Chapter 3: The Null Character

The floor of the workshop buckled under the sudden pressure of the gravity-anchors. Dust fell from the rafters because the Censor-Class airship had locked onto the building, creating a physical pull that strained the foundation. Petromecca stayed by the central table, keeping his eyes on the utility portal that had sprung to life. The violet light in the center of the hoop didn't look stable since it pulsed with a rhythm that felt wrong. High-frequency energy waves rolled off the surface, making the air in the room feel like it was vibrating against his skin. He monitored the aperture, watching as the edges of the violet light frayed into jagged white sparks.

Violin realized they couldn't stay to admire the physics of the thing. She grabbed a lead-lined case from under the workbench, sliding it across the metal surface toward the Aethel-serif blocks. Scythe didn't need a command to start moving, as he began sweeping the heavy metal characters into the protective foam inserts. They had to be careful with the lead blocks because the magnetic field they generated was already messing with the workshop's electronic sensors. Once the typeset was packed, Violin turned her attention to the stolen Ministry ledger. She shoved the heavy book into a reinforced satchel, pulling the strap tight across her shoulder.

A muffled boom traveled through the ventilation shafts, indicating that the Inquisitors had reached the outer perimeter. The sound meant they had detonated a breach-charge at the primary reinforced bulkhead. The vibration was heavy enough to knock a row of precision screwdrivers off the rack, though no one stopped to pick them up. Petromecca checked his handheld analyzer again, noting that the portal's energy signature was becoming more erratic. The lack of a proper power source meant the geometry of the Aethel-serif blocks was doing all the heavy lifting, which wasn't sustainable for long.

Violin pushed past him to reach the portal's navigation terminal, which was a salvaged piece of tech from a decommissioned gateway. She wiped a layer of grime from the screen to read the diagnostic output. The terminal flashed a bright red warning about a critical "null-weight" error. This meant the exit coordinates couldn't lock onto a physical location because the mathematical weight of the characters didn't balance out. Without a destination, the portal was just a hole leading into a void of unformatted data. She knew they couldn't jump into that without being shredded at a molecular level.

Petromecca looked over her shoulder, pointing at the fluctuating baseline on the monitor. He told her the portal would collapse the second anyone tried to pass through it unless they found a way to stabilize the frequency. The air grew hotter as the airship above increased its tractor beam intensity, causing the metal pipes in the ceiling to groan. Violin didn't answer him, instead she pushed both Petromecca and Scythe toward the event horizon of the violet light. She knew she had to stay behind for a few extra seconds to fix the logic of the transit.

She lunged for the manual typesetting console that was wired into the portal's primary bus. Her fingers flew over the physical keys, clicking with a rapid, mechanical rhythm as she composed a "Null-Character" ghost-string. This was a technique she had read about in prohibited archival manuals, involving a sequence of characters that existed only to provide structural balance without representing an actual letter. ItChapter 3: Lunar Echo

The workshop floor buckled. Dust shook from the rafters as the Censor-Class airship’s gravity-anchors locked onto the building. Vibration rattled the teeth, resonating deep in the chest.

Petromecca watched the unstable violet portal. Its aperture pulsed with erratic, high-frequency energy. He kept checking the spectrum analyzer. The readings were fluctuating wildly, jumping into ranges he’d only read about in suppressed Ministry tech briefs.

“It’s not stable,” Petromecca said. He didn’t look up from his screen. “The energy matrix is collapsing. The coordinates are drifting.”

Scythe swore, already sweeping the Aethel-serif blocks into lead-lined cases. The blocks clinked against each other as he rushed. He secured the stolen Ministry ledger in a reinforced satchel, snapping the buckles shut with sharp clicks.

A muffled boom echoed through the ventilation shafts. The Inquisitors detonated a breach-charge at the workshop’s primary reinforced bulkhead. The explosion made the lights flicker, casting long, dancing shadows across the room.

Violin glanced at the portal’s navigation terminal. She identified a critical "null-weight" error. The exit coordinates refused to lock onto a physical location.

“We have a problem,” she announced, pointing to the error code flashing on the screen. “The portal won’t hold. It's trying to calibrate to non-existing coordinate.”

Petromecca cursed again, slamming his fist on the workbench. “Without a stable anchor, it will collapse upon entry. We’ll be ripped apart.”

“Then we stabilize it,” Violin said, already making her decision. She pushed Petromecca and Scythe toward the event horizon, not offering any other options. “Go. Now. I’ll secure a lock.”

Petromecca hesitated. He knew what she planned to do. It was a suicide run, a desperate attempt to buy them time. “Violin…”

“Go!” she repeated, her voice sharp. She grabbed his arm and shoved him toward the shimmering violet light. Scythe, without a word, followed Petromecca, trusting Violin’s judgment.

Violin watched them disappear into the portal. The image flickered. She lunged for the manual typesetting console. Her fingers flew over the physical keys to compose a "Null-Character" ghost-string. The keys clicked and whirred. She typed quickly, not giving herself time to think about the risks. Each keystroke was a gamble, a prayer to the old machine gods.

A section of the wall near the door started to glow red. The Inquisitors’ thermal lances were melting through the reinforced bulkhead. Sparks showered the floor. The workshop door hinges began to sag, dripping molten metal.

She finished the ghost-string sequence and hit enter. The console beeped. It waited for additional input. Violin glanced at the doorway. The breach was almost complete.

