No, not stopped. It had changed. It was no longer a passive drone. It was… listening. Kaelen felt it as a pressure differential in his ears, a subtle pull towards the Chasm’s heart. He drew the long, slender emitter wand from its holster on his thigh and slotted it into the cannon’s port. The weapon hummed to life, a high-pitched whine that was the MSBD’s active sonar, painting the invisible world in sound.
“…mission parameters are clear…” whispered one. “…Kaelen, you idiot, turn back…” hissed another, in his own voice. “…the probe never crashed…” droned a third, in the flat tone of his former commander.
The Hum had stopped.
Kaelen dropped to his knees. The sound cannon on his chest was glowing red-hot. He tried to eject the power cell, but his fingers wouldn't move. He looked down. His hand was turning translucent, the bones visible as faint, shadowy lines. He wasn't being unmade. He was being added .
Then, the beacon flickered.
The Echo Chamber.
He realized the truth with a sickening lurch. The “fragmented audio data” wasn't in a black box. The black box was the Chasm. The failed FTL drive hadn't just torn a hole in space. It had torn a hole in time , or at least, in causality. Every stray radio wave, every shouted order, every panicked breath from the original disaster had been trapped here, caught in a recursive loop, amplifying and corrupting itself for a century. And now, it was aware.
For one glorious second, there was true, absolute silence. The kind that exists between stars. The kind that hurts.
It was an old data-tag. A meaningless bit of code from the weapon’s original firmware. But to the Echo Chamber, it was a name. An identity. A hook.
Then the Echo Chamber screamed.
A new voice cut through the cacophony. It was deep, resonant, and perfectly clear. It sounded like bedrock grinding against bedrock.
The last thing Kaelen saw was the black glass of the Chasm reflecting his own face. But it wasn't his face. It was a mask of pure, patient silence, with a million whispering mouths.
No, not stopped. It had changed. It was no longer a passive drone. It was… listening. Kaelen felt it as a pressure differential in his ears, a subtle pull towards the Chasm’s heart. He drew the long, slender emitter wand from its holster on his thigh and slotted it into the cannon’s port. The weapon hummed to life, a high-pitched whine that was the MSBD’s active sonar, painting the invisible world in sound.
“…mission parameters are clear…” whispered one. “…Kaelen, you idiot, turn back…” hissed another, in his own voice. “…the probe never crashed…” droned a third, in the flat tone of his former commander.
The Hum had stopped.
Kaelen dropped to his knees. The sound cannon on his chest was glowing red-hot. He tried to eject the power cell, but his fingers wouldn't move. He looked down. His hand was turning translucent, the bones visible as faint, shadowy lines. He wasn't being unmade. He was being added .
Then, the beacon flickered.
The Echo Chamber.
He realized the truth with a sickening lurch. The “fragmented audio data” wasn't in a black box. The black box was the Chasm. The failed FTL drive hadn't just torn a hole in space. It had torn a hole in time , or at least, in causality. Every stray radio wave, every shouted order, every panicked breath from the original disaster had been trapped here, caught in a recursive loop, amplifying and corrupting itself for a century. And now, it was aware.
For one glorious second, there was true, absolute silence. The kind that exists between stars. The kind that hurts.
It was an old data-tag. A meaningless bit of code from the weapon’s original firmware. But to the Echo Chamber, it was a name. An identity. A hook.
Then the Echo Chamber screamed.
A new voice cut through the cacophony. It was deep, resonant, and perfectly clear. It sounded like bedrock grinding against bedrock.
The last thing Kaelen saw was the black glass of the Chasm reflecting his own face. But it wasn't his face. It was a mask of pure, patient silence, with a million whispering mouths.
