The ground shudders beneath me as the Mammoth-class excavation rig roars to life, its engines firing with a low growl. The icy cavern stretches into darkness, jagged walls glittering faintly under the rig’s harsh floodlights, casting an eerie, almost unnatural glow.

  The drill head gleams, poised to tear into the ice of Kalthor V—a frozen hellhole, but the only place where lithorite veins run deep. At thirteen, I’m the youngest here by far, but I don’t have the luxury of being a kid—they need bodies to keep this beast moving, and I need the credits more than anything.

  “Keep your eyes sharp, Ander,” Valen grunts beside me. The drill engineer is a giant, his face weathered by endless shifts underground. “Lose the vein, and we’re digging blind. Lose us, and we’re dead down here.”

  I nod, adjusting the controls with a steady hand, eyes locked on the holographic display in front of me. As the pilot, it’s my job to control the drill and navigate the tunnels. The trick isn’t finding the vein—it’s staying on it. One wrong move, and we’re drilling through dead stone. Worse, we could hit a gas pocket and get blown to bits.

  Momentum is life down here.

  Lithorite veins are fickle, shimmering beneath the surface with faint pulses of trapped light—energy waiting to be harvested, sold, and used to power weapons, ships, entire colonies. But beneath their beauty lies danger—volatile, explosive if mishandled. Beautiful, in a way, like the dying light of a star. But here, it’s currency—and it could kill you just as easily as enrich you.

  The Mammoth grinds forward, its treads tearing jagged paths into the ice. I flick between the controls and scanner. The drill head roars to life, screeching as it cuts through layers of frozen stone. My hands tense on the controls, adjusting the angle to meet the rock’s resistance.

  “Easy,” I mutter. This close, I can feel it—like the lithorite’s calling out, daring me to screw up.

  Valen watches me with those hard eyes of his, but says nothing. He was a navigator before me, and even though I’m certified, he still hovers—always watching. Doesn’t bother me. His experience means I’m more likely to make it home alive.

  “We’re stable,” someone calls from across the platform. “Drill pressure holding.”

  “Got a fork coming up,” I warn, pointing to the display. The vein splits—a deeper path into the ice, and another veering off toward unstable rock.

  “Take the deep path,” Valen says, his voice a quiet rumble.

  I ease the controls, guiding the drill into the deeper tunnel. The Mammoth groans, its treads grinding against the ice, the whole rig creaking under pressure. Minutes feel like hours as we push forward, the drill cutting through frost and stone.

  Suddenly, the scanner flashes—something beneath the lithorite.

  “Valen,” I say, tension creeping into my voice.

  He leans in, eyes narrowing at the display. “Gas pocket,” he says grimly. “Pull the drill back. Slowly. Change the angle.”

  I adjust the controls carefully, lifting the drill head. The Mammoth groans again, the strain easing. Every fiber of me is tight, like I’m balanced on the edge of a blade. One wrong move, and we’re a memory.

  “Reduce output by half!” Valen shouts to the power crew.

  Then, with a final shudder, the drill breaches the last layer. A massive chunk of glowing lithorite drops into the collection chamber below.

  Relief washes over me.

  “We got it!” someone shouts.

  “Alright, Ander,” Valen says, his voice cutting through the noise. “Retract the drill. Slow and steady.”

  I ease the controls, watching the holographic display as the head retracts. It clicks into place with a satisfying clang. I hit the breaker, and the Mammoth’s engines begin to wind down. Silence settles over the cockpit, broken only by the faint creaking of the rig as it relaxes into the tunnel.

  I lean back, wiping sweat from my brow. “And that’s a wrap,” I mutter.

  ***

  I flick open my lighter, watching the tiny blue arc sputter before fading in the stale tram air. Damn thing barely works, but it keeps my hands busy. The maglev hums beneath us, slicing through the heated tunnels buried deep under Kalthor V’s frozen crust. It’s almost midnight—the ice storms will be raging over the barren snowlands above.

  Shiro sits beside me, arms wrapped tight despite the warmth of the tram. He’s shorter and stockier than me, shaggy brown hair falling into his eyes. We work different rigs but grew up together. Both stuck in the mines. Both wanting more from life. But this is all there is.

  He nudges me. “Think we’ll get back before Jace takes off for V-3?”

  I snap the lighter shut. “Maybe. If we’re lucky. Could go either way.”

  He runs a hand through his hair, staring at the floor. “He’s been talking about it for weeks. Wish he’d just drop it already.”

