The champagne in the Helios Division boardroom was flat. Two days had passed since the Omni-Stellar data bomb had detonated across the galactic net, and the initial glee had curdled into frustrated ambition.

Kael Renick, the executive who had initially toasted Omni-Stellar's demise, now paced before a floor-to-ceiling star chart. His assistant, a young man named Finn, watched nervously from his seat.

"The stock plunge is holding. Their public trust rating is in the gutter. We've secured three of their minor mining contracts already," Finn reported, scrolling through his datapad. "It's a solid win, sir."

"It's a start, Finn. A start," Renick snapped, stopping his pacing. "But we're scratching the surface. The real prize is the source. The ones who did this."

"We've tried, sir. Our best data-trackers have hit walls. The transmission originated from a dead relay near Varros III. The ship they used, this 'Star-Jumper', it's a ghost. No registered transponder code that matches, no design specs in any database. It's like it was built in a black hole."

"Then widen the search! Scan every dock, every fuel depot! They had to come from somewhere!" Renick's voice was tight. He wasn't used to hitting walls. Helios money was supposed to melt obstacles.

"We did. Facial recognition on the planet is a joke—half the population wears rebreathers or mod-shields. And whoever scrubbed their trail... it's not just good, sir. It's perfect. It's like they knew exactly how our algorithms work and danced right between the lines."

Renick slammed his hand on the table, making the empty champagne flute jump. "I don't care if they danced with a damn nebula-whale! I want them! Think, Finn! Why?"

Finn swallowed. "Leverage. If we control the source, we control the narrative. We can drip-feed more data, keep Omni-Stellar bleeding for years. Or... we can hire them. People with that kind of skill and guts... they're an asset."

"Exactly." Renick's eyes gleamed. "An asset that our rivals, in their panic, are probably trying to obliterate. We need to find them first. And since conventional means have failed..." He let the sentence hang in the air, a dark implication settling over the room.

Finn paled slightly. "Sir? You don't mean..."

"We've exhausted the digital. Now we try the... analog." Renick turned to the comms panel on his desk. "Get me a secure line to The Vault. Authorization Renick-Zulu-Niner."

An hour later, a woman was shown into the boardroom. She wasn't what Finn had expected. No dramatic cloak, no visible cybernetics. She was of average height, with a calm, almost placid face and hair the color of dark sand. She wore a simple, grey jumpsuit. Her name was Lyra, and her only remarkable feature was her eyes—a pale, liquid grey that seemed to absorb the light around them.

"Ms. Lyra," Renick began, dispensing with pleasantries. "We have a problem. A data packet was broadcast two days ago. We need to find the source. All digital trails are cold."

Lyra didn't speak. She simply walked over to the main terminal where the corrupted logs of the transmission were still displayed. She didn't touch the keyboard. She placed her palm flat on the console's cool surface.

Her eyes closed.

For a long moment, nothing happened. Then, the lights in the room flickered. A low, sub-audible hum vibrated through the deck plates. Finn felt the hair on his arms stand up.

On the screen, the corrupted data began to... unspool. Lines of garbled code straightened, not through programming, but as if they were remembering their original form. It was like watching a shattered vase reassemble itself in reverse.

Lyra's brow furrowed slightly. "The path is... clever," she murmured, her voice a soft, monotone whisper. "They used the relay as a prism. Scattered the echo. Good ghosting protocol."

"Can you find them?" Renick asked, his voice hushed.

Lyra's head tilted. She was no longer looking at the screen, but through it. "The machine has a memory. Even when it's told to forget. The signal passed through here. It left a... taste."

Her pale eyes opened, but they weren't looking at Renick or Finn. They were fixed on some middle distance, seeing the ghost of the data stream.

"The ship is called the Star-Jumper. Old, but the core is... singing. A strange song. Not like other ships." Her voice was distant, dreamy. "The one who hid their path... a woman. Sharp mind. Her thoughts are like ice. Precise. Cold."

Finn shivered. He wasn't hearing a description. He was hearing an echo.

Lyra's gaze shifted, as if following a thread. "They are not on their ship now. They are... grounded. In a place of life. Green things. Growing things. The air is thick with organic scent. It muddies the electric air."

"The Drifting Leaf," Finn blurted out. "It's an organic inn in the old quarter. The walls are alive."

Lyra's head snapped towards him, and for a split second, her placid expression vanished, replaced by an intensity that was utterly alien. "Yes. That is the place." The intensity faded as quickly as it came, leaving her calm once more. "The trail is fresh there. They have been still. That makes them easier to find."

Renick allowed himself a smile. It was a thin, predatory thing. "Excellent. Finn, assemble a team. Discreet. I don't want a firefight in a tourist district. I want a quiet conversation."

As Finn hurried out, Renick turned back to Lyra. "Your fee will be transferred."

Lyra was already removing her hand from the console. The screen fizzed back into its corrupted state. "The fee is the same. One question."

"Ask."

She looked at him, her pale eyes finally focusing on him with a clarity that was unnerving. "The girl. The Cerebrian. She is the key. What will you do with her?"

Renick's smile didn't reach his eyes. "That, Ms. Lyra, is no longer your concern. Your part is done."

Lyra held his gaze for a moment longer, then gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. She turned and left as quietly as she had entered, leaving behind only the faint smell of ozone and the chilling certainty that the walls of the Drifting Leaf were no longer a refuge. The hunters had a scent, and they weren't using hounds. They were using a ghost who spoke to machines.

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