I wake to the soft hum of the climate controls, a gentle vibration that pulls me from the fog of sleep. The sheets tangle around my legs, warm from the night, and I feel Jor'vyn's body pressed close, his skin bare against mine in the dim light filtering through the polarized windows. His breath rises and falls in a steady rhythm, warm on my shoulder, and I linger there, tracing the curve of his arm draped over my waist. The air carries a thin brine off the Silver Sea beyond the glass, laced with the musk of our shared warmth, and for a fraction of a second my mind tries to price the quiet. Zero-coupon, no maturity date, no hedge required. I shift slightly, and his hand tightens on instinct, pulling me back into the cocoon of his embrace. My pulse finds his cadence the way a bid finds an ask, automatic, the familiarity of years together compounding interest I never expected to earn. The sheets slide away as I turn toward him, my fingers brushing the stubble along his jaw, and he stirs just enough to murmur something incoherent, his eyes still closed. The room holds us in half-light, white-stone walls catching low gleams from the city below, and I let myself hold the press of his thigh against mine, the subtle heat that builds in these stolen seconds before the day demands its due.
Jor'vyn's eyelids flutter open, and he smiles that lazy smile, the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes. He pulls me closer, his hand sliding down my hip in a slow, deliberate path that sends a current through my abdomen, low and electric. I arch into it, my body responding without consultation from higher functions, and our lips meet in a kiss that's soft at first, then deepening with the remnants of sleep's abandon. His fingers tangle in my hair, and I feel the firmness of him against me, a reminder of the nights when we lose ourselves in each other, forgetting the ticks and the pings that wait beyond these walls. The bed creaks faintly under our shifting weight, and I break the kiss with a reluctant laugh, my breath coming quicker now. He groans in protest, his hand lingering on the small of my back, but I know the routine too well. The galaxy doesn't pause for mornings like this, no matter how much I wish it would.
I slip from his grasp, the cool air raising goosebumps on my skin as I pad across the plush rug toward the adjoining bathroom. The floor tiles warm under my feet, activated by the motion sensors, and I glance back at Jor'vyn, who's propped on one elbow now, watching me with that appreciative gaze that still lands after all this time. The bedroom sprawls behind me, its high ceilings arched like the debating halls downtown, with the massive window wall framing the Silver Sea's endless blue-gray expanse. Hanna City's spires rise in the distance, pale stone under the rising sun, a serene contrast to the frenzy I know brews in the markets below. I push open the bathroom door, the hinges silent on their repulsor mounts, and step into the steam-ready enclosure.
The shower activates with a wave of my hand, jets of hot water cascading from the ceiling like a tropical rain on some Core world I've only seen in holovids. I step under the flow, letting it sluice over my skin, washing away the night's residue. The scent of Chandrilan sea-kelp fills the air from the infused dispenser, crisp and invigorating, and I close my eyes, tilting my head back as the water pounds against my shoulders. Thoughts drift to the day ahead, the endless scroll of numbers and feeds that define the grind. In moments like this, the factions of power feel distant, their grand ideas reduced to basis points in my routine. The New Galactic Coalition's unity speeches play well on the feeds but in reality, they mean more tariffs that squeeze every position's margins to the bone. I rinse clean, the water cycling through the purifiers with a soft gurgle. Steam clouds the mirror, and I wipe it clear with a towel, studying my reflection. Lines at the corners of my eyes from too many late nights staring at screens, but there's a sharpness there too, the edge that keeps me ahead of the curve.
I dry off, the towel soft against my skin, and wrap it around myself before stepping back into the bedroom. Jor'vyn has rolled out of bed now, his muscles flexing under the morning light as he stretches. He catches my eye and winks, but I shake my head with a smile, heading toward the closet alcove. I dress in comfortable layers, a loose tunic and fitted pants that won't bind during long hours at the terminal, and slip on soft indoor boots. The fabric whispers against my skin, still sensitized from the hot water, and I carry a residual warmth from the bed, a quiet ache that promises more later if the markets allow.
