Chapter Fifty Four: Infiltrations and Refreshments
Chapter Fifty Four: Infiltrations and Refreshments
POV: Greon
Greon kept his pace slow and measured, hands clasped behind his back, his eyes absorbing every detail of Kehan’s grand estate. The corridors were gilded, their edges pulsing with a soft bioluminescence that made the air shimmer faintly. The scent was sterile but oddly fragrant—like clean metal and citrus-scrubbed stone.
His target was simple.
The Discard Vault.
That’s what Rima had called it when Axir questioned her last night.
Tucked behind a nondescript door, guarded only by outdated sensors and easily-missed stair access. It was supposedly where broken, useless, or outdated Nimoan tech was kept.
Exactly the kind of place someone might try to hide something too dangerous—or too valuable—to be found.
Greon rounded a corner, carefully checking his bracer for the route overlay he’d memorized from the estate’s inner schematic. A sharp turn left. Down the descending hall. Then—
“Ah! Greon, isn’t it?”
The voice stopped him mid-step.
Greon turned slowly, masking his startle. “Lady Rima,” he said smoothly.
She was holding a tray, balancing three ceramic cups with a metallic teapot that glowed from beneath—likely heat-regulated. Her expression was pleasant, curious. But her presence was dangerously inconvenient.
“You look… quite far from your chamber,” Rima observed.
Greon adopted a sheepish smile. “Guilty. I got lost looking for refreshments.”
“Ah,” Rima smiled. “You Zytherions—always so direct. Well, I suppose I can forgive the curiosity. It is a large estate.” She looked thoughtful. “Wait here. I’ll prepare something more appropriate. I’ve just brewed a Liva Root infusion—it aids with spatial memory. Very refreshing.”
Greon bowed slightly. “I appreciate your kindness.”
As soon as she turned the corner and disappeared, he moved again, this time faster.
He was just two turns away when the unmistakable sound of boots echoed from the other side of the hall.
A Nimoan guard—broad-shouldered, helmeted, rifle slung loosely across his back—was patrolling in Greon’s direction.
Skava.
Greon squared his shoulders and slowed his pace again, letting his eyes drift over the decorative glass panels along the wall, feigning interest.
When the guard reached him, he stopped and offered a snappy salute. “Greetings, honored guest. All is well?”
Greon smiled with mild amusement. “Quite. I was admiring the architectural work. Nimoa really knows how to leave an impression.”
The guard relaxed slightly. “That we do. Steward Kehan had his wing of the estate rebuilt just last cycle. If you ever wish for a tour, I’d be happy to arrange it.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Greon replied smoothly.
The guard gave another crisp nod and continued on his way.
Only when the guard’s footsteps faded completely did Greon press forward again. He turned down a dimmer hall, carefully scanning for the door.
There.
A single copper panel, marked with nothing but a symbol—an open eye over a broken circle.
It looked utterly mundane. But his bracer confirmed it was the place.
He knelt, extracting a small tool from the underside of his boot—a magnetic override injector. He pressed it to the lock and activated the pulse.
The door pulsed red—resistant.
He frowned.
A biometric layer?
He activated a secondary tool: a thin filament of synthetic nerve-mimic, able to sample and emulate minor biosignature patterns. It took fifteen seconds, and Greon felt every one stretch like hours.
Click.
The panel slid open soundlessly.
He slipped inside and let the door seal behind him.
Greon took one step and stopped cold.
His breath caught in his throat.
It wasn’t just a vault.
It was a graveyard of genius.
The room spanned wider than expected—twice the size of the Zytherion main engine bay—and lined wall to wall with rows of displays, glass-tube cases, floating panels, and prototype constructs.
The air thrummed with quiet resonance. It smelled of dust, ozone, and static memory.
He moved forward cautiously, reading the etched plates:
Thermoptic Neural Mantle – Gen 7
“Abandoned due to volatile synaptic fusion during testing.”
Mirrorwalk Boots – Phase 2
“Too unstable for multi-atmosphere use. Recall initiated.”
Core Stabilizer 041X
“Incompatible with commercial energy matrices.”
Greon’s eyes danced across each object. They were incredible.
Even Nimoa’s discarded tech was ahead of its time.
He was awestruck—but only for a moment.
There was no sign of the core.
He walked faster now, weaving between the rows, scanning for anything that even resembled Zytherion’s stolen core unit—a blackened crystalline device roughly the size of a helmet. Its energy signature would be distinct, unmistakable.
But it wasn’t there.
Row after row.
Nothing.
Greon frowned, breath catching again. He reached the back wall—a smooth panel, without any obvious seams or entries.
But he didn’t stop there.
He ran his fingers along the edges, pressed softly at different pressure points. Sometimes, the old ways still worked. Nimoans liked symmetry. If there was a hidden panel…
Nothing gave.
He stepped back, scanned above—ceiling vents, light panels. Still nothing.
“Dammit,” he muttered, pulse rising. We were sure it was here.
He knelt again, checking under the bottom row—feeling for hollows, grooves, anything.
Still nothing.
The frustration began to mount. If they were wrong—if the core wasn’t in Nimoa at all…
No.
That couldn’t be.
They had tracked the energy signature. The anomalies in this estate’s proximity aligned too perfectly. It had to be here.
But perhaps—just perhaps—it was not in the vault.
Maybe it was below it.
He looked around again, this time not at the displays, but at the structure.
The floor was reinforced. Old, but newer bolts were along one edge.
Could it be a lift?
He was about to examine it further when a soft ding echoed faintly from the hall outside.
Voices.
And footsteps.
He turned toward the door.
“Greon?” Rima’s voice called gently. “I’ve prepared your tray. I hope you enjoy sweetbread—it’s Kehan’s favorite.”
Skava.
He quickly powered down his bracer, stepped away from the display, and smoothed his tunic. He opened the door just as Rima approached, tray in hand and smile as bright as ever.
“There you are,” she said, then paused. “Oh! Were you…?”
Greon adopted the same sheepish smile. “I got curious again. This estate is full of wonders.”
Rima laughed, guiding him gently toward the main dining hall. “That it is. But let’s stick to the safe zones, hmm?”
Greon chuckled. “Agreed.”
Inside, a small table had been prepared for him—an elaborate setup with ceramic cups, infused water, and slices of pink-glazed sweetbread that glistened under the light.
“Please enjoy,” Rima said, bowing slightly before leaving him alone.
Greon sat down, picked up a cup, and raised it to his lips.
His mind, however, was still in that vault.
The core wasn’t there.
But he’d seen the signs.
The lift.
The reinforced floor.
There was another level below.
And he was going to find a way in—before they left Nimoa.