The harmony crystal pulsed against Asher's chest as he stared at the performance scores floating in holographic perfection above the main concourse. His name glowed in third place—not first, but high enough to survive. High enough to be noticed.
"Third place," Ghost said, appearing at his elbow with two cups of something that smelled like actual coffee. "It's third place among forty-seven contestants." From a mining colony nobody's heard of."
"It's not enough," Asher muttered, watching Vera's name gleam in gold at the top of the leaderboard. Her Heritage performance had been technically flawless—seven centuries of artistic tradition distilled into four minutes of perfect, soulless precision.
"Are you kidding? Look around." Ghost gestured to the crowd gathered around the scores. "Half these people are talking about you. The other half are talking about Vera, but they're looking at you."
She was right. Throughout the concourse, clusters of artists, patrons, and officials spoke in hushed tones while glancing in Asher's direction. Some expressions held admiration, others skepticism, and a few—particularly among the traditional artists—showed something that looked like fear.
"Rex calculated the statistical probability of a mining colony placing in the top ten," Jin said, joining them with Thara trailing shyly behind. "Point-zero-three percent. You just broke mathematics."
"Or proved it wrong," Rex-9 added, his optical sensors whirring as they processed the crowd's reactions. "Fascinating. Eleven percent of observers display physiological stress responses typically associated with cognitive dissonance."
"Translation?" Ghost asked.
"They can't believe what they saw," Thara whispered, but her voice carried unexpected strength. "Your performance challenged their assumptions about what art can be."
A commotion near the VIP section drew their attention. Vera stood surrounded by reporters, her smile as precisely crafted as her performance had been. But Asher noticed something through the harmony crystal's influence—beneath her composed exterior lurked genuine anxiety.
"She's scared," he realized.
"Good," Ghost said firmly. "She should be."
As if summoned by their attention, Vera's gaze found them across the crowded space. Her smile never wavered, but she said something to her assistant that made the young woman's face pale. Then Vera began walking toward them, her entourage parting the crowd like a ship cutting through still water.
"Mr. Drak," Vera said, her voice carrying just far enough to be overheard by nearby reporters. "Congratulations on your... colorful performance. Very authentic."
The word 'authentic' dripped with condescension, but Asher had learned to recognize the weapons of the privileged. "Thank you. I noticed yours was very... traditional."
"Seven centuries of tradition," Vera replied smoothly. "Some things endure because they represent the pinnacle of artistic achievement. Others fade because they were never meant to last."
"History's funny that way," Ghost interjected before Asher could respond. "Sometimes what looks permanent crumbles overnight. Sometimes what looks impossible becomes inevitable."
Vera's smile sharpened. "How delightfully naive. I do hope you've prepared adequately for tomorrow's Innovation Round. I'd hate for your equipment to experience any... technical difficulties."
The threat was delivered with silk-wrapped steel, but it was a threat nonetheless. Asher felt the harmony crystal pulse with his rising anger, and through its influence, he sensed similar reactions from his friends.
"We'll manage," he said carefully.
"I'm sure you will." Vera turned to go, then paused. "Oh, and Mr. Drak? You might want to research the history of mining colony performers. It's quite... educational."
She swept away, leaving ice in her wake.
"What did she mean by that?" Jin asked.
"Nothing good," Ghost muttered, but Asher could see the gears turning in her mind. "Come on. We need to use the archives."
Station Sigma-5's archives occupied three full levels near the station's core, their environmental controls maintaining perfect conditions for preserving everything from ancient physical books to quantum-encrypted memory crystals. The search interface responded to thought patterns, displaying results before users finished forming queries.
Ghost's fingers danced across the holographic controls with the focused intensity she usually reserved for engineering problems. "Mining colony performers, past twenty years," she murmured, and data streams began flowing across multiple displays.
"There," Jin pointed to a cluster of records. "Look at the pattern."
It was subtle at first—mining colonies had produced seventeen assessment candidates in the past two decades. Six had qualified for regionals. Three had made it past the first round. But then...
"They all withdrew," Thara observed, her empathic abilities picking up emotional residue from the archived records. "Every single one. Usually right before a major round."
"Equipment failures," Rex-9 read from the official reports. "Family emergencies. Sudden illness. But the statistical probability of such consistent misfortune..."
"Is basically zero," Ghost finished grimly. "This isn't a coincidence. It's systematic."
Asher studied the names, feeling the harmony crystal respond to his growing unease. These weren't just statistics—they were dreams systematically crushed, artists erased from history as thoroughly as if they'd never existed.
One name caught his attention: Elena Vasquez, Ferros-7, fifteen years ago.
"Ghost," he said quietly. "Look at this one."
Ghost pulled up Elena's file, and immediately the displays flashed with security warnings. "Restricted access. Classification level... that's weird. Why would a performer's record be classified?"
"Because someone doesn't want us to see it," a new voice said.
