“Moving how?”
“Already did. No match. And… Mira, it’s moving.” carrier p5-7 fail
And then the text stopped. The screen went black. “Moving how
Mira felt a prickle at the base of her skull—the kind of instinct that had kept her alive through a pirate interdiction near Europa and a depressurization incident in the rings of Saturn. “Match it against known debris databases.” carrier p5-7 fail
“Helmets on,” Mira said. “Full seal.”
“Thermal signature. About two thousand klicks spinward of P5-7’s last known position. Small. Cold, but not ambient cold. Like something that’s been running and just shut down.”
She froze, mid-drift. “What?”