The penthouse layout flows from east to west, our bedroom catching the sunrise over the sea, a short hallway leading to the central living space. The hallway opens into the kitchen, a wide expanse of polished stone counters and sleek appliances idling in standby mode. Sunlight pours through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long shadows across the dining nook where Vyn'ara's latest drawing sits pinned to the cooler door. A crayon scribble of our family by the sea, stick figures with oversized smiles, waves curling like stair steps. I pause to trace it with a finger, and something catches in my chest, sharp and ungovernable. She's on her way to the playgroup now, the nanny bustling her out the door with that efficient stride, but the image tugs deeper, a reminder of the slivers I carve out for her amid the noise. I can still hear the echo of her giggle from the hallway, thin like a fading signal on a bad trade. The kitchen holds the ghost of last night's bantha roast, savory and lingering, clinging to the air like unresolved positions from yesterday's close. I activate the caf brewer with a tap. It whirs to life, grinding beans probably squeezed by those NGC tariffs that inflate everything these days. I pull a bulb of concentrate from the cabinet, squeezing a drop into the mug for that extra kick. The stim patch behind my ear itches, a habit I tell myself I'll quit when the sessions slow down, but who am I kidding.
While the caf brews, I prep a quick meal, slicing greens and tossing them with meiloorun zest from the preserver. The knife clicks against the board, a rhythmic counterpoint to the distant ferry horns drifting up from the marina below. Hanna City's morning bustle filters in through the open vent, the drone of hoverlane traffic and the calls of sea-birds wheeling overhead. I plate the greens with strips of smoked tip-yip, protein to fuel the grind, and pour the caf, steam rising in curls that carry a citrus bite. Jor'vyn shuffles in then, dressed in his lab tunic, hair still tousled from bed. He leans against the counter, arms crossed, and watches me eat with that fond exasperation.
"They've got me re-benching legacy optics off an Ilum recovery pull—NGC all over it. Thermal aperture review, they call it." He mutters it like it's just another annoyance, but there's a tightness in his voice that makes me look up. "Feels familiar, you know."
I nod around a bite of greens, the zest tangy on my tongue. Ilum pulls always carry that undercurrent, echoes of old wars and ethics debates that the New Jedi drag into the light. In my world, it's another catalyst waiting to spike vols, but for him, it's personal, recreating what came before. Starkiller Base revival rumors, they call them in the labs, though he'd never say it outright. I swallow and reach for the caf, the cup warm against my palm. "Sounds like a long one. Vyn'ara's playdate should wrap by midday. I can grab her if you're stuck."
He grunts, pouring his own cup, and we share a quiet moment at the counter, the sea breeze rustling the sheer curtains. The flat feels alive in these beats, the central living area blending into the kitchen, couches arranged to face the window wall where the city unfurls below. Beyond that, a side door leads to my office, a dedicated space carved from the western wing, terminals warm in wait. I finish my meal, the plate clinking into the recycler, and kiss Jor'vyn on the cheek, his stubble rough under my lips. He pulls me in for a quick hug, his hands warm on my back, and then he's off to finish his prep, leaving me to the numbers.
I push through the office door, the room lighting up automatically, soft glows from the multiple screens arrayed across the curved desk. The space is compact but efficient, walls lined with data pads and a single window overlooking the promenade below, where early risers debate politics over breakfast stalls. I settle into the chair, the bantha-hide cushion molding to my form, and activate the main terminal with a gesture. The screens flicker to life, charts scrolling in real-time, pre-open bids ticking like a heartbeat. My positions load first. Long on Corellian Engineering stock and calls, betting on that NGC spend bump. Short on Fondor Logistics, expecting the tariff hit to squeeze their margins. A small hedge in the Hyperspace Insurance Swap Index, just in case Rim delays bite harder than expected.
The GNN feed pops up in the corner, the anchor's voice smooth and practiced. The lower third chyron scrolls the headline, Coalition Security Act clearing committee with eighteen percent more defense spend and a three percent tariff on non-member hulls. I lean forward, the cup still in hand, and watch the numbers react. Corellian Engineering gaps up, just like I called it, the chart climbing in green spikes. Mon Cal Shipyards follows, spreads tightening as the unlocked spend starts to flow. Fondor Logistics widens, freight margins taking the hit, and Tibanna eases. Insurers hold the bid, steady as ever. My P&L glows an easy green, an easy green that makes the morning feel like a solved equation.
