They try the protocols: soft resets, priority keys, manual overrides. Each attempt begets the same steel-frame message, the same cold numeral. 6023. EXCLUSIVE.
Back on the bridge, the console breathes life as the EXCLUSIVE flag collapses into a string of unlocked bits. The number 6023 fades from the screen like a dismissed omen. Engines re-engage with a hungry roar, and the route to Ephrion Prime pulses green.
They arrive at the satellite like intruders at a mausoleum. Metal flakes off in autumnal sheets. Its antennae have the loneliness of broken crowns. Jax suits up; Mara brings a jammer and an empathy for forgotten machines. Lira threads a diagnostic probe into a port that still resists the touch of living hands.
“Exclusive,” murmurs Lira, voice thin as paper. “It’s isolating the drive. Lockout.”