The alarm clock hadn't stopped screaming for three minutes, but Ghost wasn't hearing it anymore. She sat cross-legged on her bunk, staring at the Prometheus Rig like it might vanish if she blinked. The device hummed with residual energy from last night's performance, its crystalline components still glowing faintly in the pre-dawn darkness of their quarters.
She had been there for fifteen years. He stood in the tech lab. Holographic schematics illuminated Instructor Yamoto's weathered face.
"Show me," he'd said after catching her red-handed with his security bypass. Not angry. Curious.
"I just wanted to see if I could make things float," young Ghost had whispered, clutching the gravity manipulation unit she'd salvaged from the crashed supply ship.
"Wanting to see 'if you can' is how every great inventor starts," Yamoto replied, his voice gentle despite the late hour. "But getting caught? That's how they end."
The memory dissolved as Asher's foot hit the floor with a metallic clang. He had also been awake, likely all night. The official acceptance message still glowed on their shared data pad, impossible and terrifying in its bureaucratic certainty.
"Tell me I didn't dream it," Asher said, his voice hoarse.
Ghost picked up the pad and read the message for the fourteenth time. "Regional Cultural Assessment Program. Candidate: Asher Drak, Ferros-7. Travel authorization: Approved. Transport departure..." She checked the chronometer. "Forty-seven hours, thirty-two minutes."
Asher started pacing their tiny floor space—three steps forward, turn, three steps back. Ghost had learned to read Asher's classic nervous energy like a technical manual. "This has to be a mistake. Perhaps it's a trap, Ghost thought. Drek wouldn't—"
"It's authenticated through three different protocols. Ghost held up the pad, showing him the verification codes she'd checked and rechecked." Galactic Alliance Arts Council, Colonial Authority Cultural Division, and Regional Assessment Administration. This information is real, Ash. This is really real."
Asher paused mid-pace, running his hands through his perpetually messy hair. "Then why do I feel like I'm going to throw up?"
"Because you're smart enough to know what the phrase means." Ghost set down the pad and reached for her tool kit. "Everyone's going to be watching. Not just you, but the entire colony will be observing. And if we screw this up..."
"We?"
"Of course 'we. ' You think I'm letting you take my life's work to the stars without supervision?" She opened the Prometheus Rig's access panel and immediately frowned. "Speaking of which, we have a problem."
Asher dropped onto the floor beside her, leaning over her shoulder to peer at the device's innards. "Define 'problem.'"
"We've fried the gravity modulators." Look." She gestured towards three blackened components, which had been perfectly clear the day before." Last night's performance pushed them past safe parameters. The power consumption is significantly high, and in the absence of proper stabilization, the next activation could potentially cause significant damage. She made an exploding gesture with her hands.
"Could what?"
"Could turn us into a minimal but very impressive crater."
Asher stared at the damaged components. "Can you fix it?"
Ghost was already reaching for her diagnostic scanner. "I can fix anything. But I need a crystalline matrix stabilizer to replace the burned-out harmonic regulators."
"Those are military grade. Where would we even—"
"Leave that to me." Ghost closed the access panel with more confidence than she felt. "You focus on not having a panic attack."
"I don't have panic attacks."
Ghost looked pointedly at her tool kit, which Asher had unconsciously reorganized while they were talking. Every wrench, screwdriver, and circuit tester now sat in perfect size order.
"Right," she said. "That's why you're reorganizing my tools. Again."
The main plaza buzzed with unusual energy as the morning shift change began. Word had spread overnight—somehow it always did on Ferros-7—and miners emerging from the deep shafts stopped to stare at Asher with expressions ranging from pride to resentment.
"There he is!" Henrik's voice boomed across the space. "Our boy wonder!"
A small crowd gathered as Henrik pushed through the morning rush, his weathered face beaming. Behind him came the children from last night's performance, their eyes bright with remembered magic.
"Asher! Asher!" Sofia, a ten-year-old, jumped up and down. "Are you really going to the stars?"
"I..." Asher glanced around at the growing crowd. "I'm going to try."
"That's what winners say," Henrik declared, clapping him on the shoulder hard enough to rattle teeth. "Modest and determined. They'll love you out there."