I scale out a third into the push, letting the senators' optimism pay me. The trade confirms with a soft chime, credits shifting in the background. Vyn'ara's drawing catches my eye from the desk; I must have moved it in here at some point, propped beside the terminal like a talisman. Family by the sea, waves like stair steps. I let it sit there for a moment, then drag my attention back. NGC budgets sound solid in the abstract, unity for the rim worlds and all that.
Jor'vyn pokes his head in, lab bag slung over his shoulder, the canvas strap creased from years of use. "Approps cleared. CEC's gonna gap. Tariff's a tax on freight. Fondor bleeds its capital. Two minutes, my bug. Real two." He's mimicking my trader shorthand, tossing the words into the air like a playful jab at Vyn'ara's absence, his lips curling in that half-smile that always softens the lab's weight on his shoulders. I laugh, but it lands hollow, the office too quiet without her chatter, the drone of the terminals a poor substitute for her giggles. He steps closer, boots scuffing the rug, and leans in, his breath warm with faint citrus from the brew. His lips brush mine in a soft kiss, lingering just long enough to stir a flicker of warmth behind my ribs, and his arms wrap around me in a quick, firm hug, the sort that anchors us against the day's pull. "I love you," he murmurs, his voice low, the words a tether to everything outside these screens. I echo it back, "I love you," but my eyes flick to the screens as a ping flashes, Corellian ticking up another point, green teasing me like a signal I can't ignore. My fingers itch for the keys, the market's gravity stronger than the moment, factions' whispers taxing my focus even now. He waves, a small gesture heavy with understanding, and heads out, the penthouse door sealing behind him with a hiss. The water sparkles outside, birds dipping low, their cries faint through the glass. I sip the caf, citrus oil cutting through the brew's bitterness, but the patch hums behind my ear, steadying my hands on the keys as the galaxy's turns unspool across my screens.
I add a small layer to the insurance hedge, Rim lanes slowing under the new inspections. Vyn'ara's drawing catches the terminal's glow, and the reforms that play as light on the holovids land here as shadow, factions' costs compressing the margins where my family should be. The green holds steady for now.
The session bell rings soft in my earpiece, markets opening with a flurry of trades. Corellian climbs higher, my calls printing nicely. The crawl loops the committee news, pundits debating the defense spending like it's a gift to the galaxy. To me, it's opportunity wrapped in volatility, opportunity that pays the lease but steals the mornings that could have been. I glance at the sea, waves rolling in endless patterns, and feel the undertow of it all, the way these distant decrees hike the costs on everything. Hours slip by in the rhythm of ticks, but it's still early, the sun climbing higher over the city. My positions hold, the green a fragile thing in the face of whatever comes next. I record a quick voice clip for Vyn'ara, "Proud of you, bug," intending to send it later, but a ping distracts me, another analyst note on the tariffs. The office idles around me, terminals warm under my palms, and I lean back, the cup drained and cold. The day stretches ahead, full of bets and balances.
The midday sun climbs higher over Hanna City, casting sharp shadows across my office floor through the slanted blinds. I lean back in my chair, the hide creaking under my weight, and rub my eyes against the glare from the screens. The morning has held steady, my positions ticking along like a freighter on calm lanes. Corellian continues its climb, the calls printing small wins with each uptick, while Fondor bleeds enough to justify the short. The insurance hedge sits quiet, a safety net I hope stays untested. I drain the last of a second cup, the bitterness sitting on my tongue without the citrus now, and glance at the clock overlay on the main terminal. Vyn'ara's playdate pickup looms in a few hours. Need to check in with Jor'vyn if he can still grab her on his way home, but the session's rhythm has me pinned here, chasing the next signal in the noise.
