The hangar was a cacophony of noise and chaos labeled as order. Elias approached the Hangman waiting in its bay, a faint chemical sting riding his breath, red vapor leaking from his nostrils.
A tech approached him with a tablet in scaled hands, his voice like gravel.
"Pre-launch inspection has cleared. Pressure holding, seals are fine, life support functional, weapons loaded. She's void-worthy. Sign here."
Elias took the tablet, gave it a glance, long enough to acknowledge the small fees attached. Not long enough to honor the liability waivers and legal jargon. He'd signed the same document too many times.
He signed and passed it back to the dragon-kin worker.
"Thank you," Elias said plainly. The words cost him nothing.
The tech looked at him, then at the Hangman. Burnt-black. Gangly. A hull with no armor and no shields, carrying new mil-spec ordnance that outpriced the frame itself. A hint of recognition creased his coarse voice.
"Good hunting."
The cockpit opened with a click and a hiss. Elias reached in, took the helmet from the seat, and fixed it with a quarter twist. The HUD activated as the suit pressurized, feeding a display of vitals and data points.
Elias's bag found its home under his feet, clipped into a loop in the floorboard.
A braided sync coil snaked out from the seat's neck brace and latched onto his helmet, something he hadn't noticed before. The helmet's HUD lit with Hangman's data: generator levels, weapons, and optical instruments syncing into IFF identifiers, all organized neatly into his field of vision.
The canopy closed.
Hangman chimed as lights and auxiliary displays flicked to life. An iris scanner swept across the helmet.
[ARES-9 SIGNATURE: CONFIRMED]
[REDLINE PILOT PROFILE: VERIFIED]
[G-LIMITERS: DISENGAGED]
[INERTIAL SAFETIES: REDUCED]
[NOTICE: PILOT LOSS PROBABILITY ACCEPTED.]
Same warning as last time. Hangman didn't care.
Elias didn't either as he settled into the straps.
"Hangman to control, requesting launch clearance." His voice was flat, calm, almost disarming.
The comms were silent for only a moment. Then:
"Control to Hangman, you are cleared for takeoff from pad 087. Remain on the designated vector before clearing the perimeter."
"Understood," Elias acknowledged.
The bay floor dropped, lowering onto a rail in a rectangular tunnel. The cockpit grew colder. Gravity slipped away as the track carried him forward. Red floodlights filled the passage as he passed thick blast doors in the ceiling, until the track stopped and began lifting through an opening beneath a blast door stenciled in faded orange.
[LIGHT LAUNCH PAD: 087]
Elias brought the generator online. A deep hum filled the cockpit as a faint red glow bled from the quad boosters.
The station's exterior came into view. Shuttles and small craft near him lifted off the spine. On the horizon hung the rings, so large he could only make out a portion above him. The rest were arches like ribs along a steel carcass. Transports and mining rigs rose from bays into the shadows beneath those ribs. They moved with the slow, deliberate grace of something too massive to hurry, yet they still paled compared to the station itself.
Elias gripped the controls. Tiny movements.
Hangman lifted off slowly, reluctantly.
A beast growling as it wished to run but was forced to walk.
Exiting the station was a slow process; every ship was assigned its own vector to follow, a speed limit enforced with fines, and Station Patrols everywhere. Type-09 Interceptors bore a resemblance to Hangman, sickle wings and all, but they were triple the size, heavily armored, sporting multiple shield layers, with a heavy 60mm turret mounted behind the reinforced cockpit.
One of these patrol ships tailed Hangman close, weapons trained.
Elias read the call sign on his radar, then thumbed the comms.
"Is there an issue with my colors, Enforcer-Six?" Elias spoke in the same flat, calm tone.
"Hangman, you're reading combat-level output. Idle that generator."
This again?
"Enforcer-Six, it's an older model. It runs hot, or it's off. You're welcome to follow me." Elias lowered his tone, not angry, just cold. "But take your guns off me. I'm not your enemy."
The comms died. Enforcer-Six broke off Hangman's vector, scanning other ships as he went.
The station fell behind him. Elias brought Hangman into the designated staging zone where several transport ships waited on standby.
Hangman eased between two transports, leaving generous space on either side. Still, both ships edged farther away, their thrusters flaring as if distance alone could save them from the predator in their midst—the war machine running hot among the herd.
