Chapter 3 - Moonset
Aurelion Prime: Drift 2
Evening found him leaning against the window. His forehead pressed to the surface of the glass. His thoughts had grown loud. Louder than he was used to. He pressed closer, the cold a relief. A faint hum buzzed through the glass. Far below, traffic moved slowly, glowing like veins. High above, Ascendant Guard patrol ships crossed the pink sky in groups of twelve, watching over the city. Aurelion moved. Omma had a new Heir Prime.
Strength had left him hours ago. His legs had long since gone numb. Across the small room, on the other side of the door, he heard the shy shuffle of feet. A lullaby he’d heard and memorized since he was old enough to need it.
He wasn’t ready.
Not to say goodbye and not to let her see him.
Her feet paused, lingered and then walked away. They were, after all, made from the same genetic material.
He turned his back to the glass and stretched his tingling limbs. Pins and needles travelled up to his core and he refused to move to lessen the sensation.
His room was identical to hers. Same window. Same desk. Same cold automatic light. The air smelled of clean cotton and too much oxygen. The only home he'd ever had — right next to a room that would soon be empty.
He wondered if he could sneak in and save a few of her things. Whether she'd still be the kind of person who cared about things, after.
He pushed up and shut off the mirror he’d left on, like always. His console’s idle light greeted him in the reflection and he limped to it, falling into the uncomfortable chair.
The system checked his Memory Vault and granted access. His heart was racing from the little effort he’d made.
His clearance let him access administrative records, educational data, and even read-only transcripts from Omma. The Omma loading screen appeared, showing its mantra—the first lines stored in their memory vaults, the Omma scripture:
Memory is responsibility.
The bearer must not shape what they hold.
Subjectivity corrupts preservation.
He scrolled aimlessly, opening random files one after another. The paragraphs were broken and fading, and none of them meant anything to him.
Core doctrine. Old appointments. Medical annexes.
Not searching for anything in particular.
He kept moving, kept reading, filling his mind with pointless tasks just to keep going. He wanted to drown out his emotions and slow the panic in his chest.
The lights dimmed on their own, matching Aurelion’s day-night cycle. Something flickered in the corner of his screen—a pop-up appeared, showing a small green insect. His Memory Vault said it was a Mantis religiosa. He tapped it, opening the file in read-only mode.
Librarian Stabilization Protocol (Pre-Memory Vault era).
Status: Deprecated
He paused.
Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.
Deprecated. He saw that word often in the Library. It meant unwanted or no longer useful. He kept reading.
Status: Inactive Archive (Suppressed Post-Directive 19.2)
Protocol used to delay cognitive collapse in aging or terminal Librarians prior to neural sync systems.
Intended to stabilize recall fidelity and slow neurodegenerative drift during the final cycle phase.
Experimental extension window: three to six sols. Effectiveness uncertain.
Requires organic compound: Variant 3 (origin trace: D5-B classification, unverified).
Protocol replaced by succession override in all post-Omma structures. Continued use is no longer sanctioned.
End of accessible record.
There was no real formula. No confirmed compound. Only a label: D5-B. Unverified.
He didn’t recognize the name at first. The Lyra Galaxy had millions of systems. It might be an old mining zone on the edge, or maybe a place renamed after colonization.
It didn’t matter.
He knew what it meant.
It meant hope.
Hope.
It was faint, desperate, almost out of reach, but it was still hope. If he could make that compound, if Variant 3 was real, maybe he could give the old Librarian more time. More time for her. More time for him to grow up.
He stood up slowly, pressing his palms to the console. His mind was made up. He took a breath in, held it, then let it out. Again. His heart slowed, his jaw relaxed. The room felt quieter, almost as if it was listening.
He walked over to the lit mirror and waited.
He looked at his reflection. His messy black hair seemed to mock him, as always. But the fear didn't come. It changed into something else.
Purpose.
Was there really a compound that could delay cognitive collapse?
Could he find it and bring it back before Emma was sworn in?
What if she failed the rite before he found anything?
What if he did, and they refused to wait?
What if she disappeared into the Archive and he vanished with her?
He took a deep breath and spoke aloud, softly:
“Initiated during the Sixth Transmission War. Memory protocol designed to outlast planetary collapse.”
His voice didn’t shake. Not even a little.
“Priority of memory above emotion. Recall without revision. Store without… bias.”
At that word, bias, he faltered.
“Priority of memory… above emotion,” he said again.
A pause.
Above emotion. The words felt emptier than usual. Emotion was the only thing guiding him now—not logic or duty, just fear and love.
He felt trapped. The room seemed too small, his thoughts spinning in circles. Freedom meant losing her. Losing her meant losing himself. The only way out was to return to his purpose. He could lose his freedom or his sister.
Easy choice.
He stared at his own reflection a moment longer, refusing to listen to the child in the mirror begging him to reconsider and take the easy way out. He turned to the console. The screen still glowed faintly behind him, the pop-up still open:
D5-B. Unverified.
He had no transport, no contacts, and no idea what Variant 3 even looked like. But there were people who might know, people with better access than a Librarian Heir.
The label blinked back at him. D5-B. Unverified. Something about it nagged at the edge of his Vault and dissolved before he could catch it.
He didn’t check where it was. He didn’t want to find out it was unreachable.
He swiped the screen closed and turned away, already making plans. He would need a ship and pilot, and he had more than enough spare Value for that. Enough to ferry him across Lyra and back, he hoped.
Somewhere out in the city, someone knew a way. There had to be. And he would find it.
Outside the window, Omma crept across the horizon, flooding the city edge in darkness. David looked. He really looked at it — the gray machine that had swallowed every Librarian before him and was coming for Emma now.
He turned back to the console and started making plans.