A soft ping alerts me to an incoming thread from Jor'vyn, his text popping up in the corner feed. "Boss keeps dragging on something. Ethics review on the Ilum data feels off, like sanding old scars. Might run a bit late." I frown at the words, my fingers hovering over the reply key. Starkiller echoes, that's what he means without saying it, the legacy optics knotting up tech salvage from those frozen ruins. Moral quicksand for him. My screen just reads another potential jolt to the charts if the rumors leak. I type back quickly. "Got it. I'll handle Vyn'ara. We'll see you tonight." He sends a thumbs-up, simple and silent, but I feel the weight behind it, the way his work sits on him lately like unhedged exposure.
I push the thread aside and refocus on the news feed, the anchor's voice droning through my earpiece like background static. The lower third chyron shifts, catching my eye with fresh text. A Je'daii lab on Mustafar touting a pre-Republic nav-compute schema, and the New Jedi floating a relic licensing draft. My pulse quickens, the familiar thrill of a pop hitting my veins like a fresh hit from the patch. Je'daii discoveries always land like this, whispers from their Fortress Vader hub on Mustafar, teasing ancient schemas that could rewrite nav arrays overnight. The draft amendment from the New Jedi adds the twist, some ethical licensing push under RELA to audit relic tech before it hits the lanes. I pull up the extended report on my secondary screen, the holo-drone footage looping grainy images of Mustafar's lava fields, where their labs supposedly unearthed the schema from some pre-Republic vault.
Markets lurch before the segment ends. SoroSuub halts, then resumes with a wobble as sellers test the highs. Corellian and Mon Cal stall and flatten, implied volatility creeps across the defense names, and insurers hold a steady bid. I scan the analyst notes flooding in, one from a rim-world firm highlighting the schema's potential to cut beacon drift by half, another warning of New Jedi audits compressing timelines. FOMO grips me, that itch to chase the flyer before it fades, but I temper it with caution. Half-size only, tight stop below the halt level. I execute the trade on my portable terminal, fingers dancing over the haptic interface as the order fills. The relic-tech positions light up in my book, a small bet on the upside while I keep the defense contracts from the core intact. To cushion the draft risk, I buy a handful of short-dated puts, enough delta and gamma to give me breathing room. The P&L flickers, flatlining into a small red as the microcaps wobble harder, but it's manageable, a dip that could turn if the leak holds water.
My comm buzzes, the reminder for the voice clip I recorded earlier. I lean close to the mic with a smile I muscle through the screen glare. "Proud of you, bug. Can't wait to hear about the sea adventures today." The clip saves automatically, but a market ping distracts me mid-send, the SoroSuub chart fading another notch. I set the portable aside, the unsent clip forgotten in the flurry, and dive back into the breakdowns. The leftover greens from breakfast sit on a side plate I brought in earlier, the meiloorun zest wilted under the office lights. I pick at them absently, the crisp bite long gone soft, and wash it down with a fresh bulb from the mini-brewer in the corner. Home thrums around me, the living area visible through the open door, where sunlight pools on the rug like spilled credits. Hanna City's midday bustle filters up from the waterfront below, debates echoing from the covered galleries where locals gather over hill wine and policy. Chandrila's culture thrives on that, serene urbanity laced with endless talk, flowing robes and sea breezes masking the undercurrents that move markets like mine.
Jor'vyn's text lingers in my mind, his lab stress bleeding into my focus. I pull up a quick search on Ilum salvaging efforts, the terminal spitting out redacted reports on New Jedi oversight, ethics drafts floating like the one in today's leak. It ties into the relic pop, those Je'daii excavations stirring up old Sith rumors about some kind of return. The remnant fanatics, scattered post-Exegol, chase dark rituals that jolt the charts without fail, their clashes with Je'daii knights making for volatile sessions. I shake it off, refocusing on the positions, the small red deepening as vols rise. The insurance hedge holds bid, a quiet win amid the wobble, but the gamma lift from the puts feels like insurance on insurance, layering costs that gnaw at the margins.
