Kaelen was a freighter jockey—or had been, before the Corporate Purge of ’89 locked his neural shunt. One moment he'd been guiding a helium-3 tanker through the rings of Saturn. The next? A fried implant and a permanent "Access Denied" branded into his motor cortex. His body worked. His mind worked. But the link between them—the tiny handshake protocol that let a human drive a thirty-thousand-ton ship—had been severed.
Until now.
The client chimed.
He typed:
Command line open. Type 'connect'.