But not everyone shared Henrik's enthusiasm. Miner Hollis pushed forward, his face dark with something that looked like anger but smelled like fear.
"You think you're better than us?" Hollis's voice carried the authority of forty years hauling ore from the deep shafts. "While we break our backs to keep this place running, you are just playing with lights?"
Asher felt the crowd's energy shift, excitement cooling into tension. "I've worked the same shifts you have—"
"Until you decided you were too good for honest work." Hollis stepped closer, and Asher caught the smell of industrial alcohol on his breath. "Don't expect sympathy if you fail out there."
"The boy's giving us a chance at something more," Henrik interjected, moving between them. "When's the last time Ferros-7 had that? When was the last time someone viewed this place and recognized its potential beyond just meeting productivity quotas?
"Possibility doesn't pay for food or air recycling," Hollis shot back. "Dreams don't keep the lights on."
"Neither does despair," a new voice said.
Everyone turned as Security Chief Marcus Chen approached, his uniform crisp despite the early hour. His expression was carefully neutral, but Asher caught the slight nod meant for him alone.
"Everyone needs to clear the plaza," Marcus announced. "Shift change protocols are still in effect."
The crowd began to disperse, but the children lingered until their parents called them away. Sofia pressed something into Asher's hand—a small origami bird made from recycled food packaging.
"For luck," she whispered, then ran after her mother.
"Mr. Drak," Marcus said formally. "A word?"
Security Station B smelled like recycled air and coffee that had been brewing too long. Marcus waited until the door sealed before dropping his official demeanor like a discarded uniform.
"How are you holding up?" he asked, settling into his chair with a grunt.
"Honestly? Terrified." Perched on the edge of the guest chair, Asher was too nervous to relax. "What if I can't do it? What if I arrive and find myself merely a large fish in a small pond?
Marcus studied him for a long moment. "Remember, I've already received acceptance once—regional assessment, fifteen years ago."
Asher's eyes widened. "What happened?"
"Drek happened." Marcus's voice carried old pain, carefully controlled. "Made sure I never made it to the transport. 'Equipment malfunction' during my shift—a pressure valve that someone had loosened just enough. When I managed to escape the collapse and reach the medical bay, the ship had already departed.
"Marcus, I'm so sorry—"
"Don't be sorry." Marcus stood and walked to a storage locker Asher had never noticed before. "Be careful. And be on that transport early." He pulled out a battered case and set it on the desk. "This is for you."
Inside the case lay something Asher had never seen in person: real artist supplies. The case contained brushes that were made of synthetic bristles and still maintained their shape. The case contained pigments in colors not found in the colony's industrial palette. And beneath them, a canvas—unfinished, showing the beginnings of a nebula painted in impossible shades of hope.
"I never stopped practicing," Marcus said quietly. "Every night, after my shift. Never stopped believing that someday..." He cleared his throat. "Make them see us, kid. It's not just you; it's all of us. Everyone who dreams in dark places."
Asher ran his fingers over the canvas, feeling the texture of dreams given form. "I will. I promise."
"And watch out for Drek. He's planning something—I can feel it. The man doesn't give up easily."
The Black Market Tech Exchange existed in the gray spaces between official colony sectors, a maze of maintenance corridors and abandoned storage units where engineers and technicians traded favors, parts, and sometimes hope. Ghost navigated the familiar passages with the confidence of someone who'd been fixing other people's problems since she could hold a sonic screwdriver.
"Keiko!" Trader Ming looked up from a spread of salvaged components. "Heard about your boy's big break. Prometheus Rig finally works the way you wanted"
"Better." Ghost stopped at his stall, eyeing the scattered electronics. "But I need something special. Crystalline matrix stabilizer, military grade if you've got it."
Ming whistled low. "Girl, are you trying to build a warship?"
"Something better. Something that matters."
"Hmm." Ming stroked his beard, a habit that usually meant he was calculating profit margins. "Don't have anything like that, but I know someone who might. Sector Seven, Workshop Twelve. Ask for Yuki."
"Yuki?"
"Old-timer. She had experience working on starship engines before being discarded. Word is she's got a collection of parts that aren't strictly legal." Ming leaned closer. "Word is she's got other collections too. The artistic kind."
Ghost felt her pulse quicken. "Thanks, Ming. I owe you."