  I chuckle. “Jace? Not likely. He’ll leave whether you want him to or not.”

  Shiro smiles, but it’s weak. “Probably right. Just wish he’d stayed with us.”

  I bite my lip. Jace left the mines years ago. Works for fixers now—nothing legal. Shiro hates it, but I’ve learned to shut that part of myself down. Every job Jace takes is a reminder of what we don’t have: freedom.

  But it’s not my business.

  I flick the lighter open again, watching the weak spark die. “He’ll be back,” I assure him. “It’s just V-3. Not like he’s leaving the planet. If you ask, he’ll wait.”

  Shiro stays quiet. He won’t ask; admitting he cares would make him feel vulnerable.

  The tram begins its ascent, temperature dropping, pressure shifting as we rise toward Isenhold. I pull my coat tighter as we emerge from the mountainside into the open. We’re running along an elevated maglev platform, hundreds of meters above the snowy terrain below. The snowscape stretches out beneath a star-filled sky. It’s a beautiful view—but I’d hate to be out there. Freezing to death doesn’t really suit me.

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  Ahead, the Stormwall looms—a two-kilometer-high barrier of alloy and reinforced composite, shielding Isenhold from the relentless ice storms. We pass through a gate at its base, the tram shuddering as we enter the tunnel. Inside, the roar of the storm cuts off like someone hit a switch.

  Then, just as quickly, we’re back outside. Isenhold clings to the mountain ahead—a jagged silhouette of steel and stone carved into the cliffs like a hive. Tiered chambers stretch deep into the rock, connected by narrow walkways and bridges. It’s no faction capital, but it’s still impressive.

  It’s home.

  The tram hisses to a stop, and we spill out with the crowd, swallowed by the flow of miners heading toward the lower district. The streets twist like a maze between towering frost-covered buildings. Holographic ads flicker overhead—ThermoCore’s Vulcan shielding, RedLine Biotech’s newest exospine.

  Stuff we’ll never afford.

  We duck through a narrow alley, the hum of industrial generators growing louder. People huddle in corners, clutching their coats against the chill. A closed RedLine Biotech shop displays subdermal plating and Spectra optics behind frost-fogged glass. A shuttered NeoStrand Textiles shop sits to our right, mannequins frozen behind windows, draped in thermal gear and holographic visors.

  Shiro nudges me, nodding ahead. I spot the figures lurking just outside the light—Cultists of the Machine. Their bodies bristle with invasive cyberware that gleams in the dark, metal grafted crudely onto flesh. I know better than to get close, so we take a detour.

  My eyes droop as we rejoin the crowds on the main street. All I can think about is collapsing onto my cot. I’d walk faster—Shiro probably wants to find Jace—but he’s likely long gone by now. And honestly, I’m exhausted.

  Not in the mood for—

  Someone slams into my shoulder. I stagger, but catch myself. The hell?

  A girl darts past—a flash of red hair and wide, frightened eyes. For a split second, our gazes lock. Then she’s gone, swallowed by the crowd.

  “What was that all about?” Shiro asks, glancing at me with concern.

  Before I can answer, shouts echo from ahead. Armed guards push through the crowd, their armor bulkier than usual. Heavy assault rifles hang at their sides. I’ve never seen anything like it—Kalthor V isn’t supposed to have a military presence.

  “Since when did they start gearin’ up like that?” Shiro murmurs.

  I shake my head, just as confused. “Since never.”

  “They’re after her,” he adds.

  “Looks like it,” I mutter, turning back toward the street. Something feels off. Why use that kind of firepower to chase a girl? She didn’t seem dangerous.

  Later, we reach our apartment—a patched-up relic that barely keeps out the cold. The warmth from our old ThermaHeater hits like a wave, the faded ThermoCore logo on the front barely visible. The room is small, but it’s ours. Three cots—Jace’s noticeably empty—a rickety table with some scraps, and an old VitraCom holoscreen that works about once a week.

  Shiro sighs. “No Jace.” He doesn’t sound surprised. “Eh, whatever. Just another day, another stack of creds,” he mutters, falling back onto his cot.

  I check my account balance through the Net. Today’s deposit is already in—a few hundred credits. The company’s efficient, if nothing else.

  I shrug off my coat and sit on my cot, glancing over at Shiro. “So, what’re you doing with your creds now that rent’s sorted?”

  He smirks. “Might splurge on real food this time. Something imported.”