Vyn'ara's crayon family stares at me from the desk, the blue curl of ocean swallowing the bottom edge of the page, stick-figure smiles wider than any spread I've run. I see her at the playgroup, chattering about whatever kid fancy strikes her today, grins pulling at me through the distance. The Je'daii news lands like pure signal slicing through the noise, but it arrives as half-names and breathless leaks, a squeeze that dares you not to touch it. I touched it. Half-size with a tight stop. Sensible. The family thread lights up in the corner of the terminal. A playdate photo from the nanny, Vyn'ara beaming with paint-smeared hands. I promise myself I'll send the voice clip after this next trim. Price action moves like weather, sun breaks followed by squalls, then the humid lull that breeds carelessness. I catch myself tracking a green flicker that isn't there yet, the anticipation fading as the spread widens a hair.
The ticker updates the draft. New Jedi sponsors push for no offensive deployments to Wild Space without audits, and primes like Corellian lobby for carve-outs for deals with the Je'daii. My defense core stalls and flattens. I roll the puts out for better gamma and let the spend push P&L a shade deeper into red. Flat enough to ride, but the wobble in SoroSuub tests my stop, the relic-tech flyer threatening to evaporate like morning mist off the water. Birds wheel against the blue outside, their cries faint, a reminder of the world beyond the terminals. I pace to the window, stretching my legs against the chair's stiffness, the sea breeze simulated through the vents carrying salt that grounds me. The waterfront bustles below, tourists recording the Coalition seal as it turns on a nearby facade, their chatter lost in the hoverlane drone. Another analyst alert buzzes through, relic-smuggling chatter spiking insurers' Rim add-ons. I return to the desk, trimming the relic position just enough to lock in the flat, the red stabilizing as vols hold their climb. The session drags into the thick part of midday, orders filling with mechanical precision, but my mind drifts to Vyn'ara again, the unsent clip nagging at me like a missed entry. I hit send finally, the comm confirming with a chime, and lean back, watching the charts breathe. Je'daii balance sounds heroic in the feeds, guardians of duality pursuing Tython as their capital, but in my book, it's market highs that promise luxury only to dip into home-eating lows without Vyn nearby. The New Jedi's relic draft floats like another safety net, but it compresses yields, turning opportunistic plays into guarded waits. Factions deal these realities as sand in my filters, not dreams, the differences hitting hardest in the quiet beats when you look away from the screens. A distant news-drone whirr echoes from the living area, the broadcast projecting onto the glass facade outside, but I tune it out, focusing on the gamma lift. The small red feels like a bruise now, manageable but throbbing, the relic pop fading into yellow uncertainty. Jor'vyn's lab ping comes through again, a quick update on the ethics knot, and I reply with encouragement, the words feeling thin against the weight of what he carries. The penthouse settles around me, the kitchen plate cleared away by the auto-cleaner, leaving only a ghost of zest in the air. The city's serenity mocks the frenzy in my terminals, limestone framing the sea like a still-frame, but the grind pulls me back, the charts demanding their due.
The afternoon sun dips lower over Hanna City, casting long shadows across my office floor like fingers reaching for the edges of my charts. I push back from the desk, the runner muffling my chair's roll, and stretch my arms overhead, easing the knot between my shoulder blades. The relic-tech position holds a grudging flat, the midday red sticking like grit in a filter, but vols climb without breaking me yet. SoroSuub slips another tick and toys with my stop, while the defense core stalls and waits for a catalyst. The clock overlay blurs from too much screen glare, and the time hits before the number registers. I'm late picking Vyn'ara up. Jor'vyn's delay at the lab puts it on me. I grab the portable, its sleek edges cool in my hand, and sync the feeds with a swipe, the screens dimming as I step toward the office door. Home lies quiet, sunlight pooling on the rug in the living area, the crayon drawing still on the counter. I pocket it, the paper crinkling against my jacket lining, and cross the hall, the door hissing open to the esplanade, afternoon light hitting my face before the heat does.
