Greg rubbed his glabella, wincing. The pounding in his skull was familiar, hyper jumps always left him nauseous, as if his body was caught behind his ship.
Through the forward viewport, a massive brown sphere loomed into sight. Koyta. Its atmosphere swirled with toxic haze, clearly a byproduct of decades of gas mining. Even from orbit the planet looked sick, scarred by Exnec's industries.
Greg adjusted the throttle. The Stellar Runner eased towards orbit. He hated this place. Pilots whispered of hull corrosion, faulty refueling ports, and smugglers lurking in the shadows of Koyta's stations since Enforcers had limited activity here in the Fringe nebula. But his fuel reserves were critical, he didn't have a choice.
Greg zoomed down through the sick air and guided the Stellar Runner into one of Koyta's orbital docks, a rust-colored ring station that looked more patched than built. Docking clamps groaned, the vibration rattling through the cockpit. Greg sighed, he knew he didn't have much money left. Just 300 Tapil, bearly enough to get him to Galu.
"Runner-312," a flat voice crackled over comms. "Transmit fuel order and Tapil."
Greg swiped through the display, authorizing the smallest refill. Even that shaved a painful chunk from his balance, nearly half a month's pay. Any more, and Exnec's tariffs would bleed him dry. Greg's jaw clenched as the digits dropped. Just like that, he was down to a hundred Taps.Great.
Outside, fueling arms hissed to life, locking onto the Runner's ports with a clank that made his jaw tighten.
Through the viewport, the docking bay flickered with light. Workers in patchwork suits hauled cables across the deck. Traders shouted figures over the roar of engines, bartering loudly in a dozen tongues. Somewhere in the shadows, a scuffle broke out, followed by laughter. Typical Koyta.
Greg leaned back in his seat. His goal was simple: refuel quickly and get out without drawing attention.
Then his console pinged. A proximity alert flashed red, something had docked two bays over. A sleek black and red ship. Unmarked. Not Exnec officers. Not Enforcer. Something else.
It couldn't be an ESC ship. The Exon Star Command only sent one pilot to the Fringe nebula at a time and he was deployed here already. If this was an ESC pilot or Starhauler as they were called by commoners then he had to be a smuggler. That was dangerous. He smuggled things too but only to places he'd been deployed to. Going without clearance was a big risk, this pilot was either reckless or desperate. Either way, trouble.
Greg's stomach sank. Whoever this pilot was, he wasn't here for fuel.
BEEP
"Refueling complete."
Greg exhaled, his shoulders loosening for the first time since he'd hit orbit. He slid his thumb over the screen, confirming the transaction and winced in dismay at the meager Tapil left.
The fueling arms clanked loose, retracting into the dock. He was free to leave.
Excellent. Just in time-
THUNK.
Greg froze, that sound wasn't right. It couldn't have been his ship.
Through the viewport he caught movement across the bay. The unmarked ship extended its docking arms. About six figures in dark overalls and hissing gasmasks strode down the gangway. Suspicious.
Two sprinted across the bay toward the main hatch into the station. Dock workers scattered, their shouts muffled through the cockpit glass, faces pale with panic.
The comms crackled again, static first, then a voice like gravel ground through metal followed.
"Sit tight, Runner."
Greg's heart screamed, he knew that accent. It was a Zaterman's. He had it all wrong, these guys weren't ESC, they were scavengers.
His gaze snapped back to their ship. Four of them were closing on the Runner, one hefting a humming laser saw.
A soft warning lit on his dashboard: Proximity scan, external lock attempt.
They were trying to slice into his ship's systems.
Greg's jaw locked.
"Not today," he muttered.
Greg spared no more second, he slammed the throttle. The Stellar Runner roared, clamps groaning as they strained against the sudden ignition. An angry shout carried over the comms, then the locks released with a loud metallic groan. His ship lurched forward, blasting free into open space.
The stars stretched out before him. Relief surged but briefly.
Behind, the black and red ship tore loose from the dock, engines burning hot blue, locking onto his trail.
Greg cursed under his breath, pushing the Runner harder. His fuel reserves weren't enough for a speed chase. Every second burned Tapil he didn't have.
But he couldn't let them tail him all the way to Galu. He banked toward the nebula edge, alarms shrieking in protest. Stars warped into dizzying streaks across the viewport.
The scavengers surged closer.
Greg shoved the Runner harder, jaw clenched.
One wrong move, and he'd burn out.
But if he slowed… he was dead.