They turned to find the archives' head librarian approaching—an elderly Chromarian whose crystalline body had dimmed with age but whose movements still carried graceful authority. Crystal formations along their shoulders chimed softly with each step.
"Keening-of-Distant-Stars," the librarian introduced themself, using the formal Chromarian naming convention. "But you may call me Keening. I have been watching your search with interest."
"Is there a problem?" Asher asked.
"Only if you believe the truth is a problem." Keening gestured to a private study room. "Come. There are things you need to know about Elena Vasquez. Things they tried very hard to erase."
The private study room was a pocket of tranquility in the archive's vast complexity. Keening sealed the door and activated privacy screens before settling into a chair designed for their crystalline physiology.
"Elena Vasquez was extraordinary," Keening began, their body resonating with harmonics that spoke of old sadness. "I was a junior librarian then, but I remember her final performance. It was... revolutionary."
"What happened to her?" Ghost asked, though her expression suggested she already suspected.
"Officially? Stage accident during the Innovation Round. Gravity manipulation failure. She was injured and withdrew from competition." Keening's body darkened. "Unofficially? She was eliminated by forces that saw her as a threat to the established order."
"That's a serious accusation," Rex-9 observed.
"It's a serious crime," Keening replied. "But difficult to prove when the perpetrators control the evidence. Elena's performance was so powerful, so threatening to certain interests, that they could not allow her to continue."
"Threatening how?" Asher leaned forward, the harmony crystal warming against his chest.
Keening activated a hidden holo-projector, and the room filled with grainy footage—Elena Vasquez on the Innovation Round stage, her mining equipment transformed into instruments of impossible beauty. She moved like Ghost danced, with technical precision elevated to art, creating sculptures from industrial tools that sang with the voices of workers who'd never been allowed to call themselves artists.
"She called it 'The Bones of Stars,'" Keening explained. "The thesis was that miners were the first artists—cave painters, storytellers in darkness, builders of beauty in the depths. She made poverty into poetry, hardship into hope."
The performance was breathtaking. Elena used actual mining tools—sonic drills, gravity hammers, and atmospheric processors—as instruments in a symphony that told the story of humanity's spread among the stars. But more than that, she made the audience feel the dignity of every person who'd ever gone into darkness so others could live in light.
"I can see why they were threatened," Thara whispered. "She wasn't just performing. She was redefining what art could be."
"Exactly. The established artistic families had built their reputations on the idea that true art required proper breeding, expensive education, and centuries of refined tradition." Keening's body brightened with anger. "Elena proved that the most powerful art could emerge from necessity, struggle, and the refusal to accept that your circumstances defined your worth."
"What happened to her?" Asher asked, though he was beginning to understand.
"The gravity manipulation equipment failed catastrophically. Elena was severely injured—spinal damage that ended her performing career. She withdrew from competition and disappeared from public records. No interviews, no follow-up stories, no mention in cultural histories."
"Disappeared how?" Ghost's engineering mind was already analyzing the technical details. "Gravity manipulators don't just fail. There are redundant safety systems, multiple fail-safes..."
"Unless someone ensures they fail," Keening said quietly. "Elena was not the first, nor the last. There is a pattern, young ones. A systematic elimination of artists who threaten the comfortable assumptions of those in power."
Ghost's hands were already moving over her portable interface. "Show me the technical reports from Elena's accident."
"Classified. Sealed by judicial order. Even I cannot access them." Keening paused, then made a decision. "But Elena was clever. She suspected something might happen. She left... insurance."
"What kind of insurance?" Asher felt a pulse of anticipation from the harmony crystal.
"Follow me."
The abandoned sections of Station Sigma-5 existed in the shadows between official maps and public access. Keening led them through maintenance corridors that hadn't seen renovations in decades, past equipment housings that hummed with the station's vital systems.
"How do you know about this place?" Jin asked as they descended yet another service ladder.
"I helped Elena hide it," Keening replied. "Some truths are too important to trust to official channels."
They emerged into a storage bay that had been modified far beyond its original purpose. The space was larger than it should have been, with walls knocked out to create a hidden gallery. But what took Asher's breath away wasn't the architecture—it was the art.
Every surface showcased performances that history had erased. Holographic projections showed miners from a dozen colonies transforming their tools into instruments of beauty. Agricultural workers danced to the rhythms of the seasons and growth. Factory technicians create sculptures from the precise movements of assembly and repair.
"My God," Ghost breathed. "How many?"
"Forty-seven artists over the past thirty years," Keening replied. "All eliminated for the same reason—they made the uncomfortable comfortable, the invisible visible, the forgotten unforgettable."
In the center of the hidden gallery stood a monument that was part memorial, part art installation—a sculpture made from broken performance equipment, twisted gravity manipulators, and shattered holo-projectors arranged in patterns that somehow conveyed both grief and defiance.