I step outside, the colonnade framing the sea's glint, and tap my comm to call my speeder from the parking bay below. The repulsors hum as it rises, sleek and silver, dewback-leather seats gleaming under the canopy. I slide in, the leather creaking, and punch the seaside pavilion's coordinates into the auto-nav, a cozy playgroup where local parents trade kid-watching shifts, all crafts, learning, and laughter. The speeder lifts smoothly, gliding over the seaside paths, the tang of brine whipping through the open convertible top as birds wheel overhead. A sharp GNN alert cuts through my earpiece, a red banner flashing across the portable's screen. Scout convoys lost on the Tython hyperlane project. Je'daii confirming harsh casualties. My stomach lurches, the news hitting like a bad call on an IPO. Revan's holo-insert flickers on, his masked face steady from his order's flagship bridge, the Star of Ashla. "We lost souls to the void today, claimed by the imbalance we seek to mend. Their sacrifice demands we restore the corridor in true harmony—Ashla and Bogan as one—for to forsake Tython's call is not an option." His words hang, but the street trades on results, not vows. Insurers mark Θ-12 on the approach before Revan finishes the interview, premiums spiking like a freighter breaking atmo. The Hyperspace Insurance Swap Index surges and the hedge glows green. SoroSuub drops ten to fourteen percent and beacon suppliers eat the loss. Fondor falls six to eight with reroutes carving margins. SAR contractors rise five to seven on salvage bets. Corellian credit swaps widen forty basis points. Tibanna forwards dip, and Rim Lane futures climb on congestion fears. A moratorium on all further hyperlane projects is proposed by the NGC, set for a forty-eight-hour hearing. I add to the insurance hedge, clients first, fingers steady on the portable's haptic keys despite the patch prickling behind my ear.
The speeder glides past the marina, ferry horns blaring over the water's restless chop, the breeze slipping through the open top and mingling with the metallic taste the stim leaves on the back of my tongue. I work the portable in my lap, eyes darting between charts and the seaside pavilion ahead, where kids scamper across the grass. The folded drawing pokes from my jacket pocket, its crossed-out beacon a crayon echo of the convoy's loss, a child's scribble turned gut-punch amid the ticks vibrating through my earpiece. The auto-nav slows as we near the pavilion. I tap the console to park, the drive easing down with a soft whine, the speeder settling onto the curved lot beside the pavilion's low steps. I step out, boots crunching on the gravel path, the portable still in hand as the anchor drones about tripled premiums in my earpiece. The moratorium looms, regulators circling relic-nav tech like Jawas on scrap, the forty-eight-hour hearing starting to squeeze my calls. I trim the Fondor short with a quick swipe, playing it safe, but SoroSuub's bleed deepens, the net red stinging my P&L like an open wound that won't respond to pressure. The insurance hedge prints, a small mercy, while rising volatility eats tomorrow's plays. Vyn'ara spots me from the pavilion steps, her small form waving, a brief green in the haze of my reds. I force a smile, pocketing the terminal mid-tap, and stride toward her, the breeze tugging at my tunic as parents mill about, chatting over datapads. Her paint-smeared hands grab my sleeve, her chatter about painted waves spilling out, something about ships and blue curls, but it's half-lost in the earpiece's drone about salvage costs. The net red throbs, a reminder that work steals these moments meant for her, like a tax on every giggle. I nod absently, guiding her back to the speeder, her small steps skipping beside mine across the gravel. The pavilion fades behind us, kids' laughter mixing with the cries of birds overhead, a fleeting signal drowned by the pings in my earpiece.
We slide into the speeder, her small frame sinking into the seat beside me, the auto-nav chiming as I set it for the penthouse. We lift smoothly, the drive humming steady as we pull away, the city's limestone glinting in the sinking sun. My comm buzzes with a text from Jor'vyn, a calibration panel stuttering, a six-point interference bloom pulsing like guilt baked into glass. "Legacy optics," he types, no caption. I fire back, "That's not your index chart." His clenched-fist reaction image lands, bravado masking the lab ethics knotting his day. The portable's charts flicker in my lap, Vyn'ara's hand tugging mine as she points to a bird outside, her voice a bare signal against the earpiece's whir. The sun dips lower, dinner a slim hope to reset the hollows of the day as we near home.
