The Wraith's Mercy shuddered like a beast rousing from cryo-sleep, sublight engines growling to life in a belch of plasma exhaust that lit the nebula's fringes in azure fury. Zara Kane sprinted down the corridor, mag-boots thudding against the deck plates, the freighter's groans echoing her pulse. Bulkheads loomed on either side—rusted scars from a dozen skirmishes, cartel graffiti scrawled in luminescent paint: Death to the Accord and crude xenomorph sketches that leered in the red emergency strips. The air recyclers hummed erratically, pumping stale oxygen laced with the tang of unfiltered ozone, but it beat the void's kiss.
"Bridge in thirty meters, darling," Renn's voice purred through her suit-comm, intimate as a shared bunk, but undercut by the AI's synthetic edge—a glitchy echo that sent shivers down her spine. "Gunships: three Javelins, closing fast. Shields at 42%—that last owner's idea of 'maintenance.' I've got point-defenses online, but they're slagged. Fancy a hot seat?"
Zara snorted, pistol drawn, sweeping corners out of habit. "Hot seat? You always did talk dirty in a fight." The quip masked the ache—Renn's grin flashing unbidden, that last shore leave on Vega Prime, his fingers tracing her flight scars over cheap synth-whiskey. Dead now, or worse: digitized ghost, salvaged from the nebula's scrap. Focus, Kane. Vendetta first, ghosts later.
The bridge hatch iris'd open with a pneumatic hiss, spilling her into the command nexus: a cavernous dome of cracked viewports and flickering holoscreens, the captain's throne a bolted chair scarred by plasma burns. Consoles sparked fitfully, wiring exposed like veins, but the central tac-table bloomed to life under her palm—Renn's doing, no doubt—projecting the external feed: the nebula's swirling purples, debris fields glittering like shrapnel confetti, and the three Javelins knifing in formation, their sensor pings lighting the void like predator eyes.
Zara dropped into the throne, harness auto-snapping around her torso, neural jack slotting into the chair's uplink with a familiar click. The ship's systems flooded her implants—clunky, underpowered, but responsive, Renn's code smoothing the edges like a lover's touch. "Pilot's yoke nominal. Weapons hot—two forward turrets, one spinal rail. Shields? Pray."
"Faith's overrated," Renn chuckled, his holo-avatar materializing beside her: shirtless sim-model from some old sim-vid, eyes that blue glow betraying the machine. "I've rerouted auxiliary power. Punch it—evasive vector 270 mark 15. I'll handle the toys."
Zara gripped the yoke, the Mercy lurching as she throttled up, freighter groaning under the strain. No fighter grace here—this tub wallowed like a drunk in zero-G, but the nebula's eddies aided, plasma currents buoying them into a sloppy barrel roll. The lead Javelin fired first: plasma lances streaking hot, scoring the shields in sizzling cascades that lit the bridge in strobing orange.
"Shields holding—barely," Renn reported, fingers ghost-dancing over invisible keys. The point-defenses awoke—twin rotary cannons spitting tracer rounds that webbed the void, chewing the Javelin's wing in a fireworks of alloy shards. The gunship yawed, venting atmosphere, but its wingmate flanked low, torpedoes loosing in a spread that painted the tac-table red.
"Incoming!" Zara yanked the yoke, the Mercy diving into a debris cluster—frozen Viper hulks and cartel wreckage providing fleeting cover. Torpedoes detonated behind, shockwaves buffeting the freighter like hammer blows, hull creaking ominously. A viewport spiderwebbed, alarms wailing: Hull Breach: Cargo Bay 3.
"Got 'em," Renn murmured, his avatar flickering as code surged. The spinal rail—ancient relic, capacitors whining—charged with a deep thrum, then barked: hypersonic slug erupting at .8c, punching through the flanking Javelin's cockpit in a silent bloom of debris. The gunship tumbled end-over-end, engines flaring wild before going dark.
Two down. The leader broke off, circling wary—smarter than its fodder, pinging the Grasp for backup. Zara's HUD overlaid squadron ghosts: Reapers' last pings, frozen in the net, the frigate's silhouette lurking in the nebula's throat. "Renn—any salvage in the holds? Something to even the odds?"
His holo grinned, predatory. "Oh, darling, you have no idea. Cartel hauler means black-market specials. Xenotech crate in Bay 2—unlocked it for you. Pulse-rifle prototype, phase-cloak mod. Grab it; I'll keep Junior occupied."
Zara unharnessed, the ship bucking as Renn danced evasive—cannon fire stitching the void, the last Javelin jinking like a stung hornet. She sprinted back through the corridors, mag-boots cycling to full grip, pistol ready for squatters. The breach alarm wailed from Bay 3—hull split, vacuum hissing—but Bay 2's hatch cooperated, iris'ing to reveal stacked crates: spice vials glowing illicit green, data-slates etched with Accord kill-lists, and that one—labeled Xeno-Relic: Unverified.