  I laugh. “Living large, huh?”

  “Damn right. Earned it after this week.”

  I stretch. “I’ll probably stash mine. Play it smart.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Course you will. What you savin’ up for, a Starliner?”

  “Maybe one day,” I joke. “Better than wasting it on imported calories.”

  He pulls his blanket over his head. “Fair. To be honest… I would like to ride a Starliner one day.”

  “Good luck with that,” I say, knowing full well we’re never getting off this planet. I accepted that years ago.

  He sighs. “Not likely, huh? A boy can dream, though.”

  I just smile as the room goes quiet, the hum of the ThermaHeater lulling us toward sleep.

  A Starliner, huh?

  Well… there’s a difference between dream and delusion.

  ***

  The square is eerily quiet. A crowd gathers, faces pale and distraught. In the center, the girl’s body sways gently, her red hair stark against the dull metal of the post. The rope creaks in the icy wind, louder than anything else. A chill settles over me—and it’s not from the cold.

  “They say she stole from the Syndicate,” an older woman near us whispers to her husband. “Can you believe it? Just a girl.”

  “Doesn’t make sense,” he mutters, shaking his head. “The free worlds don’t allow this kind of… barbarism. Not anymore.”

  “She was stealing,” Jace says, stepping up beside us.

  I turn, heart skipping. He looks the same as ever—tousled dark hair, that worn red-and-white jacket fluttering in the wind. Only his face is different: harder somehow, shadowed. It’s been days since his trip to V-3, and yet he moves through the scene like he never left, like he never missed a beat.

  I follow his gaze back to the girl. “Stealing what?”

  Jace's mouth twitches—not quite a smile. “Depends who you ask.”

  “What do you mean?” Shiro presses, frowning.

  Jace doesn't answer right away. His eyes roam the square, lingering on the guards posted near the edges—heavily armed, faces hidden by opaque visors. Their presence feels wrong, too. Too much firepower for a simple theft. Too much muscle for a dead girl.

  “She didn’t say,” Jace continues, eyes fixed on the swaying body. “Guards never found what she took.”

  I frown. “How do you know?”

  He shrugs, a sly grin forming. “Let’s just say I was in the right place at the right time.” He pats his coat lightly.

  Shiro’s eyes go wide. “You mean?”

  “Jace…” I say carefully. “Tell me you didn’t.”

  Jace’s grin widens. “I did.”

  I exchange a look with Shiro, a mix of disbelief and concern. “What did you get yourself into?”

  “Relax,” Jace says, his tone dismissive. “This could be worth serious credits.”

  “Or a death sentence,” Shiro snaps.

  Jace’s eyes harden. “Only if we screw it up. But if we handle this right, we could walk away with more creds than we’ve ever seen.”

  He gestures for us to follow. Against my better judgment, we trail after him, weaving through the labyrinth of alleyways until we reach a secluded spot.

  Jace glances around before pulling out a small, sleek box from his coat. It’s black, edges worn, with faded lettering: VX-9 Veil.

  I feel a knot tighten in my stomach. “That’s advanced tech,” I whisper. “Military-grade, maybe.”

  “Exactly,” Jace says. “We’re holding something people would kill to get their hands on.”

  I glance toward the plaza.

  Shiro runs a hand through his hair, anxiety etched on his face. “This is crazy. The guards flatlined that girl for this. They’re probably still out there lookin'—they’ll come after us.”

  “Not if they don’t know we have it,” Jace counters. “We find a buyer. Someone who’ll pay top credits.”

  “How exactly do you plan on doing that?” I ask, skepticism creeping in. “It’s not like we can just put up a sign.”

  Jace’s gaze meets mine. “I have contacts. From V-3. People who know people.”

  I shake my head. “This is risky. More than usual.”

  He steps closer, voice low but urgent. “We keep scraping by day after day, freezing and starving—I’m sick of it. This is our chance to get out.”

  Silence hangs between us. Part of me wants to believe him—to grab onto that sliver of hope. But the image of the girl haunts me. I don’t want to end up swaying next to her.

  Shiro finally speaks. “I don’t like it, but… I trust you.”

  I take a deep breath. “Fine. Just… be careful, alright?”

  Jace grins. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  As we split off, unease creeps in, tightening in my gut. Feels like we’ve stepped over a line we didn’t see, and there’s no way to undo it now. I just don’t want to end up like that girl, hanging for having pushed her luck too far.