The evening light fades over Hanna City, the Silver Sea turning a deep indigo under the setting sun, waves lapping against the cliffs like whispers I can almost hear through the penthouse vents. I shut down the main terminal with a weary swipe, the screens dimming to black one by one, leaving only the muted glow of my portable on the desk. The session ends red, a stubborn bleed that no last-minute hedge can fully stanch, the moratorium's decision stretching into after-hours. Corellian drifts another three percent in thin trading, volatility stays bid like a warning, and credit default swaps hold wider as models take their haircut. I advise my clients through quick holo-calls, my voice steady despite the knot in my gut. "Hold Corellian long, hedge the panic. Roll the weeklies. We wait on if the pauses in projects actually happen, not whispers that they're already abandoned." They nod and sign off, trusting my reads, but personally, I cut the last SoroSuub bet and roll what hedges I can to blunt tomorrow's open.
Jor'vyn messages that he's on his way back, and we agree to meet at the cliff-edge terrace down the promenade for dinner, a spot we favor for its view and the way it makes the city's debates feel distant. I grab my jacket from the chair, the fabric cool against my skin after hours in the office's controlled warmth, and step out with Vyn'ara into the central living area. The rug muffles our footsteps as we cross through the door, it sealing behind us with a soft hiss.
The esplanade bustles with after-work crowds, locals in flowing robes debating the day's news beneath the colonnades. Vyn'ara fidgets beside me, her pigment-streaked hands clutching a new drawing, her chatter about the playgroup's crafts bubbling over like volume on a breakout candle. I weave through the crowd, Vyn'ara skipping beside me, words tumbling about painted waves that look like ships lost in the approach. A market alert nudges the net red deeper, an ache that won't quit. The cliff-edge terrace glows ahead, its warmers clicking against the cooling air, the sea's indigo expanse stretching beyond. Jor'vyn waves from our reserved table, his lab tunic rumpled from a long day, his half-smile cutting through the weight of his earlier screen-record. I hug Vyn'ara tight, her color-daubed tunic pressing against me, and lean over to kiss Jor'vyn on the cheek, his jaw rough against my mouth. "Missed you," he murmurs, his hand squeezing mine and Vyn'ara's.
We settle in, the string duo threading old Core standards through the hum of conversation, the HoloNet feed above the waterfront looping the corridor wreckage in muted colors. The waiter brings our order without asking, regulars' privilege. Salt-crusted nerf loin sizzling on a shared platter, greens dressed with jogan vinaigrette, and a bottle of Chandrilan hill wine poured into crystal glasses. The wine's tart bite hits my tongue first, cutting through the day's metallic aftertaste, and I savor it, the heaters warming my back against the breeze. Vyn'ara unfolds her drawing on the table, the corridor ship taking center stage, her finger tracing the lost beacon with solemn pride. "It's like the news, Mama. The light went out, but maybe it comes back." I nod, forcing a smile. Jor'vyn reaches for the nerf, slicing a portion onto Vyn'ara's plate, his movements deliberate. "I think I've got most of the optic's calculations mostly untangled," he says, rubbing his thumbnail where the lab's solvent won't scrub the stamp out. "That watermark keeps creeping back into the calibrations. Different rigs, same geometry." He says it low, under the music, his eyes flicking to mine with that shared guilt. I pour more wine, the liquid glugging softly, and change the subject to Vyn'ara's art, her giggles filling the space where worries might creep. The terrace drones around us, arches framing the sea's endless roll, offworlders framing the sunset on their datapads at the far railing. Mon Cala delegates pass in their motorcade below, clogging the lane with their sleek repulsors, but up here, it's serene, the elements pulsing like a metronome against the fading light.
The check lands with a discreet glow, the string duo pivoting into something expensive that no one remembers. We say the polite things, stand, and let the terrace swallow our table into its quiet rhythm. Warmth ticking, salt on the air, linen like surf. Vyn'ara folds her drawing, corridor ship, bright star, three stick-ish figures, carefully, as if it might break, and tucks it into my jacket pocket with a look that says safe. We take the short steps down to the valet deck together, Vyn'ara's hand warm in mine, Jor'vyn a step ahead, his shoulders slouched from the lab's grind. The bay is a lit stage of chrome rails and soft arrows traced in the air, repulsor haze feathering the floor. A kiosk gleams under a canopy. A single valet attendant in crisp white gloves takes claim tokens and gives back certainty for a living. A Mon Cala motorcade stacks the lane beyond, horns performing their slow ritual of importance. GNN loops on the glass facade to our left, sound muted, pictures loud, convoy wreckage flickering on the display. Jor'vyn goes warm-professional at the counter, sliding the token across the glass. "The Cadeblac speeder," he says, as if the brand helps. The valet glances at the screen, nods, and taps a fob. "Bay Three. Two minutes," he promises, his accent gentle, efficient. The screen buzzes, VIP flag rising, of course it's him. A push bulletin flashes across the display. Joint audit window extended 30 days. Θ-12 remains in force. No carve-out guidance. The words land with the metallic finality of a coin in a jar. I almost don't take the call. Almost.
