, who cares. As long as someone can help me get away from here I'll be happy.
I drew a few curious looks from the locals as I made my way along what I assumed passed for the main street. They didn't get many visitors, that much was clear, and certainly not many who looked like me. Tools paused mid-swing as I passed. Conversations dipped, then resumed at a lower volume. No one blocked my way, but no one welcomed me either. It wasn't hostility exactly, just the wary curiosity reserved for things that didn't belong.
Oil-stained sleeves, reinforced boots, improvised exo-rigs patched and repatched over the years. Practical people. Busy people. The kind who didn't ask questions unless something stopped working. The town felt lived-in. Signs for repairs, lodging, and supplies hung where they'd always hung, hand-painted and uneven, updated only when someone remembered. A few banners were strung up between buildings for an upcoming celebration of some kind, mixed in with notices about a scheduled pause in mining operations in a few days time.
I headed for the nearest workshop. If anyone here could help me get off this planet, it would be the people who fixed things for a living.
I stopped at the door and knocked.
The knock echoed inside, metal on metal, followed by a pause long enough for me to wonder if I'd misjudged the place. Or if anyone was even home. Or if I was about to get told to piss off in whatever the local dialect was.
Then the door slid open.
The woman on the other side took a good look at me: boots first, then the patched suit, then my face, and I watched her mentally calculate exactly how fucked I was. Her expression didn't change, but something behind her eyes clicked into place like a lock engaging.
"Yes?" she said.
Behind her, the workshop was kind of intimidating. Immaculate didn't quite cover it. This wasn't "clean for a workshop," this was just really clean in general. Tools laid out with surgical precision. Components labeled, stacked, and aligned like someone had used a ruler. If I'd walked in here and moved something half a centimetre to the left, I had the feeling the entire place would know.
"My ship's down," I said, trying for competent and professional. "Folded-space failure. I'm looking for someone who can help."
She studied me for a moment longer, long enough that I started wondering if there was something other than dust on my face, then she stepped aside. "Bring me the specs, details and diagnostics."
That was it. No sympathy. No "oh you poor thing, are you injured?" Just procedure. I wasn't sure if I was relieved or mildly offended.
I followed her inside, trying not to touch anything. As she moved, people in the workshop adjusted around her without being told, clearing space, lowering voices, making themselves useful. No one stopped working, but no one got in her way either. It was like watching water flow around a stone, except the stone was a person who looked like she could disassemble you and label your parts.
I pulled up the Meridian's diagnostics and projected them between us, half-expecting her to wince at the mess of red indicators. She studied the data in silence, fingers hovering just shy of the interface, eyes tracking patterns I barely understood.
The silence stretched. I resisted the urge to fill it with anxious babbling.
"This isn't a field repair," she said at last. "Your crystal lattice is destabilized. You're lucky it didn't shatter outright."
Lucky... Right. I was feeling so lucky right now.
"So you can fix it?" I asked, trying not to sound as desperate as I felt.
She looked at me and I got the sense I was being assessed in some fundamental way that went beyond whether I could pay.
"Yes," she said. "I can. Probably the only person here who can. Used to do a bit of Pathfinding myself back in the day."
Relief washed through me, brief and warm. Someone who actually understood what they were looking at. Someone who'd been out there in the folded dark.
Then she kept talking.
"It will take a few days," she continued. "Specialised materials. And compensation." She rubbed her index finger and thumb together, and I felt my stomach preemptively drop.
Of course. Nothing was ever simple.
"How much?" I asked, already bracing myself.
She named a figure that made my face do something involuntary. Possibly several somethings not to mention the many swear words I had to hold back.
"I don't have that," I gasped, which was both true and the understatement of the year.
"I assumed you wouldn't," she replied, without malice. Not smug, not sympathetic. Just... factual. Like she'd done this calculation before I'd even walked in. "Which leaves you with two options."
She gestured toward the far wall, where the workshop opened out onto a narrow view of the cliff face. The mine entrances were just visible, dark cuts in the rock that looked about as inviting as they sounded.
Oh no. I don't like where this is going.
"We always need hands below," she said. "Fair work. Fair rates. You work off the debt."
I stared at the mine entrances. Then at her. Then back at the mines. Pathfinders didn't do manual labor. We flew ships through impossible space and carved routes through folded reality. We didn't... dig.
"Are you..." I caught myself. "You're in charge of this whole operation?"
She gave a faint, almost imperceptible nod. "I'm a Tender."
The word landed with weight. I felt it in the way the room settled around her, in how no one had questioned anything she'd said. Tenders didn't own places, but they ran them. Keepers of the machines, the schedules, the infrastructure everyone depended on. The people who kept things working in the background by any means necessary and here it seems they did it with an iron fist.
Suddenly the surgical precision of the workshop made a lot more sense.
She pulled a battered datapad from her jacket, the kind that had survived more than a few trips underground. Her thumb moved across it with practiced efficiency.
“I’ll need your name for the work logs,” she said, not looking up.
I hesitated. It had been a while since anyone had asked.
“Ryn,” I said finally. “Just Ryn.”
