On his workbench sat a device the size of a deck of cards: the Z3X. It looked unremarkable—brushed aluminum, a single optical port, no logo. But to the broken, black-boxed, and bricked machines scattered around his workshop, the Z3X was a ghost key. A universal skeleton key for any piece of tech built by the Tri-Planetary Union.

"Cold boot sequence," Kaelen whispered to the empty room. "Initiate handshake."

He didn't blink. His left hand danced across a manual keyboard—not a touch interface, because touch could be spoofed. Each keystroke was a deliberate, physical act.

And for that, he needed the Z3X setup.

He plugged the Z3X into a cracked data-tap on the wall—a tap that connected to the orbital elevator's maintenance network. One hop to the elevator. Another hop to the asteroid's dock. Then a final, silent hop to Drone #734.

"Commit," he said.

The rain hadn't stopped for three weeks. Not on New Mumbai, anyway. Down in the so-called "Undercrust," the perpetual drizzle was just another utility, like the humming ducts of recycled air or the low-grade hum of the fusion core two miles below.