I step three, maybe five paces for a clean signal. A tourist with a luggage cart drifts between us. The valet waves another couple two steps left. Just beyond the stanchions, shoulder pressed to a support post where the wind doesn't clip the comm. Vyn'ara's hand slips from mine, her small form lingering by the rope line, then drifting to the post as I bring the portable up. It's a practiced motion. Thoughtless. Lethal. "You do not dump core in the middle of an audit—when they're only rumors for now." I tell the client, voice flat, pulse buried. He launches into twenty-seven like history's a mirror as my attention fades to anything outside his lecture. A chime threads the canopy. Our number flips to Ready on the bay display. Two minutes became the present in a flash. Jor'vyn's speeder floats into the berth, settling on a cushion of quiet. Shields down, cabin sealed, seats pre-warmed to the lie that comfort is safety. The valet swings the door up with a neat motion that says you're taken care of. I half-turn, portable still at my ear, moving to scoop Vyn'ara into the cabin first, a ritual. Load the little one, then ourselves. My hand meets nothing but the cold air.
"Vyn?" It's small at first, like a check I expect to clear. I pivot to face the rope line, post, polished floor. The heater's breath ruffles a napkin someone dropped. No little jacket. No black braid. No small scuff of shoes that light when she runs. Jor'vyn hears my voice kink and turns. He's already halfway to the speeder, one hand lifting to the door, the other reaching for her out of habit. He stops dead. The valet looks between us without moving, as if stillness can keep this from being real. "She was right here," I say, which is neither remedy nor reason. I scan right, under the kiosk canopy. Left, behind the pillar. Down, the seam where deck meets rail. Up, the glass where the broadcast pours brighter pictures over us. The crowd keeps moving. Money prefers not to stall. "Vyn'ara!" Louder. Heads start to turn in reflexive annoyance, a quick softening, then superstition to look away. The valet takes a half step like he's going to help, then checks the empty lane, hand hovering as if there's a correct procedural gesture for this. "Bay Three is yours," he says gently. I reach into my pocket as if proof lives there, and pull the drawing instead. The wind lifts the corner; the wax catches my thumb and smears the star. Damage, stupid and small. It hits like a match to dry tinder.
From the berth, the speeder idles its patient invitation. The cabin lighting shifts to the soft cue. The whir turns cruel by continuing unbothered. "Vyn'ara!" Jor'vyn now, the sound a clean tear in his voice. He's already scanning under the rail, around the pillar I used for signal, into the short throat of the lift that takes you down to the lower pier. We haven't moved more than a few meters from where we stood, and every centimeter of that distance is a lie. My client is still on the line, saying my name like he owns a piece of it. I cut the call without a goodbye. The screen returns to the bulletin. Extended. No carve-out guidance. It reads like an indictment delivered to the wrong defendant. The valet lifts a hand toward a nearby deck cam on instinct, and I can see the next few hours trying to assemble themselves like a script that'll play out. Questions, nods, taps, official words with no strings attached. I say her name again, lower, closer, as if whispering it to the seam between deck plates could coax her back in an instant. Nothing answers but the speeder's idle, the Mon Cala horns, and the short polite cough of the canopy chime reminding us that Bay Three is waiting. Jor'vyn reaches for me, then stops, then reaches again, settling for the back of my forearm as if bracing a fracture. His mouth opens to form words but closes on nothing.
"Vyn'ara," I whisper at a barely audible tone, one more time, as if the galaxy owes us an explanation.