The Signal's True Destination

Hunched over the clockwork spectrometer, you trace the saboteur's pulses through whirring brass dials. The needle shudders, then settles — and your breath catches. The signal does not arc toward any Earthly capital. It threads outward, past Venus, past the molten edge of habitability, toward a faint cold point near Mercury's orbit.

You overlay the Admiralty's star charts. There — a derelict ringed structure no telegram has ever named. The citadel. It is answering.

Whoever planted this device does not serve a king, a kaiser, or a parliament. They serve something that was charting these heavens before humanity learned to forge brass. The deck creaks beneath you, and for the first time the Aurelian feels terribly small.