"Just remember us little people when your son becomes famous, okay?"
A maze of defunct processing equipment concealed Workshop Twelve, its existence a mere rumor until Ghost discovered the hidden entrance. The space beyond defied the colony's utilitarian aesthetic—tools arranged with an artist's eye for form as well as function, workbenches that gleamed despite their obvious age, and everywhere, small sculptures made from mechanical parts transformed into something beautiful.
Yuki emerged from the shadows like a question mark given human form—bent with age but moving with surprising grace, her silver hair pulled back to reveal eyes that missed nothing.
"Crystalline matrix stabilizer?" she repeated after Ghost explained her need. "Girl, are you trying to build a warship?"
"Something better. Something that matters."
Yuki circled Ghost like a predator evaluating prey, taking in the homemade tools, the oil stains on her coveralls, and the careful way she moved around the delicate sculptures.
"Hmm. I might know someone. But it'll cost you."
"What do you want? I can pay—"
"Credits are worthless down here." Yuki gestured to her workshop. "What I want is a promise. When your boy makes it big, he remembers where he came from. All of us in the underground."
Ghost met the old woman's eyes and saw decades of hidden talent, suppressed dreams, and artistic souls forced to express themselves through the marriage of function and beauty.
"He's not that kind of person," Ghost said. "Neither of us is."
"Good." Yuki smiled for the first time. "Then we understand each other."
Two hours later, Ghost and Yuki worked side by side in Yuki's hidden workshop, the crystalline matrix stabilizer gleaming like captured starlight between them. Asher stood ten feet away, holding the modified Prometheus Rig with the careful reverence of someone handling antimatter.
"Easy," Ghost called, her hands deep in the device's modified circuitry. "Don't activate anything until I finish the harmonic calibration."
"Define 'anything,'" Asher replied, watching warning lights flicker across the rig's control surface.
"If it lights up, don't touch it. If it makes noise, don't touch it. If it exists in our dimension, don't—"
"Touch it. Got it."
Yuki looked up from her own work—a diagnostic array that seemed to be part scanner, part art installation. "Your friend's nervous."
"He has good reason to be," Ghost muttered, making final adjustments to the stabilizer mount. "Last time we tested this thing, it created a gravity well that sucked in three months of accumulated dust and made it rain metal shavings."
"And this time?"
"This time it's going to work perfectly." Ghost closed the access panel and stepped back. "Because failure isn't an option."
"Okay," Asher said, hefting the Rig. "What should I try?"
"Something simple. A single hologram, low mass, stable form."
Asher closed his eyes, feeling for the connection between thought and technology that made the impossible possible. The Prometheus Rig hummed to life, its new components singing in perfect harmony.
A raindrop appeared in the air above his palm.
It was small, insignificant, and barely visible in the workshop's dim lighting. But it was real—light given substance, photons made manifest through principles that shouldn't have existed. And when it fell, striking Yuki's outstretched hand, she felt the cool touch of water that had never seen a cloud.
"Extraordinary," Yuki whispered.
More raindrops followed. As the number of raindrops increased, from dozens to hundreds, they were genuine enough to dampen their hair and clothes, proving that the line separating art from reality was more fluid than anyone could have predicted.
Ghost watched Asher work, saw the concentration on his face as he maintained the impossible precipitation, and felt tears she didn't expect mixing with the artificial rain.
"Now that's art worth risking everything for," Yuki said softly.
Administrator Drek's office occupied the highest level of the administrative tower, its windows offering a panoramic view of Ferros-7's industrial sectors. From here, the colony looked like what it was—a machine for extracting wealth from dead rock, populated by interchangeable components who happened to be human.
Security Chief Voss stood at attention before Drek's desk, his expression carefully neutral. They'd worked together long enough for Voss to recognize the administrator's moods, and tonight Drek radiated the cold fury of a man whose authority had been challenged.
"Options," Drek said without preamble.
"We could arrest him. These charges include cultural sedition, inciting unauthorized gatherings, and violating public assembly protocols. Voss consulted his data pad. "The charges would stick."
"Too obvious. The Cultural Assessment Authority would investigate, and we can't afford scrutiny right now." Drek turned to face the window, watching the evening shift begin their descent into the mines. "If he's going to fail, it needs to be his fault."
