VI. Qiran's Vault
The merchant quarter trembled as emergency lights bled crimson through glass conduits.
Qiran slammed his palm against the biometric slab.
The lock hissed. Steel shutters cascaded into place around the Crypthorium Vault, sealing crates of shimmering cores within an alloy cocoon.
"Elara, status!" he barked.
His secretary—calm even under chaos—was already running diagnostics. "Sir, Thorium surge levels climbing. Eastern conduits are rupturing!"
"Then isolate the grid," Qiran snapped. "Divert the flow into sub-loop twelve."
"That'll burn the containment chamber," she warned.
"Better a burnt vault than a citywide detonation. Do it!"
Elara's hands blurred across the holo-console. Sparks flared as secondary locks engaged. The deep hum of magnetic containment lowered into a guttural growl.
"System sealed," she breathed. "Crypthorium containment holding."
Qiran exhaled and, with his characteristic dark humor, reached for the dusty bottle of pre-Collapse whiskey on his shelf. He passed it to her with a smirk.
"If this all goes to hell, at least one of us should face it with class."
Elara stared, half incredulous, half furious. "Sir, this is not the time—"
But her words were cut off by a shrill alarm.
Unauthorized access. Merchant Channel Delta.
Qiran's eyes sharpened. "He's here."
They bolted into the corridor.
Doren stood at the terminal near the merchant exchange dock, hands trembling over a flickering datapad. Sweat dripped down his temple.
He muttered to himself, "Just one transfer—just one signal to Korren—"
"Stop!" Elara's voice sliced through the clamor.
Doren turned, startled, guilt written in every twitch. "You don't understand! They'll kill us all if I don't—"
He lunged for the datapad.
Elara swung the reinforced baton she'd ripped from a console clamp.
The strike landed square across his temple.
He crumpled to the floor.
Elara's hands shook as she watched Doren on the floor, the datapad slipping from his fingers. Qiran stepped forward, voice level and small in the sudden quiet. "You gambled our city for whispers," he said. He did not shout; he did not need to. Elara felt the weight of consequence settle—Doren would answer, and the price would be public.
Qiran arrived seconds later, his expression unreadable as he crouched beside the unconscious traitor. "Good form," he said dryly. "Elegant. Precise."
Elara wiped sweat from her brow, trembling with adrenaline. "He nearly doomed us all."
"And now," Qiran replied, confiscating the datapad, "he'll tell us who paid for the risk."
He pressed his wrist comm. "Zhang—traitor secured. Send containment detail."
"Confirmed," came the reply. Zhang's tone was calm, but beneath it, the weight of realization hung heavy.
Qiran looked down once more at Doren's motionless form, murmuring, "I hope you were worth the price."
The lights flickered overhead—the first tremor of the surge pulsing through the dome.