Her eyes flicked up briefly. “Just Ryn who’s willing to swing a pick for crystal drive repair.”
“Just Ryn who doesn’t have better options.”
Something that might have been amusement crossed her face. She entered it without comment, then turned the pad toward me.
“Standard labour contract. Two weeks minimum, potentially three depending on the seam. You work the shifts I assign, you follow safety protocols, you don’t try anything clever underground.” She paused. “And you don’t discuss what you see down there with anyone outside Bramblewatch.”
“Wouldn’t know who to tell,” I said.
"First shift starts at dawn," she said, already turning back to her bench. "Report to Mikey at the main shaft and tell him Tender Joss sent you. She was already back to examining something on her workbench, a complex-looking component that probably cost more than my ship.
I stood there for a moment, trying to figure out if I should say thank you or argue or just... leave.
"Right," I said, to no one in particular. "Mining. Great. Always wanted to try that."
If she heard the sarcasm, she didn't acknowledge it.
I walked back out into the street, squinting against the light, and tried very hard not to think about how Silver was going to react when I told it I'd be spending the week underground.
It was going to be insufferable about this. I could already hear it.
I set off back toward the Meridian before I could change my mind. Bramblewatch carried on around me, tools ringing, engines humming, people getting on with the sort of work that didn't pause for an existential crises or stranded Pathfinders.
By the time the ship came into view, the sun was sliding toward the ridge line, throwing long shadows across the clearing. The Meridian sat exactly where I'd left her.
"Hi Silver," I said as the hatch cycled open, "you're about to hear some news you are not going to enjoy."
"That statement applies to a statistically significant portion of our interactions," it replied. "Please proceed."
I climbed aboard and let the hatch seal behind me. The lights rose slightly, the ship acknowledging me in the small, familiar ways that mattered.
"Good news first," I said. "I found someone who can fix the crystal drive. Properly."
A pause. A hopeful one.
"That outcome was not favoured by my predictive models," Silver said. "I am adjusting expectations."
"Try adjusting your tone while you're at it."
"I am attempting optimism," it replied. "Continue."
"The bad news is, I can't afford it."
Silence.
Then: "That outcome aligns more closely with my projections."
"She's agreed to repair it anyway," I said, pointedly ignoring the implied insult. "I just have to work it off."
Another pause. Longer this time.
"…Define 'work.'"
I dropped into the pilot's chair and rubbed my face. "Manual labour."
"Define 'manual.'"
"Underground."
"Define--"
"In a mine," I cut in.
The ship went very quiet. No screeches. No thinking noises. Nothing.
"You have accepted employment," it said eventually, "as a miner."
"Temporarily."
"For multiple days."
"Yes."
"You, a Pathfinder trained for precision navigation, low-gravity traversal, and extended folded-space exposure."
"Still me."
"In an environment characterised by confined spaces, particulate inhalation, and repetitive strain."
"Now you're just listing things to upset me."
"I am listing risks," it replied. "There are forty-seven."
"Of course there are."
"I would like to formally register my objection," it added.
I snorted. "I'd like to formally register that being stranded on the wrong side of the stars with a dead crystal drive is also sub-optimal."
That earned me a faintly displeased hum.
"Very well," it said. "Who is responsible for the repair?"
"Tender Joss."
Another pause. Shorter. Heavier.
"That title carries local authority implications," the computer noted. "Disappointing her would be inadvisable."
"Yes," I said. "I got that impression."
I stood and headed for the storage locker, already dreading dawn. "Which brings me to the next problem. I'll be underground. She and her team will need access to the ship."
Silence. Then, carefully, "You are requesting that I allow external personnel to interface with my systems."
"Supervised access," I said. "Diagnostics. Physical components. You stay in control."
"I always stay in control," it replied stiffly.
"Excellent. Then grant her tier-three access. No autonomous systems. You authorise everything."
Another pause, dense with background checks and probability trees.
"Tender Joss is certified in crystal lattice stabilisation," it said at last. "She also possesses prior Pathfinder experience."
"See? Practically family."
"I do not like her," the computer added.
"You've never met her."
"I dislike the implication that she understands me or how this specific ship works."
"That makes two of us."
"I will grant limited access," it said. "All interactions will be logged. I will provide you with a detailed report."
"Please don't make it sound like a disciplinary hearing."
"I make no promises."
I sat on the edge of the bunk, helmet in my hands, staring at it like it had personally wronged me.
Mining. Of all the ways this could have gone.
"I will also schedule a wake-up alert," it added. "Based on required travel time and your current physical condition--"
"Don't say dawn."
"--two hours before dawn."
I groaned. "You're enjoying this."
"I am finding the situation… novel."
I lay back and let the lights dim.
"Silver," I said quietly, "whilst i'm gone, look after her."
There was a fractional pause. Not processing. Consideration.
"I always do," it replied. "Even when you insist on questionable life choices."
I closed my eyes.
Tomorrow I'd go underground.
The Meridian would be in someone else's hands.
And for the first time in a long while, I wouldn't be able to see the stars.