A Private Burden

The lock clicks behind you, and only then do you spread the telegram across your cramped writing desk. Your cipher wheel turns with reluctant clicks, each substitution peeling back another layer of dread. When the message resolves, your breath catches in your throat.

Orbital structure detected beyond Mercury. Construction predates recorded history. Energy signature: awakening.

You sit very still as the airship groans around you. The sun has not been attacked — it is being fed upon, by something patient and immense that slept while empires rose and fell below. Captain Vance is a good man, but the crew is brittle with fear, and panic spreads like fire through brass corridors. Perhaps the spectrometer holds clearer answers. Perhaps silence, just a little longer, is the wiser burden.