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Cold hits first. Not the kind that wakes you slow. The kind that says you've been meat in a freezer and somebody just hit thaw.
I try to move my fingers. They don't want to. Something's humming inside my skull, not sound exactly, more like a dial tone that's been waiting. Then a voice. Flat. Synthetic. Too close.
"Administrator access confirmed. Welcome, Owner."
Owner.
I don't know what that means. I don't know where I am. I sure as hell don't know why my hands are this small.
The pod's still cracked open above me, frost sliding off the edges in wet chunks. My breath comes out in clouds. Everything smells like recycled air and old metal, the kind that's been in the black too long. I try to sit up. My body doesn't move right. Too light. Joints at the wrong angle. I look down.
These aren't my hands.
I mean they are. They're attached. But they're thin, pale, fingers too delicate. I remember hands that were bigger, scarred across the knuckles. I remember a ring on the left thumb. These hands are bare. There's a faint glow under the skin at the wrist. Blue. Pulsing.
I know what that is. Implant traffic. High grade.
"Vital signs stable," the voice says. "Neural integration at ninety-two percent. Vault access pending biometric confirmation."
Vault.
I don't have a vault. I don't even know my name.
No. Wait. I do. It's right there. Sable. Sable Quinn. But it sits in my head like something I read, not something I lived. I try to grab older memories. There's a station. Dust. A man's voice saying we're done here. Then nothing. Just black. And cold.
The pod's in a cargo hold. Low light. Rows of other caskets line the walls, most of them still sealed. A few are open. Empty. I see one with a body still inside, frost crusted over a face I can't make out. Dead. Probably been dead a while.
I swing my legs over the edge of the pod. They're shaking. I'm wearing something thin, a jumpsuit maybe, soaked through with condensation. My teeth are chattering. I try to stand. My knees buckle. I catch myself on the edge of the pod, and that's when the voice comes back.
"Owner. Long Invoice primary systems have been operational for six hours. Hull integrity at seventy-three percent. Escort vessels Valencia and Cask are broadcasting distress. Beacon Lattice connection lost."
Long Invoice. That's the ship. I know that. I don't know how I know that.
"What happened?" I say it out loud. My voice sounds wrong. Higher. Rougher. Like I've been screaming.
"Mid-jump disruption. Cause unknown. Current location: uncharted. Drift trajectory stable. Fuel reserves at eighteen percent."
Eighteen percent. That's not good. That's we're-gonna-die-out-here not good.
I push off the pod and make it two steps before I have to grab the next casket. The deck's vibrating under my feet, a low hum that shouldn't be there. Something's wrong with the drives. I can feel it. Not like I'm guessing. I can feel it. Like the ship's talking through my bones.
There's a panel on the wall. I stagger over. It lights up when I get close, no touch needed. My wrist flares. The blue glow under my skin syncs with the panel, and data floods in. Not on the screen. In my head.
Hull telemetry. Crew manifest. Vault inventory.
I don't know how to read this. Except I do. I'm reading it right now. There's a schematic unfolding in my mind's eye, clean and sharp, like I've always known how to pull it.
Long Invoice. Grand cruiser. Old. Real old. Seven-point-nine kilometers stem to stern. Salvage charter out of some registry I don't recognize. Crew of two hundred. Passenger manifest says four hundred and fifty-six in stasis.
There's a flag next to that number. Red.
Two hundred eleven dead. Four hundred forty-five with total amnesia anticipated.
Anticipated.
I feel my stomach drop. Amnesia. That's me. That's why I don't know whose hands these are.
But the ship knows me. The ship says Owner.
I pull up the vault access. It asks for biometric confirmation. I don't even have to think. My wrist pulses again, and the lock opens. Not the physical vault. Just the system. I can see what's inside now. Schematics. Contracts. A four-hundred-year-old salvage job. Something called the Morning Config. Locked navigation. And a note.
One line.
"If you're reading this, you know what you paid."
I don't. I don't know what I paid. I don't know who wrote this. I don't know if it was me.
There's a sound. Footsteps. Metal on metal. Close.
I turn. The hatch at the far end of the hold is sealed, but there's movement behind it. Shadows through the frosted porthole. More than one person.
The voice in my head cuts in again. "Hull integrity alert. Unauthorized access detected. Hatch seven breach imminent."
Breach. They're coming through.
I look around. No weapons. No cover. Just rows of caskets and one dead body I'm trying not to look at. My legs still feel like they're going to give out. I don't know if I can run. I don't know if there's anywhere to run to.
The hatch shudders. Once. Twice. Then the seal blows.
Smoke floods in, cold and sharp. I can't see. I hear boots. Fast. Someone swearing.
Then a light. Blinding. Right in my face.
And a gun.
The muzzle's an inch from my forehead. I freeze. I can't breathe. There's a woman behind the light, tall, dark jacket, hair tied back. Her face is hard. Her hand's steady.
She stares at me. I see her jaw tighten.
"Sable?"
She says it like a question. Like she's not sure. Like she's seeing a ghost.
I don't know what to say. I don't know if that's my name or someone else's.
Her finger's on the trigger.
"Tell me right now," she says. "Are you still you?"