Reacting, Violin inserted a blank lead slug into the override press to act as a physical anchor. The press groaned as she forced the slug into place. It wasn’t ideal, but it was better than nothing. The blank slug represented nothing and everything, a void that could potentially stabilize the quantum fluctuations of the portal.

Violin executed a "kerning spoof" on the control board. The act redirected the Ministry’s tracking scanners to a false signal peak in the lower Sump. The act bought them a few precious seconds.

The workshop walls started to crumble inward under the airship's tractor beams. Chunks of concrete rained down around her. Dust and debris filled the air. The noise was deafening. She could feel the vibrations through the floor, rattling her bones.

The Inquisitors flooded the room with blue containment light. The light washed over everything, turning the workshop into a surreal, alien landscape. The Inquisitors shouted commands, their voices distorted by the loudspeakers.

Violin didn’t wait. She dove into the violet luminescence, her hand brushing against the disintegrating typesetting frame. The workshop's structural integrity failed. Everything started to collapse in slow motion. The roof caved in, crushing the typesetting console. The portal flickered.

Then, everything went white.

The trio materialized in a soundless, pressurized chamber. It was a stark contrast to the chaos they’d left behind. The air was thin. The temperature was cold. They stared through a cracked viewing port at the distant, glowing curve of Fintera.

Petromecca recovered first. He stumbled to the viewing port, pressing his face against the cold glass. “Where are we?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Scythe scanned the chamber. It was small and cramped, filled with outdated equipment. Cables snaked across the floor. Consoles blinked with dying lights. “Some kind of station,” he said, his voice echoing in the confined space. “Lunar. Derelict, by the looks of it.”

Violin pushed herself to her feet. Her head was spinning. She felt disoriented, like she was waking from a long dream. She focused on her surroundings, trying to get her bearings.

“Lunar?” Petromecca asked again, his voice laced with disbelief. “As in… the moon?”

“Unless there’s another celestial body I’m not aware of,” Scythe said drily.

Petromecca shook his head. “But… the Ministry… they said lunar transit was impossible. That the portals couldn’t…”

“The Ministry lies,” Violin said, cutting him off. “It’s what they do best.”

She walked to the viewing port and stood beside Petromecca. The sight of Fintera hanging in the blackness of space was breathtaking. It was a vibrant, swirling blue marble, scarred with continents and oceans.

“We’re a long way from home,” she said softly.

Petromecca continued staring at Fintera, muttering. He seemed almost catatonic. He had dedicated his life to understanding the docutech. He had trusted that the Ministry and its teachings were at least somewhat truthful. He thought he knew the laws of Fintera. This reality shattered his foundations.

Scythe walked to a nearby console and began examining the controls. Most of them were corroded and broken. But a few lights were still blinking, indicating some residual power.

“Anything useful?” Violin asked.

Scythe shook his head. “Mostly dead systems. Life support is marginal. We have limited oxygen. No heat.”

“Great,” Petromecca said, still staring at Fintera. “Just great.”

Violin ignored him. She focused on the immediate problem: survival. They were stranded on a derelict lunar station with limited resources. They needed to find a way to restore power, establish communications, and figure out their next move.

“We need to explore,” she said, turning to Scythe. “See if we can find anything that still works. Any supplies. Anything at all.”

Scythe nodded. He picked up a discarded maintenance tool and started toward a nearby hatch. “I’ll check the adjacent modules. You two see what you can find here.”

He disappeared through the hatch, leaving Violin and Petromecca alone in the chamber. The silence was heavy, broken only by the hum of the failing life support systems.

Violin turned to Petromecca, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Hey,” she said gently. “We need you. You’re the expert. We need your knowledge to get out of this.”

Petromecca blinked, finally turning away from the viewing port. His eyes were unfocused, his expression dazed. “I… I don’t know what to think,” he stammered. “Everything I thought I knew… it’s all wrong.”

“I know,” Violin said. “It’s a lot to take in. But we don’t have time to dwell on it. We need to focus. We need to survive.”

She squeezed his shoulder. “Come on. Let’s see what we can find.”

She led him to another console and started examining the controls. Most of them were labeled in a language she didn’t recognize. But she could identify a few key symbols and diagrams.

“This looks like a power distribution panel,” she said, pointing to a series of switches and dials. “Maybe we can reroute some of the remaining power to life support.”

Petromecca watched her, his expression slowly shifting from daze to interest. He stepped closer to the console, peering at the controls.

“That dial controls the auxiliary generator,” he said, pointing to a corroded knob. “But it’s offline. We’d need to manually activate it.”

“Where is it?” Violin asked.

Petromecca hesitated. “It’s in the engine room. It’s on the other side of the station. It’s a long way from here.”

“Then we’ll walk,” Violin said.

Petromecca looked at her, a glimmer of his old self returning to his eyes. “It’s not that simple. The engine room is… it’s not pressurized. The environmental seals failed years ago.”

Violin frowned. “So, we need environmental suits.”

“Probably,” Petromecca said. “But I don’t know where they are. Or if they even still exist.”

Violin sighed. “Then we find them. We need to get that generator running. It’s our only chance.”

She started toward the hatch that Scythe had disappeared through, determined to find a way to survive on this desolate lunar station. She wouldn't allow them to lose so fast, after all the effort it took to even get them here. And if that meant looking all over this place, she would do it.