"And if he succeeds?"
Drek smiled, but his expression lacked warmth, resembling that of a vacuum. "Then Ferros-7 succeeds. Naturally, Ferros-7 thrives under my visionary leadership. The administrator is the one who recognized and nurtured exceptional talent despite limited resources.
"Sir?"
"Prepare two press releases, Voss. One press release will announce our regret regarding young Drak's unfortunate failure and will note how we did everything possible to support him. The other is celebrating our colony's first cultural assessment success, highlighting the supportive environment that made such achievement possible."
Voss made notes on his pad. "What about the transport?"
"Nothing obvious. But perhaps their environmental systems might experience some minor fluctuations. Enough to make the journey... uncomfortable." Drek returned to his desk. "Fear breaks more artists than failure ever could."
"Yes, sir."
After Voss left, Drek remained at his window, watching the lights of the industrial sectors flicker like dying stars. Tomorrow, Asher Drak would discover the distinction between dreams and reality.
The abandoned theater in Sector Seven existed in defiance of Ferros-7's utilitarian philosophy—a space designed for beauty in a place that had forgotten beauty was possible. Ghost led Asher through forgotten maintenance passages, past equipment that had been obsolete since before either of them was born.
"Where are we going?" This was Asher's third question.
"You'll see. And stop peeking."
The improvised blindfold—one of Ghost's spare coveralls—made navigation challenging, but Asher trusted her completely. She'd been leading him through impossible spaces since they were children, showing him hidden wonders in a colony that officially contained none.
"Okay," Ghost said, her voice suddenly different. "You can look."
Asher pulled off the blindfold and stepped into a cathedral of dreams.
The theater's main space stretched impossibly high, its ceiling lost in shadows that might have been architectural features or simply the accumulated darkness of years. But it was the walls that stole his breath—covered floor to ceiling with artwork created by hands that had refused to stop creating despite every reason to give up.
Paintings covered every available surface. Sculptures made from discarded mining equipment stood in alcoves that had once held industrial machinery. Throughout the space, holographic installations flickered like stars, each serving as a window into imagination that had persevered despite overwhelming challenges.
"Ghost," Asher breathed. "How long has this been here?"
"Years. Decades, maybe." She moved deeper into the space, her voice echoing strangely. "Someone similar to us created every piece here." These were people who couldn't stop creating, even when it was forbidden.
They walked through galleries of impossible beauty—murals that transformed the sterile walls into alien landscapes, kinetic sculptures that danced with captured wind, and holograms that told stories in languages of pure light.
"Here," Ghost said, stopping at a corner that Asher had almost missed.
Her section was smaller than the others, but no less remarkable. Technical diagrams covered the walls—but these weren't merely functional. Each schematic was a masterpiece of form and purpose, blueprints elevated to art through an engineer's eye for elegance. The Prometheus Rig's evolution was documented in loving detail, each iteration more beautiful than the last.
"Ghost..." Asher stared at the diagrams, seeing his best friend's work with new eyes. "These are incredible. Why didn't you tell me—"
"Because I'm not the artist. You are. I just... make things work."
"Are you kidding? Look at these designs. This IS art. Your art."
Ghost turned away, uncomfortable with the praise. "Stop. We're here for you, not—"
"We're here for us. We're a team. Always have been." Asher placed his hands on her shoulders, forcing her to meet his eyes. "Tomorrow, when I get on that transport, I'm not just carrying my dreams. I'm carrying yours too."
Ghost felt tears threaten again—the second time in one day, which had to be some kind of record. "What if they don't see what I see when I watch you perform?"
"What do you see?"
"Hope. Pure, stupid, beautiful hope."
Asher smiled, and for a moment the abandoned theater filled with warmth despite its broken heating systems. "That's not me. That's us."
At 11:00 PM, their quarters felt too small to contain the magnitude of what morning would bring. Two worn travel bags sat by the door—everything they owned that mattered compressed into containers that could fit in a cargo transport's passenger section.
The Prometheus Rig lay cushioned in specially designed foam, its new components humming with barely contained potential. Beside it, Marcus's art supplies waited in their protective case, a bridge between one dream deferred and another about to begin.
