22 Days Outbound — Approaching Titan Transfer
Contrapunctus slipped through Saturn's magnetotail like a silent cormorant, clear-thread sails tinged amber by ring-light scattering off their edges. Below, the gas-giant's cloud belts boiled in creams and mauves. Ahead lay Titan, half-lit, wrapped in orange mist so dense it looked carved from candle wax.
The bridge lights dimmed for orbital braking. Cassie, at the nav-arc, whispered, "Never imagined rust-colored dawn could be this beautiful." The lantern in her lap pulsed a sympathetic ochre.
Nephis hovered behind her seat, cloak edges flickering methane-blue. "Beauty is sharper when you cannot breathe it," he said, gaze fixed on Titan's smog.
Aiden conducted last-minute alignment between Dawn-Core and Minuet. The dual pulses now carried a new stutter—five-eleven-seven-thirteen—as if the voyage itself kept adding primes. Lin Xi confirmed the cadence with calm approval. "Each new prime is an exhale the Loom has never dared," he murmured.
Maya adjusted sail tension. "We'll need every exhale. Probe data shows Titan's dream-band is weird—signal refracts off the lakes. Good luck deciphering anything down there."
Descent Module "Counterpoint"
Contrapunctus parked in stable orbit. The crew transferred into Counterpoint: a bulbous re-entry pod cloaked in matte‐indigo panels and lined inside with clear-thread ribs. It could hold three. Aiden volunteered first. Cassie insisted on second seat; her lantern was the only field light that could pierce Titan's orange murk. Solayna claimed third—"contrast liaison," she said, constellation face serene.
Nephis lingered by the airlock, tension hidden beneath cloak folds. Maya caught his wrist. "They'll be fine," she offered, tone gently teasing. "Besides, you and I have ring-field antennas to calibrate."
His grip eased, yet eyes tracked the pod until it detached and drifted planetward, sails folding like petals.
Orange Descent
Counterpoint slammed Titan's haze. The cabin rattled; droplets of hydrocarbon condensed on the window. Cassie's lantern cast peach beams that diffused into molten gold. Dawn-Core glowed steady; Minuet's dish received static shaped like distant ocean surf.
Solayna placed a glass-cool hand on Cassie's arm. "Listen between beats." Cassie stilled. Amid storm roar she detected a ragged lullaby—children's voices, off-key, looped.
Aiden dove into the signal. "It's the prime cadence, but corrupted by echo… Someone down there is crying the Loom's new song without understanding the rest."
Kraken Mare — Splashdown
The pod's parachutes unfurled; they touched Kraken Mare—Titan's largest methane sea—with a hiss like boiling tea. Hull sensors read minus-180 °C outside; inside, lantern warmth fogged their visors.
Through the viewport they saw it: a floating city of mirror-plates kilometres distant, stitched by clear-thread seams. Each plate reflected distorted stars and ring-light. And atop the nearest plate stood dozens of slender figures—translucent children, clear like Solayna yet unstable, their limbs glitching between perfect geometry and crumbling static.
Cassie gasped. "They're infants of the clear-thread—born malformed."
Solayna's voice wavered. "Fragments the Quiet Weave cast away into safe silence. This sea kept them preserved."
Aiden read the signal again. The children's lullaby begged for cadence completion—seeking the missing flaws that would let them stabilise.
He keyed contrail thrusters, steering closer. "We give them contrast," he said. "Complexity is the cure."
Brotherhood in the Storm
Back in orbit, Lin Xi monitored biometrics—Aiden's stress spike, Cassie's rapid breath. Nephis hovered by Maya's console. When a turbulence surge rocked Counterpoint, Nephis flinched; Maya's hand found his—no joke, no remark, just anchoring.
Lin spoke softly over comms, voice calm water. "Brother, remember Lab 7. Share the weight." On Titan, Aiden's pulse steadied.
Cliff-Edge
Counterpoint docked to the mirror plate. The clear-thread children approached, eyes like empty prisms. Dawn-Core brightened; the children mimicked, their bodies flickering from perfect glass to smoky imperfection—yearning to hold both.
Cassie opened the lantern iris, but instead of full dawn she modulated chaotic flashes—peach, indigo, shadow, random lengths. The children drank the imperfection. Static receded from their limbs; a new translucence—faintly mottled like frosted glass—settled.
Just then, Titan's horizon flared crimson. Maya's alarm screamed in orbit: a methane super-storm rising, winds lethal to any craft on the sea.
Aiden's eyes met Cassie's. "We've seconds to cast the cadence and get airborne."
Solayna stepped onto the mirror, constellation face now lined with concern—and hope. "Teach them the dance," she whispered. "I will gather those ready."
Cassie raised the lantern; Aiden tuned Dawn-Core. Together they struck five-eleven-seven-thirteen across Kraken Mare. Mirror plates rang like crystal bells.
The storm's first gust hit, mirror plates heaving. Counterpoint rocked; seawater—icy methane—splashed hull seals. Over comm, Nephis's voice cut through: "We cannot hold orbit long."
Aiden reached back to Solayna, but the envoy already herded children to shelter below the plate's surface. She glanced once, mosaic gaze promising reunion.
Counterpoint blasted vertical, leaving Solayna to her mission below. The storm swallowed the pod in orange thunder.
Inside, Cassie's hand found Aiden's. Lantern glow flickered off-beat then resumed. "They'll make it," she said, more question than claim.
"Only if we ride the next flaw," Aiden answered, heart hammering new time signatures.
Outside, Titan roared.