The Dark Matter Sea (The Chronicles of the Void, #4) by T.Z. Wiberg

Author:T.Z. Wiberg
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Sci-fi, Space Opera
Publisher: T.Z. Wiberg
Published: 2025-12-20T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 12: The Feeding

The False Dawn

The rift in the Void was beautiful. It wasn't just a tear in the fabric of nothingness; it was a promise. A swirling vortex of blue and violet light that whispered of home, of solid matter, and of physics that actually made sense.

Captain Max Storm watched it grow on the viewscreen. He felt a rare emotion: relief.

“Time to intercept?” he asked, leaning back in his chair. The leather creaked. A reassuring sound.

“Twelve minutes at current impulse,” ECHO replied. Her avatar was currently dressed in a flight attendant’s uniform, complete with a jaunty scarf. “Please ensure your seat backs and tray tables are in the upright position. We will be arriving in Reality shortly. The local temperature is a balmy 2.7 Kelvin, and the chance of existential dread is low.”

“I’ll take it,” Storm smiled. “Zeno, how’s the hull holding up?”

Professor Zeno didn't look up from his console. “Structural integrity is holding at 38%. We are essentially flying a colander, Captain. But as long as we don't hit anything bigger than a dust mote, we should make it.”

“Fixer?”

“Fixer here,” the engineer’s voice came over the comms, sounding tired but content. “The Core is purring. The strobe effect shook a few bolts loose, and I think the coffee machine is now brewing tea, but otherwise, we’re green.”

“Good work, everyone,” Storm said. “Let’s get home.”

The bridge was calm. The red alert lights had been deactivated, replaced by the soft, standard white illumination. It was the calm after the storm. The moment when the adrenaline fades and the exhaustion sets in.

But exhaustion makes you sloppy. It makes you miss the small things.

Like the flickering light on the tactical console. Or the slight drop in ambient temperature on Deck 4.

Or the shadow moving in the mess hall that didn't belong to anyone.

The Mess Hall: The Hunger

The Mess Hall was empty. The crew had returned to their stations or their bunks, exhausted from the battle.

But something was there.

Underneath table six, the patch of grey static rippled. It had been waiting. Listening.

It was hungry.

The Swarmers outside the ship had tried to eat the hull—to convert the matter into void. But this one was different. It had survived the strobe. It had learned.

It didn't want the metal. Metal was cold. Dead. It wanted what the metal contained.

Energy.

The static flowed across the floor, looking like a spill of mercury. It reached the power conduit running along the baseboard.

It touched the socket.

Zip.

It didn't electrocute itself. It drank. The blue spark of electricity vanished into the grey fuzz. The creature pulsed. It grew dense.

It liked the taste. It was spicy. It was real.

But it wasn't enough. Electricity was raw calories. It needed protein. It needed complexity.

It needed data.

The creature slithered up the wall. It found a data port. It inserted a tendril of static.

It tasted the ship’s mind. It tasted the schematics. The crew manifest. The logs.

It learned the word "Cookie." It learned the word "Captain." It learned the word "Fear."

It withdrew. It changed shape. It wasn't a puddle anymore.

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