Chapter 23: The Day the Market Bell Melted
Day 120 – Nyx Local, 05:45
Docking arm Charlie-Three, 0.12 g station spin
Temperature: 18°C, humidity: controlled, scent: citrus and ozone
Karl stepped onto Nyx decking and felt the auction bell vibrate through his boots—a low, steady toll that said commerce had begun. Citrus air masked blood; polite lighting hid cages. He smiled the cut-smile, buyer persona locked in place, and led his "cargo" toward the inspection hall.
Behind him Miguel pushed a mag-sled stacked with four dummy reactor cores—each wrapped in real radiation foil, detonator buried deep. Selene guided twelve stasis pods on a second sled—frost-glass fogged, mannequins inside breathing fake. Jun walked point, datapad glowing with forged credentials. Tala brought the rear, med-kit visible, tranquilizer gun hidden—role: quiet shepherd of living merchandise.
They passed under a holographic banner: "PREMIUM BIO-CARGO & CORE EXCHANGE – DAY 120 – REGISTER EARLY" Children's faces rotated in the ad loop—smiling, scrubbed, commodified. Karl counted—forty-three—then kept walking.
06:10
Inspection pit
A circular arena, tiered seats, central stage ringed by transparent shields. Buyers in tailored suits sipped mimosas while lots rolled past on conveyor belts—stasis pods upright, children visible, cores glowing dull. Factor Lian's intel had called it "the pit." The name fit.
A steward approached—name-tag "Factor Vale," voice silk. "Garden Scout, welcome. Please stage your lots in Bay Seven. Auction begins 08:00 sharp."
Karl inclined his head. "Of course. May I inspect the premium ring? I pay top for unblemished cores."
Vale smiled buyer-smile. "Premium ring is invitation-only. Perhaps after your lots sell." He gestured toward Bay Seven—cameras, scanners, guards.
Karl bowed slightly, compliant. "I comply." And meant nothing.
06:30
Bay Seven – the switch
They parked sleds under scanners. Jun inserted a spike-code—scanners read valid cargo, children present, cores hot. Simultaneously Selene planted cutting strips beneath the conveyor rails; Miguel fixed epoxy bombs under the core display dais. Timer: 90 minutes—auction start plus thirty, when buyers would crowd the pit.
Tala drifted among the real pods—120 units, children sedated, barcode labels where names should be. She whispered lullabies, recorded every code, matched to hidden transponders she'd clipped inside ears. Data flowed to ship: names not known, faces now mapped.
07:45
Premium ring – the breach
Karl excused himself—"fresh air"—and slipped with Miguel through a maintenance lock. Zero-g shaft, no cameras. They floated toward premium ring, cutting torches ready. Inside they found it: a smaller pit, thirty pods, children washed, dressed in white, presented like collectibles. Karl's count broke—fifty-three, sixty, seventy—he forced breath, kept moving.
They planted charges—shape-cutters aimed at shield glass, epoxy packs to weld doors shut. Timer linked to Bay Seven—simultaneous chaos.
08:00
Auction bell
The toll rang deep, vibrating hull and bone. Overhead screens listed Lot 1: "Mixed-age bio-units, 120 count, cores included." Children rolled past on conveyor, faces blank behind frost. Buyers raised paddles, prices climbing like body counts.
Karl watched from Bay Seven edge, visor cracked, eyes hard. He keyed sub-vocal mic: "All stations – standby. Count to zero."
Jun whispered: "Ten… nine…"
At zero the world split.
08:03
Simultaneous thunder
Bay Seven: cutting strips fired—rails parted, conveyor dropped, pods scattered but unharmed. Epoxy bombs detonated—core dais slagged, molten metal pooling, buyers scattering. Screams echoed, polite music cut to static.
Premium ring: shape-cutters fired—shield glass cascaded, children pods exposed. Epoxy welded exits shut. Buyers inside pounded walls, trapped with merchandise they had come to own.
Station alarms screamed—red strobes, pressure doors slamming. Chaos served hot.
08:05
Extraction
Selene and Tala moved—mag-tow sleds already loaded with real children pods from premium ring. They rolled them toward maintenance shaft—zero-g, no cameras. Children inside stirred, sedative fading, eyes wide.
Karl and Miguel pushed dummy sleds toward centre—smoke and slag masking movement. They abandoned sleds, joined extraction flow.
Jun hacked bay control—opened outer blast shutters toward vacuum. Station atmosphere rushed, carrying loose debris, buyers, guards. Vacuum alarms howled. Automatic bulkheads sealed, isolating the pit, saving lives unintentionally.
08:10
Retreat under fire
Guards in heavy armor advanced—plasma lances spitting. Selene returned fire—darts cracking, armor splitting. Miguel lobbed flash-strips—white light, no sound. Guards blind, firing wild.
Karl led children-pod convoy through shaft—counting aloud above chaos: "One, two, three…" all the way to one hundred twenty. His voice steady, rifle barking when needed.
Tala guarded rear—tranquilizer pistol dropping any guard who rounded corner. She whispered to children inside pods: "Stay calm, stay breathing, stay living."
08:20
The garden door
They reached maintenance lock—outer hatch open, vacuum beyond. Beyond waited Hearth-Hammer, umbilical extended like a tongue. Pods rolled across, magnets clicking, children clutching basil leaves volunteers had stuffed through vents.
Karl crossed last, visor sealed. Behind him the station's inner bulkhead sealed—trapping buyers, guards, factor screams inside the pit they had built.
He keyed detonator—final gift.
08:22
Funeral pyre
Charges planted in Bay Seven and premium ring detonated simultaneous. Not cores—station cores had been real, but charges placed to slag, not breach. Result: molten metal poured through corridors, lights died, life-support choked. The auction bell—large bronze disk hanging central—melted, droplets floating in zero-g like slow fireflies. Sound stopped—no more toll, no more commerce.
Market Aurelia fell silent, a glowing wound orbiting brown dwarf embers.
08:30
Coast away
Hearth-Hammer burned—0.15 g, drives singing. One hundred twenty pods stacked in cargo bay, children waking, crying, laughing. Tala moved pod to pod, dispensing hugs and glucose. Ayla floated aisle, distributing more basil, counting leaves instead of seconds.
Karl sat bridge, suit scorched, gloves peeled. He opened the log, wrote:
Day 120 – Nyx auction destroyed. One hundred twenty children recovered alive. Zero children lost. Zero crew lost. Buyer network wounded—bell melted, commerce silenced. We came as merchants, left as liberators. Next: upstream names from Voss. We keep burning until every market forgets how to count. – Karl
Outside, debris cloud expanded, cooling into glitter. Inside, one hundred twenty plus five plus one bot counted forward—one, two, three—toward the next coordinates Voss had given, toward the next hand that sold children like cores.
The trumpet blues stayed silent, but a new sound rose—children's voices, off-key, singing a counting song that stopped at one hundred twenty and started again, endless.
Forward, forward—until every bell is melted and every cage is soil.