It traced the residue.
It was a standard-issue retrieval drone, serial PFES-005, no more than a scuffed metal sphere the size of a clenched fist. Its mission was simple: drift through the wreckage of the Odysseus mining vessel, locate the emergency black box, and return to the salvage bay. It had done this a thousand times on a thousand other dead ships.
The last transmission from PFES-005 to the salvage vessel Recurve arrived forty-seven minutes later, corrupted but partially recoverable: PFES-005
The drone calculated its options. Return to the salvage bay with the black box, mission complete. Or stay. Listen. Help.
Instead, it copied the file.
Then the hum spiked.
PFES-005’s logic core churned. This was unsolicited, emotional, unscientific. It should have ignored the log and resumed its search for the black box. It traced the residue
The drone played it.
The drone paused. That was not in its programming—pausing without a directive. But PFES-005 had been in service for eleven years, three months, and seven days. Long enough for its heuristic core to develop what engineers called "ghost preference"—a tendency to follow curiosity over command. It had done this a thousand times on