“The quarantine,” Joros whispered, his voice raspy, “it’s failed.” Velis didn’t respond, couldn’t. The dark particulate on his skin glittered beneath the cab's yellow dash light. The relic in her pack, the parchment, the city's predatory researchers, and now this—a dormant contagion surfacing after centuries. Her planned monograph dissolved into a single practical requirement: keep him breathing. She moved. Not with the detached curiosity of an author, but with a sudden, visceral fear that twisted her gut. She tore strips from her tunic, wrapping his arm with a ferocity that surprised them both. “We need to move. Now.” He watched her, eyes glazed, but a flicker of something, perhaps understanding, passed through them. “The rig…” “I’ll drive.” She didn’t wait for an argument. The cold, analytical part of her brain, once focused on the story, now calculated trajectories, fuel consumption, and the closest known medical outpost. The nearest refuge, a triage outpost named Solara Waypoint, stood twelve hours back across the petrified ridges. A day he might not have. The journey passed in grinding transmission whine and steady chassis shudder. Joros lay on the cot, his breathing shallow, punctuated by wet coughs that brought up more of the sinister dust. Velis pushed the engine, ignoring the protest of the overworked pistons, her focus absolute. The map on the console, once a guide for her investigation, now served as a stark reminder of the deadly path they’d traversed. She ignored the console dials, refusing to dwell on the old seal. She thought only of the road ahead, and the man beside her. Hours later, the lights of Solara Waypoint appeared, a beacon in the perpetual twilight of the Wastes. It was a cluster of pre-fab modules and an antenna array, squatting against the backdrop of an impossibly vast sky. Velis wrenched the handbrake, the sudden stop jarring Joros into a dry groan. “Help!” she screamed, throwing open the driver’s door. “Medical emergency!” Two uniformed orderlies, their faces tired and dust-lined, rushed out with a stretcher. They took one look at Joros’s ashen face and the black dust on his lips, and their casual demeanour vanished. Whispers of “Serekh Shadow” followed them as they disappeared into the station’s main module. Velis paced the cramped waiting area, the stale air thick with the scent of antiseptic and old dust. The adrenaline that had propelled her for hours began to recede, leaving her shaking. She thought of Lisiya, of her mother, of Director Tarthus and his assassination orders. The world was converging, tightening around her. An hour later, a severe-faced medic, Dr. Rylen, emerged. “He’s stable for now. We’ve isolated the infection. It’s exactly as the Foundation intelligence indicates: the Serekh Shadow. Highly contagious, and as you know, incurable.” He looked at her with a chillingly professional detachment. “You’ve been exposed, too. We’ll need to run full diagnostics and then begin the treatment regimen.” Velis barely heard him. “Incurable? What does that mean for him?” Rylen sighed, rubbing his temples. “It means we can manage the symptoms, slow the progression, but there’s no cure. He’ll require continuous care, likely for the remainder of his shortened life.” Just then, the main door hissed open, and three men strode in. Their uniforms were Foundation-issue, but their posture was all menace. The lead figure, tall and gaunt, carried himself like a career bailiff. Velis recognized the officer from old press files on administrative graft. He held a data slate, tapping it with a gloved finger. “Velis Dantari,” the officer said, his tone dry and rehearsed. “And our itinerant physician. The central office sends regrets regarding your status as liabilities.” He glanced at Dr. Rylen. “Our detail takes custody now. The patient and all collected artifacts become corporate assets.” Dr. Rylen shifted backward against the counter, silent, as two aides unhooked shock batons from their webbing. Velis raised her hands, a cool calm settling over her. Her author’s mind, the one that analyzed and strategized, was back, sharper than ever. “Please, there’s no need for violence. We understand. The board needs its salvage intact. We have field data on the pathogen. I can lead you to the outpost, to the source. It’s all recorded.” She gestured towards a door marked ‘Environmental Decontamination – Level 3.’ “The records are in there. I just downloaded them.” The officer tilted his head toward the reinforced hatch. “Proceed, Dantari. Keep your hands visible.” Velis moved toward the airlock vestibule, her boots clicking on grated floor plates. It was an industrial sterilizing cubicle installed to scrub field teams returning from the wastes. She’d studied its schematics years ago for an expose on biohazard protocols. It was automated, with heavy-duty seals and a central control panel that usually required high-level clearance. She paused at the seal. The three men crowded past the threshold into the narrow, zinc-walled enclosure. Velis stepped aside, pressing a hidden button she'd spotted near the internal comm panel, a manual override she remembered from the schematics. The heavy door hissed shut with a resounding thud, sealing them inside. The lead officer reached for his holster. “Hold that latch.” Velis turned, her face a mask of cold satisfaction. She reached for the external comms, her fingers flying across the panel. A low hum started within the chamber. “That is an automated caustic purge cycle,” she said through the speaker grill. The officer hit the plate with his shoulder, shouting into the reinforced glass. Velis ignored him, her voice amplified over the station’s intercom system, echoing through the modules where Dr. Rylen and his staff could hear every word. “Attention station staff,” Velis said into the wall transmitter. “Three unauthorized armed agents are locked in vestibule three under standard decontamination interlock. Reset your exterior gates.” Steam jets hissed from the ceiling nozzles, obscuring the three men behind frosted safety glass. Velis watched them for a moment, then turned, the triumphant glint in her eyes slowly dimming. Her gaze fell on the door to Joros’s recovery room. The moment of triumph was fleeting, replaced by a profound weariness. She found him hooked to a drip, his breathing still shallow, but his eyes were open, fixed on the ceiling. He looked impossibly vulnerable, stripped of his usual gruff exterior. He turned his head slowly, recognizing her. “Velis,” he rasped, his voice dry. “You shouldn’t stay. The board will dispatch another detail.” “I’m not leaving you,” she said, moving to his side, her hand hovering, wanting to touch him, but hesitating. He coughed, a dry, painful sound. “Yes, you are. You don’t understand, Velis. They’ll use you to get to me, or to the information. Or worse, to the pathogen. My presence here makes you a target. Always.” His eyes, normally so sharp, were clouded with pain, yet held a fierce conviction. “This… this connection we formed. It’s over. You have to go. For your own safety. For any chance of stopping them.” Her hand dropped. The words, brutal in their honesty, severed a cord she hadn’t realized had tightened between them. She looked at the black dust still clinging to the corners of his mouth. He was right. Her presence would only endanger him further, and compromise her mission. But the sudden emptiness in her chest was a stark, aching void. She drove the crawler alone, the silence deafening, the vast expanse of the Wastes mirroring the chasm that had opened inside her. The return journey across the petrified seabed passed in hollow silence, each rut in the stone jolting her hands on the wheel. She abandoned the vehicle at the city perimeter freight bay, slipping through the turnstiles with an expired press badge. Within hours, Velis was in the towering, dust-moted Bellenar Historical Archives, its vaulted ceilings and labyrinthine corridors familiar territory. This had always been her sanctuary, her battleground. She strode past bewildered archivists, her authority absolute. Using an old editorial login and a quiet mention of her pending syndicate dispatch, she claimed a research terminal on the upper tier. She opened the institutional field logs, sifting through executive expedition permits. The screen glowed, illuminating her grim face. A single line, stark and immediate, seized her attention: “Director Tarthus has authorized a full-scale excavation of Outpost 713 – the Serekh quarantine zone – commencing tomorrow.” The ancient isolation seal had broken, and institutional survey teams were marching directly into the dust.

The Parting