Carrier P5-7 Fail 📥

She pulled her probe free and pushed off from the pod, turning toward the Rocinante . “What kind of problem?”

And then the text stopped. The screen went black.

“Dex,” Mira said quietly, her breath misting in the frigid air. “We need to leave. Now.” carrier p5-7 fail

But the Rocinante ’s engines were already powering up—not by their command. The ship turned, slowly, deliberately, toward the dark heart of P5-7. Toward the pulsing light. Toward the carrier that had failed, and was now, in ways they could not yet comprehend, very much alive.

Dex didn’t argue. They had worked together long enough that he trusted her tone. The helmets locked into place with a soft hiss, and the world narrowed to the visor’s display and the recycled taste of their own breath. She pulled her probe free and pushed off

“Approaching the object,” Dex said. “Visual in ten seconds.”

The Rocinante , their battered maintenance corvette, drifted in the black between Callisto and Ganymede. They had been en route to repair a minor transponder glitch on P5-7 when the failure alarm had screamed through the ship’s speakers—a sound like a dying animal. Now the silence was worse. “Dex,” Mira said quietly, her breath misting in

“P5-7 just came back online.”

“Cut the main bus,” she said, already scrambling back to the airlock. “Kill all external antennas.”

Just silence.

Mira didn’t blink. She didn’t curse. She simply stared at the string of characters, her breath fogging the inside of her helmet visor. Carrier P5-7 was the primary deep-space relay for the entire Jovian Crescent—a chain of fifteen automated comms stations strung between the asteroid belt and the moons of Jupiter. Without it, there was no real-time contact with Earth. No telemetry from the outer colonies. No distress signals. No orders.