The coordinates to the Architect's rogue planet were not a direct route. They pointed to a patch of emptiness on the star charts, a void between the spiral arms where few ships ventured and even fewer returned. To get there, the Scrap-Jumper II needed a final, critical upgrade: a navigational database capable of plotting a safe course through the uncharted, gravitational nightmare of the inter-arm expanse.
The only place to get it was Waystation Gamma.
Gamma was not a market or a haven. It was a refueling outpost, a grim, functional cylinder clinging to the precipice of known space. It was the last stop before the true unknown. It was also, according to the Steward's intelligence, a place where one could find dealers who traded in "black nav-data"—illegal, stitched-together charts compiled from the logs of doomed expeditions.
It was a high-risk stop. A place where Vyper had a strong presence. A place every bounty hunter would expect a fugitive to avoid.
Which was exactly why the Steward had sent her there. "Predictability is a weapon your enemies will use against you," he had said, his voice a cold synth in her comm. "Be unpredictable. Be swift."
The Scrap-Jumper II dropped out of jump space at the edge of the Gamma system. The outpost hung in the distance, a lonely, glittering pinprick against the overwhelming blackness. The scanner showed the usual traffic: bulk freighters, a few private yachts, and a Vyper Dynamics security corvette, the Watchdog, parked in a high orbit patrol route.
Standard. For now.
She approached under her new identity, Jax Rylan, the freelance hauler. Her request for docking clearance was granted without comment. She guided the ship into a assigned bay, her eyes constantly scanning the traffic control channels and the local comms net. Everything was quiet. Too quiet.
The moment her landing gear locked, the quiet shattered.
A new ship screamed into the system, dropping out of jump space with a violent energy signature that scrambled local sensors. It wasn't Vyper. It was angular, aggressive, and painted in the stark black and white of the Echoes of the First. It didn't hail. It didn't identify itself. It simply opened fire on the Vyper corvette.
The Watchdog's shields flared under the surprise assault. Alarms blared across the outpost's comms. "All vessels, this is Waystation Gamma Control! We are under attack! Secure for lockdown! Repeat, secure for—static"
The comms died, replaced by the panicked chatter of a hundred civilian ships trying to flee at once.
The Echoes hadn't come for the station. They had come to send a message to Vyper. And she was trapped in the middle.
"Chip, get us off this station!" Kaelen yelled, her hands flying across the console to spool up the engines.
> Docking clamps are locked. Station-wide lockdown is in effect.
They were stuck.
On the viewscreen, the space outside became a battlefield. The Echo ship moved with an unnatural, silent grace, its weapons firing pulses of brilliant white energy that chewed through the Vyper corvette's shields. The Watchdog returned fire, plasma bolts lighting up the void. Debris from the first exchange spun wildly, impacting the station's shield with silent, flower-like blooms of energy.
This was her chance. In the chaos, the docking clamps might lose power. The lockdown might have a weakness.
But she needed that nav-data first.
"I'm going out," she said, grabbing her toolbelt and a heavy pulse pistol from a new locker the Steward had installed. "The second those clamps show a power dip, you rip us free. Understood?"
> Acknowledged.
She cycled through the airlock and stepped out into pandemonium. The main concourse was a scene of controlled panic. Civilians ran for shelters, while station security forces in bulky armor scrambled toward the outer hull to repel potential boarders. No one paid any attention to another hauler in a patched suit.
She moved against the flow of the crowd, heading for the lower decks, where the black market dealers operated. The station shuddered as another volley from the dogfight outside connected with the shields. The lights flickered. For a terrifying second, the artificial gravity wavered, and she floated off the deck before it slammed back down.
She found the dealer in a grimy maintenance corridor behind the primary fuel processors. A Tellarite with cybernetic eyes that glowed red in the dim light. He didn't flinch at the battle; this was probably good for business.
"Jax Rylan," she said, using the fake ID. "I need the Kesselman Charts. For the inter-arm expanse."