Ghost moved through their space with the careful precision of someone memorizing details—the way light from the corridor spilled through their door's gap, the sound of neighboring families settling into sleep, the particular smell of recycled air and industrial lubricants that meant home.
"What if they don't see what I see when I watch you perform?" she asked again.
Asher looked up from the data pad where he'd been reviewing transport schedules. "What do you see?"
"Hope. Pure, stupid, beautiful hope."
"That's not me. That's us."
Ghost sat on her bunk, suddenly looking younger than her nineteen years. "I've been thinking about Instructor Yamoto. What he said about getting caught is how inventors often meet their end.
"Ghost—"
"But he was wrong. Getting caught isn't how we end. It's how we begin." She gestured to the Prometheus Rig. "Getting caught led to this. Getting caught led to you."
Asher joined her on the narrow bunk, their friendship comfortable enough for shared space. "We're going to be okay. Whatever happens out there, we'll face it together."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
4:00 AM came too early and not soon enough. They'd arrived at the transport platform four hours ahead of schedule, following Marcus's advice to avoid any last-minute "complications." The cargo ship Determination squatted on its landing pad like a metal beetle, scarred by years of intersystem travel but spaceworthy enough to inspire cautious confidence.
Ghost was already installing improvements to the ship's environmental systems when the unexpected farewell committee arrived.
They came quietly, shadows emerging from maintenance tunnels and service corridors—the elderly artists of the underground, led by Henrik and including faces Asher recognized from his illegal performances. Even some who'd never spoken to him directly had come: parents whose children had reached for holographic birds and miners who'd felt possibility stir in hearts they'd thought permanently closed.
At the back of the group, keeping a careful distance, stood Miner Hollis. He didn't speak, didn't step forward, but he nodded once—a gesture that carried forty years of dreams deferred but not abandoned.
"Will you come back?" Sofia asked, pressing another origami bird into Asher's hands.
"I promise," Asher said, kneeling to her level. "And when I do, I'll teach you everything I learned."
"We both will," Ghost added, emerging from the ship's access panel with grease on her hands and stars in her eyes.
The transport captain—a weathered woman who'd seen enough colonies to know when she was witnessing something special—gave them the five-minute warning. They exchanged final embraces, spoke last words, and made promises that would either anchor them to home or shatter under the weight of transformation.
As the ship prepared for departure, Asher and Ghost pressed against a viewport for one last look at Ferros-7. The colony sprawled beneath them, no longer just a collection of mines and processing facilities but a community that had given them wings.
"No matter what happens," Asher said, "we'll never forget this."
"We'd better not," Ghost replied. "It's what makes us who we are."
The Determination lifted off with the gentle vibration of well-maintained engines, carrying them toward a future neither could fully imagine. Behind them, Ferros-7 fell away into the darkness between stars, but ahead lay possibilities as bright as holographic birds and as real as rain that had never seen sky.
They were halfway to the first jump point when the ship's computer made an unexpected announcement:
"Attention passengers. We have received clearance for an unscheduled stop at Station Gamma-9. Estimated delay: four hours."
Ghost looked up from the ship modification she'd been planning. "That's not on the flight plan."
Through the viewport, they watched a luxury passenger liner dock at the station's main platform. Its hull gleamed with the kind of polish that came from real money, and its passenger manifest probably didn't include anyone who'd learned to dream in darkness.
A familiar figure emerged from the liner's airlock—tall, confident, and wearing clothes that had never been recycled. Vera Solis caught sight of the cargo transport through a viewport and stopped, her expression shifting from boredom to recognition to something that looked like determination mixed with disgust.
She saw Asher through the window and smiled—the kind of smile predators wore when they spotted prey.
"Please tell me that's not who I think it is," Ghost said.
Asher watched Vera speak to a station official, gesturing toward their ship. "Remember when you asked what could go wrong?"
"Yeah?"
The ship's computer chimed again: "Docking complete. New passengers are boarding."
"I think we're about to find out."
End of Episode 2
Next Episode: "The Scout"— Asher and Ghost encounter their first real competition as Vera Solis boards their transport, while Administrator Drek's sabotage begins to take effect. The journey to the regional assessment becomes a trial by fire that will test everything they've built together...