A smaller grey-and-orange transport didn't move when Elias approached.
Its hull was blocky, its bridge compact. Folding cranes lay neatly stowed along the flanks. The top was dominated by a sealed bay, a long trap-door hatch that ran nearly half the ship's length. Two 88mm cannons sat dormant on either side, painted the same industrial orange as the rest of the vessel, as if apologizing for existing.
The silhouette was unmistakable. One of many refurbished Response Carriers left over from wartime.
A Class-08.
"Wayfarer to Hangman, you are clear for docking. ventral-stern side." Mike's voice came through loud and clear.
"Understood. Beginning docking approach."
Hangman slipped under Wayfarer in one fluid motion. Eight manhole-sized airlocks were visible along the carrier's underside. Six had been permanently welded shut, leaving only two that still mattered. Elias lined Hangman up with a working lock and switched to the lock-camera feed on his HUD.
Tiny movements. Micro maneuvers upward.
~CLICK~
[AIRLOCK: ENGAGED]
[POSITION LOCKS: ENGAGED]
The contact traveled through the frame and into his bones. Solid. Certain. Right.
He exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
The sound and feel of the interceptor docking to the transport were oddly satisfying, as if they'd been made with each other in mind.
A blade being resheathed in a different scabbard. The fit was still perfect.
Then gravity returned, not from Hangman, but from Wayfarer. A borrowed weight settled over the cockpit as the two ships shared the same field.
The seat reclined almost flat, revealing a set of handles leading up to a tight airlock collar. Elias powered down, unbuckled, and popped the helmet link. He clipped his bag to his leg to keep the narrow passage clear, then hauled himself up the handholds.
He keyed the hatch.
A ladder rose into a grey access shaft lit by a single dying light, with another tight airlock waiting at the top. He climbed, cycled the lock, and listened to the doors trade places behind him, one sealing, the other giving.
The passage ahead opened.
Wayfarer's corridor on this deck was narrow and well-lit. Power conduits ran along the walls and ceiling, neatly managed and labeled. The bulkheads were freshly painted in matte white and kept clean through regular maintenance. Elias climbed a ladder labeled "MAIN LEVEL."
Mike waited at the top, leaning over a steel doorframe.
"Welcome aboard the Wayfarer!" he announced with too much energy for the hour.
Elias looked around the main level's common room, once the carrier's barracks. Now it was a living room-like space, complete with cable machines, a couch, and a kitchen. He removed his helmet with a click and a hiss before speaking.
"Nice ship," he said in a neutral tone. "Needs stronger armaments."
Mike furrowed his brow at the last part. "I have great armaments. Even a Type-06 interceptor that just docked."
Elias didn't bother looking amused. "Fair enough." His gaze slid past Mike into the corridor behind him. "Where's your crew?"
Mike puffed out his chest. "You're looking at the crew."
Elias considered that for a moment. "You run transport for weeks. Sometimes months. Alone?"
"Yeah," Mike said. "Turns out the walls are terrible conversationalists."
"I'm not much better," Elias replied.
Mike snorted. "Who says you're better?"
Elias cracked a rare smile, then let it die. "What's the plan for this run?"
Mike snapped into work mode and keyed up a holo-projector. A transport contract bloomed in the air, tagged for Longblood territory.
"Two day-cycles," Mike said. "We're taking the old grave field route instead of the Z-74 light lane. Shaves three weeks off." He tapped the cargo line. "Grade A concentrated sodium chloride. Safe and boring. Bought and paid for. We just need to deliver on time." He flicked to the return leg. "I load up on spices and grains in port. Quick trip back."
He glanced up. "We split profit fifty-fifty. That's one million for you, then whatever I clear on goods."
Elias kept his eyes on the route. "I'm familiar with that route. It's a den for criminals." He weighed the risks out loud. "Blind spots. No escape routes. I have limited ammunition and no way to reload on your ship. We won't survive a large engagement."
Mike nodded once. "The plan is to cross the grave field dark. Generator off. Dead drift through." He held Elias's look. "If we make contact, we fight."
Elias's eyes narrowed slightly. "Playing dead."
Mike nodded, a smile flashing. "Playing dead."