chapter 27:The Shape of Memory

The door slid open with a faint hiss.

Qiri stepped in first, arms full—two padded cases slung across her shoulders, a slim toolkit tucked beneath one wing joint, and a narrow container gliding silently behind her on a low hover-disc.

She paused just inside, her eyes drifting instinctively toward Niri's half of the room.

Or what little there was of it.

A folded uniform. A standard-issue bedding roll. And on the lone shelf—a metallic-gray orb, smooth and dim. No console. No anchor cables. No personal marks.

No clutter. No color. Just stillness.

Qiri set her gear down slowly. "That's... all you have?"

Niri didn't respond right away. She was standing beside the orb, watching it as if it might move—or whisper something only she could hear. After a long pause, she shrugged.

"It's all I need."

Qiri's eyes lingered on the orb. "What is that?"

"No idea," Niri said. "It was next to me when I woke up. It doesn't do much."

"Strange," Qiri murmured, circling it slowly. "No interface ports. No anchor lines. No resonance signature either."

Niri reached out and tapped it lightly. The orb gave a soft, singular pulse of light—like the echo of a breath—and then fell still again.

"Looks ancient," Qiri said, frowning. "But not Reach design. And definitely not Academy-issued."

Niri gave a faint shrug. "It's just there. Like me."

Qiri didn't reply. Instead, she turned back to her case and began unpacking. Inside were layers of folded fabrics, soft-padded pouches, and neatly bound bundles of woven bark and synth-veins. Everything she laid out had a softness to it—organic, practical, and strangely elegant.

"You brought a lot," Niri noted.

"My family would say I packed light," Qiri said with a small smile. She lifted a folded arc of bark-like mesh and unfolded it until it clicked into shape—a low reclining seat that hummed faintly as it stabilized against the floor.

"Everything looks... grown," Niri observed.

"That's because it is." Qiri gently brushed a hand over the material. "Where I'm from, we don't build homes. We grow them. Each family roots their home into the same tree, generation after generation."

Niri blinked. "A tree?"

"A massive one." Qiri's voice took on a light, proud rhythm. "Rooted in low-gravity plains. Its canopy spans kilometers. Mine has three tiers—one for my parents, one for my aunts and siblings, and one for my studies. Same air, same paths, same birds nesting every year. It remembers you."

Niri let the image settle in her mind before replying. "Sounds... permanent."

Qiri nodded. "It is. The branches sway, but the roots don't."

Niri sat down on her bedroll, posture relaxed but distant. Her eyes didn't meet Qiri's.

"I hope I remember my home," she said softly.

Qiri paused mid-fold, her fingers brushing across one of the mesh bundles. The words hung between them, fragile and unadorned.

She didn't answer.

Didn't press.

Because she remembered, too clearly now, the moment Niri had said it: "I'm the last."

And some truths didn't need questions.

---

Morning came quietly. Pale light filtered in through the slats.

Qiri stirred first, stretching one wing lazily before checking her watchpad. Her feathers flared with a sudden burst of surprise.

"Wait—did you hear this?" she said, eyes wide.

Niri, half-awake, blinked at her. "Hear what?"

"The news," Qiri said, waving the pad. "Some excavation team stumbled on ruins. Nobody's saying where exactly, but the Academy's sending a specialist unit to investigate."

Niri sat up straighter. "Ruins?"

Qiri glanced over. "Yeah. You don't check the feeds?"

"I don't really use them," Niri said.

Qiri stared. "Wait—do you even know how to read news updates?"

Niri looked confused. "News?"

Qiri sighed and flopped onto her hammock. "You're hopeless. I'll set up a link for you later."

She scrolled again, then suddenly sat up. "Yes! Yes!" she shouted. "All lectures canceled! We got an off day!"

Niri blinked. "Seriously?"

Qiri held up the pad triumphantly. "Council called a summit. All professors are being pulled in. That means no diplomacy. No ethics. No pretending to understand interspecies nuance."

Niri checked her own pad. Her schedule was indeed empty.

Qiri clapped once. "Perfect day to escape the Academy bubble. I say we grab Ronan, head into the city, and breathe something that isn't sterilized air."

Niri raised a brow. "Just like that?"

Qiri grinned. "Just like that. And for once—don't say anything about empires or weird history. Today, we're just students skipping class."

Niri nodded, slowly. "Alright. I'm in."

---

They found a quiet terrace café in the lower arc of the city, not far from the outer observation tiers. The place buzzed with activity, though the tables by the rail remained quiet.

Ronan was already waiting. He'd claimed a corner seat and was sipping from a tall glass of chilled citrus ale. He slid drinks toward them as they sat.

They talked for a while—idle chatter, the kind that didn't require much effort. But across the plaza, at the next table, Niri heard something that made her spine lock.

"…I was stationed near the Dakun no-go zone," an older man was saying. "Observation Post Theta-6. Before the full lockdown."

His voice was steady. A little worn, but not shaky. And not lying.

His companion rolled his eyes and snorted. "Oh stars, not this again. Miss, don't listen to him. He's told this story a thousand times."

The older man looked up at Niri, his gaze sharp. "I don't care what anyone says. I saw it."

He pushed his drink aside, leaned his arms on the table. "We were rotating mid-cycle. Station had full coverage of the Dakun boundary zone. No comms interference. Then… we saw the orbs."

Qiri glanced over, raising a brow. Ronan gave a soft chuckle, but the man continued.

"Six of them. Silent. They just… appeared. They weren't cloaked. They weren't engines. They were there. Each one the size of a freighter. Perfect. Silent. And glowing blue."

Qiri muttered, "Like a gate-activation pattern?"

The man nodded. "They formed a triangle. Then, beams of light connected them. Made a stable frame. Then the light thickened. Twisted. And space cracked open."

"What came through?" Niri asked, her voice tight.

The man stared at her. Then said simply, "A triangle. A ship. Black. Not dark-metal black—deep black. Like a void carved clean. Edges so sharp it didn't look real. No sound. No signal. It just came through and... stopped. Space bent around it like it didn't belong there."

His friend scoffed. "He's been saying this since his discharge. Got dumped for hallucinations."

"I didn't hallucinate," the man snapped. "We blacked out. Every system. Every log. Life support was all that stayed on. We woke up hours later. Blank logs. Blank memories. I was the only one who remembered anything. You know what they did? They flagged me for mental evaluation, gave me discharge papers, and scrubbed the station history."

He looked at Niri again. "But I didn't forget. And I can draw it. If you want."

Niri nodded slowly, almost too quickly.

The man pulled out a worn sketchpad and started to draw. His hand moved with practiced precision, each stroke capturing the form of something too big to be real.

The orbs. The triangle ship. The gate.

When he was done, he slid the sketch over to Niri.

She stared at it for a moment, her heart hammering in her chest.

I know that ship, she thought.

Her breath caught in her throat.

It was a memory, buried and hidden—awoken by the drawing.

She wasn't just looking at some mysterious ship. She knew it. She had been on it.

No, she thought, her hands shaking. It's not possible. It's not real.

But the image burned in her mind, and for a moment, she could almost hear the hum of the engines.

She didn't speak for a long time.

Qiri nudged her. "Niri? Are you okay?"

Ronan looked between them, his eyes narrowing. "What's going on?"

Niri took a deep breath, then slowly stood up.

"I need to think," she said quietly.

Her legs felt unsteady as she walked back toward the table, the drawing still burning in her mind. The city had suddenly become too loud. Too crowded.

She didn't hear the voices behind her anymore.

All she could hear was the pulse of the ship.