"Elena built this," Keening explained. "After her accident, before she disappeared. Each piece represents an artist whose career was ended by 'accident,' 'technical failure,' or 'family emergency.'"
Asher approached the sculpture, feeling the harmony crystal respond to emotional resonance that had been literally built into the twisted metal. Through its influence, he could sense the dreams that had died here, the potential that had been systematically crushed.
But he also felt something else—determination. These artists hadn't just been victims. They'd been rebels, and even in defeat, they'd found ways to preserve their truth.
"There's more," Keening said, leading them to a wall covered by a tarp. "Elena's final message."
Beneath the covering was a holo-projector of Elena herself, set to activate when approached. The figure that materialized was older than the performer they'd seen on stage, marked by pain but not broken by it.
"If you're seeing this," Elena's hologram began, "you've made it further than they wanted. You've scared them. Good."
Asher felt goosebumps rise on his arms. Elena's voice carried the same steel that had characterized her performance, tempered now by hard-won wisdom.
"They'll try to stop you—equipment failure, false disqualification, even accidents. But we are miners. We dig in darkness and find light. They can erase our names but not our truth."
The hologram gestured to the hidden gallery around them.
"In this room is our real heritage. Learn from us. Surpass us. And when you win—because you will win—remember us."
Elena's image flickered, then solidified with visible effort. "I've hidden technical specifications throughout this gallery. How to protect your equipment from sabotage. How to use mining aesthetics as a strength rather than a liability. How to make judges feel rather than just evaluate."
"Most importantly," Elena continued, her voice gaining strength, "remember that they fear us not because we're inferior, but because we're authentic. We create from necessity, not privilege. We transform hardship into hope. And no amount of inherited wealth can compete with that if we refuse to be silenced."
The hologram began to fade. "Make them remember that art isn't about where you come from. It's about where you choose to go."
Elena's image disappeared, leaving them in the glow of forty-seven suppressed dreams.
"Now you understand," Keening said quietly. "You're not just competing in an art assessment. You're fighting for the right of entire worlds to be heard."
They spent the next four hours in the hidden gallery, absorbing techniques and strategies that had been paid for with broken dreams and shattered careers. Ghost documented everything with her portable scanners while Asher practiced movements Elena had developed to protect against sabotage.
"Look at this," Jin called from a corner where agricultural artists had left their mark. "They used crop growth patterns as choreography. The beauty is incredible."
"And this," Thara added, her voice stronger than usual. "Sound sculptors from factory worlds. They found music in industrial noise, harmony in mechanical precision."
Rex-9 moved between displays with uncharacteristic emotion, his optical sensors recording but his processors struggling to quantify what they were experiencing. "The statistical analysis is... disturbing. The correlation between artistic innovation and career termination approaches certainty."
"It's not a bug," Ghost said grimly. "It's a feature. The system is working exactly as designed."
As evening approached, they prepared to leave the hidden gallery. But first, Asher approached Elena's monument one more time. The harmony crystal was resonating strongly now, picking up not just the grief built into the sculpture but the determination.
"We won't forget," he promised the twisted metal and broken dreams. "And we won't be silenced."
The crystal pulsed once, warm and steady, as if Elena's spirit approved.
They emerged from the hidden archive to find Flux waiting in the corridor, their Aurelian skin patterns shifting with agitation.
"Where have you been?" They demanded an explanation from Flux. "Security has been looking for you. There are rumors—"
"What kind of rumors?" Ghost asked.
"The rumors suggest that you have been gaining access to materials that are restricted." There may be some issues with your equipment registration. Flux's patterns darkened. "Vera's people have been asking questions. Official questions."
Asher felt a warning pulse from the harmony crystal. "They know."
"Know what?" Flux asked.
"That we found Elena Vasquez's archive. We know what really happened to Elena Vasquez. Ghost's expression was grim. "They're going to try to stop us before tomorrow's Innovation Round."
"Then we need to move fast," Flux said. "I have contacts, unofficial channels. We can get your equipment and evidence somewhere safe."
But even as they planned, Asher knew it was already too late. The forces that had destroyed Elena's career—and forty-six others—were already in motion. He could feel it through the crystal's amplified empathy, a cold calculation that valued tradition over truth and privilege over potential.
Tomorrow's Innovation Round would be more than an artistic competition. It would be a battle for the right of entire worlds to dream.
As they headed toward their quarters, Asher thought of Elena's final words: Make them remember that art isn't about where you come from. It's about where you choose to go.
He touched the harmony crystal beneath his shirt, feeling its warmth against his chest. Tomorrow, he would show them where a mining colony's dreams could take them—straight to the stars themselves.
Even if they tried to sabotage him into silence.
Even if they tried to erase him like they'd erased Elena.
Some truths, Asher realized, were worth the risk of everything.
End of Episode 6
Next Episode: "The Underground"— As sabotage attempts escalate and official pressure mounts, Asher discovers he's not fighting alone. But the price of rebellion might be higher than he ever imagined...