Sabrina crouched in the shadowed alcove of the quarantined district on New Terra, her back pressed against cold composite plating. The resonance blackout had hit twelve hours ago.
No bloom links, no shadow support, nothing but the faint hum of emergency generators and the occasional drip of condensation from overhead pipes. The air smelled of recycled oxygen and stale sweat.
Beside her, Chief Mara Kael checked her sidearm for the third time. The woman was in her late forties, broad-shouldered from years of colonial enforcement, with short graying hair and a face that had seen too many failed negotiations.
"This is the third dead-zone in two weeks," Mara said quietly.
"Purity's fragments are getting smarter. They're not just jamming—they're feeding back false echoes to make people think the lattice is lying."
