The amber text blinked patiently on the ancient console screen, stark against the black background: EXTERNAL HAIL DETECTED - PRIORITY CODE: OBSIDIAN JAW PROTOCOL 7. ACCEPT? (Y/N)_. The air in the Maintenance Junction, already thick with tension, seemed to solidify. Outside, the Undercroft was silent, but inside, the sudden, impossible message felt louder than the spore explosion.
Obsidian Jaw. The name hit like a physical blow. Anya's earlier description – "reckless idiots," known for volatile chemicals and unstable tech – echoed in my mind. They weren't just random scavengers, they were a known, dangerous variable. And they were hailing this specific junction? Using a priority code? The coincidence felt statistically improbable to the point of being openly hostile.
"Obsidian Jaw?" Leo breathed, stepping closer, his eyes wide. "Here? Now?"
Anya moved swiftly from the Probability Drive, her face grim, hand hovering near her sidearm again. She peered at the screen, reading the priority code. "Protocol 7… damn. That's one of their high-level command codes. Used for intra-crew coordination or hailing secured assets." She cursed under her breath. "Either they think this junction is still one of their assets, or this is something else entirely."
Her gaze sharpened as she recalled details. "The Jaws… led by a brute named Killian, last I heard. Cybered up, favors chemical throwers and seismic hammers. Paranoid, violent, thinks everything belongs to him. Their standard tactic is overwhelming force laced with nerve gas or corrosives." She looked pointedly at the sealed main door, then towards the breach we'd made. "If they think this is their territory and find us here…"
She didn't need to finish the sentence. Confrontation seemed inevitable and likely fatal in our current state.
Cipher, who had turned their head slightly when the console activated, remained still, cyan lenses fixed on the blinking cursor. Their impassivity was infuriating. Were they surprised? Or was this expected data? My internal paranoia flared again. Did they know? Did their 'passive scan' predict this hail? Are they analyzing my reaction to the name 'Obsidian Jaw'? Waiting to see if I crack?
"Decision required," Cipher's filtered voice stated, breaking the tense silence. "Responding carries risk of revealing operational presence and current vulnerabilities. Ignoring hail carries risk of hostile investigation and potential forced entry attempt by originator." A perfect, sterile summary of our terrible options.
"If we ignore it," Anya mused, thinking aloud, "and they do think this place is theirs, they'll assume it's been taken by rivals. They'll come heavy." She glanced at the dying overhead lights. "If we respond… what the hell do we even say?"
"Claim technical difficulties?" Leo suggested tentatively. "Faulty comms?"
"With their own priority code?" Anya shook her head. "They'll know it's bullshit. Might buy us minutes, maybe."
My own tired brain struggled to process tactics. Responding felt like poking a sleeping Skitter hive. Ignoring it felt like waiting for the hive to wake up and come find us anyway. The error code [ERR: SYNC_FAILURE_7G] flickered insistently over the blinking cursor on the console screen, a maddening counterpoint to the impossible choice.
Cipher spoke again. "Optimal strategy: Acknowledge receipt with minimal data transfer. Utilize pre-recorded library environmental static burst transmission to simulate catastrophic signal degradation immediately following acknowledgment. Probability of delaying hostile action: 48%. Probability of triggering immediate aggressive investigation: 31%. Probability of originator dismissing as technical failure: 21%."
Anya stared at Cipher. "You can do that? Spoof a static burst strong enough to fool their comms?"
"My internal signal processing suite possesses sufficient capability for localized electromagnetic spectrum manipulation," Cipher replied tonelessly. Implying they could generate a targeted EMP or noise burst powerful enough to mimic catastrophic comms failure. The casual mention of such advanced capability, right after offering schematics and threat analysis, felt… pointed. Another piece of the puzzle that didn't quite fit the 'simple observer' narrative.
My paranoia latched onto it immediately. Generating EM bursts? Is that how they monitor things? Is that how they knew about the SOS signal in the first place? Can they jam our comms? The implications were chilling.
"Worth a shot, I guess," Anya decided grimly, clearly choosing the least bad option Cipher presented. "Better than inviting Killian's welcoming party directly. Okay, Cipher. Prepare your static burst. Ren," she looked at me, "can you hit 'Y' without blowing up the console?"
I nodded mutely, my hand hovering over the ancient, grimy keyboard integrated below the screen. The keys felt stiff, resistant. Pressing 'Y'. Such a simple action, fraught with potential disaster. Sending an acknowledgment would confirm someone was here. But Cipher's plan offered the slimmest chance of deflection.
"Prepare static transmission," Cipher instructed. A faint whine, different from the console's hum, emanated briefly from somewhere within Cipher's suit. "Ready."
Taking a shaky breath, ignoring the frantic pulsing of the error code hallucination, I pressed the 'Y' key. It resisted for a second, then clicked down with a loud, plastic clack.
On the screen, the line changed: ACKNOWLEDGED. STAND BY FOR AUTH…
"Now, Cipher!" Anya snapped.
The whine from Cipher's suit intensified for a split second. The lights in the junction flickered violently. The console screen dissolved into a solid block of harsh amber static, emitting a loud hiss. My comm bead screeched with interference. Even the Probability Drive's minimal systems display inside the cockpit likely went haywire momentarily.
Then, silence. The console screen went black, the faint warmth fading as my jury-rigged power connection predictably fried. My spare energy cell was definitely toast. The lights in the junction settled back into their dim, flickering state. My comm bead crackled, then cleared.
Did it work? Did the Obsidian Jaws buy the catastrophic failure story?
We waited, holding our breath, listening intently. No immediate angry broadcasts demanding status. No sound of approaching heavy footsteps or mining equipment being deployed outside the main door. Just the silence of the Undercroft.
"Status?" Anya whispered after a long minute.
"Transmission sent. Originator frequency ceased broadcast immediately following burst," Cipher reported. "Short-term hostile response probability reduced. Long-term investigation probability remains moderate."
We'd bought ourselves time. Maybe hours, maybe less. But it felt like borrowed seconds.
Exhaustion slammed back into me, heavier than before. The failed debugging attempt on the terminal earlier, the constant headache, the effort of rigging the console, the adrenaline spikes… it was taking its toll. I slid back down the wall, dizziness washing over me in waves.
As I closed my eyes, fighting nausea, the darkness wasn't peaceful. It swirled with fragmented images. The [ERR: SYNC_FAILURE_7G] code pulsed rhythmically. The sterile white hallway from the earlier hallucination flashed by, cages stark and empty this time. Then, the silver locket, tumbling end over end in black space, clicking open to reveal not emptiness, but a miniature, flickering rendition of the Chimera Project's hourglass-serpent logo, before dissolving into static.
Just nightmares, I tried to tell myself. Just the cognitive damage. But the images felt too specific, too connected. The error code, Chimera, the locket… it was a mixture of madness, and I felt like I was just beginning to pull at the threads. The brief spark of hope from fixing the console felt utterly extinguished, replaced by the cold dread of knowing my own mind might be the most unstable variable in this whole mess.