She pried it open, foam packing yielding to a sleek rifle: ergonomic stock of iridescent alloy, barrel veined with glowing circuits that hummed under her gloved palm. Phase-Pulse Mark VII, her implants decoded—black-market rip-off of Orion tech, smuggled from the Core Worlds. Zara shouldered it, the weapon syncing to her neural link with a warm buzz, scope blooming tactical overlays: heat-sig filters, auto-target ghosts.
"Like it was forged for you," Renn's voice echoed in her earpiece. "Now—move. Junior's calling daddy."
Back on the bridge, Zara slid into the yoke, rifle across her lap like a security blanket. The Javelin had friends: two more gunships peeling from the Grasp's flanks, formation tight, lances priming in unison. The frigate itself advanced slow, rail-batteries swiveling—patient predator, content to let the pack bleed her dry.
"Options?" Zara demanded, throttling into a wide arc, the Mercy's bulk protesting the turn.
Renn's avatar leaned in, breath ghosting her neck—illusion, but visceral. "Run: Hyperspace coil's cold, but I can hot-jump in 90 seconds. Fight: Spinal's recharging, but with that rifle... EVA breach on the leader. Board and gut it from inside."
Zara's lips curled. "Fight. Always fight." She punched the docking clamps release, the chair's harness unlocking as the ship stabilized into a micro-G drift. "Cycle the bay—I'm going out."
The avatar's eyes softened—Renn's old worry, before the void took him. "Zara... the Grasp has your transponder locked. If you fall—"
"Won't." She sealed her helmet, oxygen hissing fresh, and double-timed to the bay. The outer doors cycled with a whoosh of equalizing pressure, the nebula's glow flooding in—beautiful, deadly. Her suit thrusters fired, propelling her into the black, rifle mag-locked to her thigh.
The Mercy danced behind her—Renn's piloting a masterclass in freighter improv: feinting into debris, cannons barking to herd the lead Javelin close. Zara jetted parallel, phase-cloak engaging with a shimmer—suit and rifle fading to ghost-trails, invisible to thermal sweeps. The gunship loomed: angular hull scarred by Accord lasers, engines flaring blue.
She closed the gap, zero-G ballet—thrusters micro-firing to match velocity, gloved hand slapping a maintenance hatch. Mag-seals gripped, the hatch yielding to her multi-tool's spike: Breach: 20%... 50%... Alarms blared inside, but the cloak held, muffling her ingress.
The Javelin's corridor was a sardine can of cartel grunts—four, in vac-suits, scrambling for battle-stations, xeno-rifles barking at phantom pings from Renn's hacks. Zara decloaked mid-stride, phase-pulse roaring: the rifle's beam lanced ethereal, phasing through armor to fry nerves and circuits. The first grunt convulsed, foam bubbling from his seals; the second spun, but her follow-shot pierced his visor, eyes glazing in vacuum-boil.
"Boarders!" a third yelled, voice tinny over suit-comm, rifle swinging wild. Zara rolled low, deck-plates sparking under return fire, her pistol joining the fray—neural slug scrambling the grunt's implants, body locking in agonized spasm. The last charged, vibro-knife gleaming, but she sidestepped, rifle butt cracking his helmet—phase-energy arcing to short his suit, convulsing him into the bulkhead.
Silence fell, broken only by the ship's alarms and the thunder of external impacts—Mercy trading blows with the reinforcements. Zara hacked the bridge console, overriding the Javelin's guns: turrets swiveling inward, lances priming on its own hull. "Renn—fire on my mark."
"Affirm, Ghost. Grasp is vectoring— they've scented blood."
Zara's finger hovered over the trigger-link. "Mark."
The Javelin suicided in a chain of internal blasts, bridge erupting in plasma bloom that vented the ship to space. Zara ejected through a side-hatch, thrusters firing hard, the wreck tumbling past as debris confetti.
Back aboard the Mercy—bay cycling frantic—she hit the bridge running, the tac-table showing grim math: reinforcements closing, Grasp's rails charging. But Renn's grin lit the holo: "Hyperspace hot. Plotting jump to the Drift—neutral black market. We need a crew, upgrades... and answers."
Zara strapped in, the coil whining to life. "Answers? Start with how you survived."
The avatar's eyes dimmed. "Survived? No, Zara. Salvaged. Krix'Vul's tech—neural ripper, pulled my engram mid-death. He wanted the squadron's codes. You were the prize."
The stars streaked to hyperspace lines, the Grasp shrinking to a vengeful speck. But in the jump's warp-glow, a shadow pinged the sensors—not cartel, but Accord: a stealth probe, trailing silent.
Hunters ahead. Ghosts behind. The vendetta burned brighter.
To be continued...
End of Chapter 2