It was a low, persistent thrum that vibrated through the soles of his boots, up his spine, and settled behind his eyes like a second heartbeat. The source was a shipping container, grade-5 military lockdown, sitting in the middle of Warehouse 7 at the Jodhpur Orbital Depot. On its side, stenciled in faded bureaucratic font, were the words:
Seven tools floated on individual gravity pedestals. Each was forged from a metal that didn't exist on any periodic table Thorne knew. They pulsed with a gentle, intelligent light. Thorne reached for the phase-array calibrator—a sleek wand of liquid crystal and captive starlight—but his hand stopped when he saw the first tool.
The mercenaries fired. The pulse bolts hit the line. And stopped. And fell apart. The line was not a shield; it was a statement that no continuous path existed between the two sides. The commander screamed, "Flank them!"