The salvage drone beeped twice before settling into the dust of Kepler Station's abandoned archive wing. Commander Yara pushed through the corroded door and stopped breathing.
Before her lay a trove of pre-Collapse artifacts—shelves stretching forty meters in every direction, packed with relics from the old Earth centuries. Her fingers trembled as she lifted a rectangular plastic shell, its magnetic ribbon still visible through the tiny window. A cassette. She hadn't seen one outside of a museum catalog.
"Commander." Her second officer, Dresh, appeared behind her. "The Vortani scouts are twelve minutes out."
Yara pocketed the cassette and straightened. The Vortani would strip this place bare and sell the artifacts to weapon manufacturers. She couldn't allow it.
"Activate the emergency signal," she said. "It's time to call in the alliance."
Three minutes later, the static crackled and the Meridian Collective answered. The partnership forged five years ago at the Titan Accords had never felt more necessary than right now.
While Dresh coordinated the incoming ships, Yara moved deeper into the archive. She found canisters of preserved flour from an Earth kitchen—impossibly ancient, sealed against time—alongside handwritten recipes and personal letters. Ordinary lives, crystallized.
Then she saw it. Mounted on the back wall behind glass: a ceremonial dagger, its blade etched with the first words of the Kepler Foundation charter. Not a weapon, really. A symbol of the colony's founding oath.
When the Vortani arrived, they found Meridian Collective ships already in formation.
Yara held the dagger at her side and stepped forward to negotiate. History, she decided, was worth protecting.