The hush that follows any great decision is rarely silent in practice; it fills with the shuffle of forms, the hiss of welding torches, the clink of mugs set down beside star-maps at three in the morning. On Gateway Station that hush now thrummed like a backstage orchestra tuning before the curtain rose on a performance no one entirely understood. Charlie drifted through it all—part spectator, part conductor, still just thirteen years and seven months but feeling, on certain sleepless passes around Earth, considerably older.
Starlace hung inside Dock Beta-4 swaddled in gantry arms and pearlescent thermal sheets. If Auric Dancer resembled a swift, Starlace looked more like a stingray carved from moonlight: double-wide wings, twin magnetobubbles nested like luminous lungs, and, down the keel, a lattice-sail cassette ready to unfurl into filaments finer than breath. Engineers kept the bay lights dim so the crystal composites wouldn't photo-stress; the hull glowed faintly under its own stored energy anyway, a gentle lavender that painted everyone's faces with the colour of approaching dawn.
Charlie met Aya Ishikawa at the port wing root where she hovered, legs loosely cinched by a tool-strap. "Thysael says Starlace's core is 'eager but shy'—like an unstruck bell," she reported, tugging a torque sensor free. "Give her three more days of calibration and she'll sing true."
"Three days," Charlie echoed, sliding palms across the hull. It felt warm, alive in a way metal rarely permitted.
Aya's gaze softened. "We all hear the clock, Charlie. But if we sprint and stumble, Red Haven wins by default."
He inclined his head, accepting the reminder. Time was a river; rushing only churned mud.
Later he floated into Blue Room C—really more a garden pod fused to a classroom—where Sarah ran the Ground Chorus morning sync. Twenty-seven students from eight countries sat lotus-style among hydroponic irises, visor-masks over noses to equalize Gateway's mixed air. A soft metronome ticked 60 BPM; each child pressed thumb and forefinger to a quartz pebble wired into the station's lattice repeater.
Sarah spotted him and merely winked—stage discipline forbade more—and resumed her cadence: "Breath down, breath slow; think of the colour that makes you braver." Sung cadence twice, then silence. The repeater lights brightened half a lumen. Charlie felt the pulse slide under his ribs—steady, dependable. When these children held rhythm, turmoil anywhere in Low-Earth orbit dulled like claws blunted on river-stone.
After class Sarah bounded over, turquoise tips of her hair fluttering. "We peaked at six hundred simultaneous chorus nodes on the planet today. Pocket record!" She offered a pebble. "For when Starlace feels lonely."
He pocketed it. "When I'm back, we'll aim for a thousand."
"Deal." She sobered, all of a sudden more than thirteen herself. "Bring the ship home whole, Charlie."
He didn't answer with words; he simply leaned forehead to hers—family vow sealed in silence.
There were darker rooms too—quiet, but in a different register. Skraath captives floated in psion-null spheres behind quartz mesh. Dr. Jonas Greene ushered Charlie through concentric checkpoints until they reached Cell Three. Inside, the squad leader from Titan crouched, crest half-furled, scales dulled by low humidity. Translated speech scrolled on a holo:
Aphelion stirs. Return the Ashen Spiral or dust will starve.
Charlie studied the reptile's vertical pupils. "Tell me about K'thiz Aphelion," he said softly. "What sleeps there?"
The Skraath's crest tremored—fear? longing? "Root coil. Old blood. Not ours to name." Then it shut its eyes, refusing further prompts.
Outside the cell Jonas sighed. "They worship it like penance. Won't say more until we grant amnesty off-planet."
Charlie clenched gloved hands. "Maybe after we know the coil can't wake." He walked away before anger sullied the music in his pulse.
Angus cornered him that evening in the observation ring, thumbing the chipped ash staff like a rosary. Below, Earth rolled in luminous blues.
"Fear's creeping back into yer shoulders, lad." The Scots burr was gentle as sanded timber. "Yer father once told me every quest has three journeys: out, through, and back. Ye've mastered the first two more than most grown men. The third's hardest—bringing what ye found home safe."
Charlie swallowed. "What if bringing it home changes home beyond recognition?"
"Change is the only promise life honours." Angus's eyes crinkled. "Keep yer connecting words, keep yer listening heart. Home will stretch to greet ye."
They watched the terminator line glow gold over the Atlantic until silence shaped meaning.
Launch protocol began at 03:00 UTC. Cargo clamps ratcheted; Starlace's wings folded into transit sweep; engineers scurried like white moths against lavender hull. Charlie settled into the forward blister couch, medallion tucking warm beneath harness.
Commander Vega's voice rang shipwide. "All hands, status?"
"Aya, engineering green."
"Petrov, helm systems optimal."
"Lautaro, defensive grid hot."
"Leyla, lattice interface harmonic."
"Charlie, choir throughput steady."
Gateway's mag-sled catapult locked to dorsal rail. Outside the viewport, Earth's limb shimmered; over eastern Africa dawn blossomed in saffron arcs. A hush fell—the inhale before orchestra downbeat.
Thrum.
Mag-sled capacitors discharged. Starlace shot from the bay, acceleration smoothed by dual bubbles. For three heartbeats gateway lights streaked like needles of rain; then the station fell behind, just another glint among stars.
Petrov rotated the ship on z-axis, unfurling lattice sails. They blossomed like gossamer wings, catching solar wind and the hum of eight nodes. Instruments sang; Leyla's console scrolled confirmation: Bubble integrity 99.97 percent. Sail resonance locked to Ground Chorus BPM.
Charlie's pebble vibrated in his pocket—Sarah's heartbeat, two hundred thousand kilometres distant, still caught in the song.
Course plotted: Earth departure spiral, then solar-sail reach outward past Neptune's orbit, slingshot assistance from a dwarf-comet. Arrival at 2012 VR₁₃₄—Red Haven—in nineteen months subjective. Plenty of time to study, train, worry.
Aya dimmed cabin lights to circadian dusk. Crew drifted to quarters. Charlie lingered in the blister, gazing aft where Earth already shrank, her oceans reflecting moonlit silver.
The medallion pulsed—eight notes glowing, ninth recess dark as an eclipse. In the glass he saw his reflection: still freckled, still colt-thin, but eyes older than their years. He raised the tuning-fork rod and struck it lightly against his boot toe. A single note bloomed—unsettled, seeking cadence. Somewhere beyond Neptune, a counter-note waited.
He whispered into the quiet: "We're coming, Ashen Spiral. Sing true, or sing no more."
The rod fell silent. Stars wheeled. Starlace rode the solar hush toward aphelion and the thorn that hid there, while music—infinite, unfinished—threaded its way through every lattice and every listening heart below.