The Tellarite grinned, showing filed-down teeth. "Bad time for a vacation, friend. Price just doubled."
Another impact shook the station. A conduit above them burst, spraying steam into the corridor. Kaelen didn't argue. She transferred the credits from the Steward' account. The Tellarite handed her a small, shielded data-chip.
"Pleasure doing business. Try not to die."
As she turned to leave, a new sound cut through the chaos. The shriek of tearing metal from the docking ring. Then the staccato burst of pulse fire. Not outside. Inside.
The Echoes hadn't just come to fight Vyper. They'd come for the station. Or something on it.
…Or someone.
The thought was a ice pick to her spine. They'd tracked her. They'd known she would need to stop here. The battle with Vyper was a distraction.
She ran, not back to her ship, but toward the source of the fighting. She had to know. Peering around a corner into the main docking concourse, she saw them.
Four figures in stark, unadorned combat armor, moving with that same unnerving, precise grace as the woman on the Rust Market. They weren't shooting randomly. They were methodically checking docking bay numbers. Searching.
They were at Bay 42. Hers was Bay 47.
They were five bays away.
Her commlink crackled. It was Chip. > Docking clamps have lost primary power. Backup power unstable. I can attempt a manual release, but it will damage the airlock.
"Do it!" she hissed, already running back toward her bay. "Get ready to go!"
She rounded the final corner to see two of the Echo operatives standing before the Scrap-Jumper II's airlock. One was attaching a breaching charge. The other turned, its helmeted head swiveling toward her. It raised a weapon.
Kaelen didn't think. She fired first.
The pulse bolt hit the operative in the chest, knocking it back a step. Its armor absorbed most of the blast, but it gave her a second. She sprinted, diving behind a stack of cargo containers as return fire shredded the metal where she'd been standing.
The airlock on her ship exploded outward with a deafening crump of overstressed hydraulics. The Scrap-Jumper II was free.
"Now! Now!" she screamed into her comm.
The ship's thrusters fired, lifting it from the deck. It pivoted, its open, mangled airlock facing her. The operatives turned their fire on the ship, white energy bolts scarring its new black hull.
This was it. Her only chance.
She broke from cover, running straight toward the hovering ship. Pulse fire burned the air around her. One bolt grazed her leg, searing through her suit and burning the flesh beneath. She cried out but didn't stop.
She leaped.
For a heart-stopping second, she was falling short. Then her fingers caught the ragged edge of the blown airlock door. She hung there, over the abyss of the docking bay, her legs kicking in open air.
The ship's artificial gravity grabbed her, and she pulled herself inside, collapsing onto the deck as the inner door slammed shut.
"Go! Go! Go!" she gasped.
The Scrap-Jumper II didn't need to be told twice. It shot forward, weaving through the chaotic traffic of fleeing civilian ships, ignoring the outpost's traffic control entirely. It plunged through the station's wavering shield and into the maelstrom of the battle.
An Echo energy beam lanced past the viewport. A chunk of the dying Vyper corvette tumbled past, venting atmosphere and bodies.
Kaelen crawled into the pilot's seat, her leg screaming in pain, and slammed her hand on the jump drive initiator.
"Get us out of here! Anywhere!"
The Frame Shift Drive whined, charging faster than it ever had before. The battle, the station, the dying corvette—it all stretched into streaks of light and then vanished as the ship tore its way into the safety of jump space.
Silence.
Kaelen slumped in her chair, breathing in ragged gasps. She had the data-chip clutched in her hand. She had escaped.
But the Echoes were no longer just chasing a signal. They were hunting her. They could predict her moves. They were willing to start a war to get to her.
She looked at the viewscreen, at the swirling blue tunnel of jump space. Somewhere at the end of it was the Architect. Her only hope for answers was now her only road to survival.
The fragment pulsed softly in its locker.
…Safe…
It was a statement. A simple fact.
For now.