The tramp freighter didn’t so much as travel through slipspace as endure it.
Elara had ridden enough jumps to know the difference.
The ship’s ancient navigation core chattered constantly behind the bulkheads—predictive models recalculating, route corrections rewriting themselves every few seconds as the folded geometry of realspace collapsed into the tangled topology of slipspace. Cheap drives didn’t carve elegant paths. They shoved themselves through probability and hoped the math held long enough to reach the other side.
This freighter's slipspace travel felt like riding a barely-tamed beast—teeth clenched, white-knuckled grip on reality while the nav computer screamed through endless corrections.
She sat cross-legged on the cargo deck beside a row of metal containers Ironbelly had purchased on Shor’kai. The overhead lights hummed softly. The ship vibrated with the constant micro-adjustments of the drive.
A small holo-slate floated above her knee while she worked through the inventory.
Ironbelly hadn't asked what she needed.
He’d simply bought everything.
Typical.
Her fingers danced across the cargo manifests while her mind cataloged their contents: weapons sealed in triple-layered crates, a dozen medpaks, stim injectors, blood clotting patches, signal scramblers, identity markers that would dissolve after a single use, and a pair of surveillance drones so new their protective film still caught the light with prismatic reflections.
And enough bribe currency to purchase a small moon.
She paused at that entry.
Ironbelly hadn't even tried to be subtle.
Six vacuum-sealed packets of mixed currency bars sat in a reinforced container at her elbow. Gold, platinum, and mana-crystal denominations stamped with half a dozen different exchange authorities. The kind of currency that moved quietly between professionals who didn’t trust electronic ledgers.
She opened the container and lifted one packet out.
Heavy.
Good.
Officium would appreciate the gesture.
The slate chimed softly as she moved to the next section.
Armor.
Her own gear sat neatly arranged on the deck plating.
Elara leaned forward and began assembling the pieces with methodical care.
The suit looked unimpressive when disassembled—thin graphite plates layered with flexible weave, the entire thing designed to disappear beneath civilian clothing. The sleeves sealed into lightweight gauntlets with a faint magnetic click.
Testing the suit's range of motion, she rolled her shoulder in a slow circle. Perfect flexibility. She reached for the pistol next, appreciating its sleek design as she hefted its weight—small enough to conceal, yet enhanced with mana circuits that made it deadlier than its size suggested.
She field-stripped it out of habit, inspected the chamber, then slid it back together with a quiet snap before holstering it against the inside of her jacket.
If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.
Spare magazines.
Neuro-shunt.
A small vibroblade.
Micro-scrambler.
Holo-mask collar.
Each piece found its place.
Across the deck, the nav computer emitted another irritated chirp as the slipspace route shifted again.
Elara's gaze drifted toward the forward bulkhead. The jump carried an unusual smoothness.
Her fingers summoned a diagnostic window on the slate, eyes narrowing as navigation logs populated the display. The numbers confirmed her instinct—correction cycles had decreased, predictive margins had tightened, and the arrival window had compressed by a hair over one percent.
The calculations were still there, still urgent—but the edge of imminent catastrophe had softened just enough for Elara to notice something was missing. Or added.
A crease formed between her brows. Not outside the realm of possibility. But certainly outside the realm of probability.
This freighter was a salvage heap held together by stubborn engineering and Tarka’s questionable maintenance habits. Its nav computer should have been fighting slipspace topology every few seconds.
Instead, it seemed almost… cooperative.
Elara stared at the numbers a moment longer.
Then she closed the diagnostic window.
Slipspace did strange things to statistics. One smooth run didn’t mean anything.
She slid the last packet of bribe currency into a slim carry case and locked it.
Across the deck, the ship gave a soft shudder as the drive began its exit calculations.
Elara rose, stretching out the stiffness in her shoulders.
Time to see what kind of welcome waited on the other side.
She stepped into the narrow corridor leading toward the cockpit when the ship’s internal system pinged quietly.
Not a standard alert. More like a routing hiccup.
Elara stopped and narrowed her eyes.
She walked back to the cargo bay console and brought up the internal systems map.
At first glance, everything looked normal.
Drive control.
Environmental regulation.
Navigation stack.
Cargo registry.
But buried deep inside the routing architecture—tucked between two innocuous maintenance subroutines—sat a thread of code that absolutely did not belong there.
Elara stared at it.
Then sighed.
“Really?”
She leaned over the console with her multi-tool and popped the casing open.
A pair of black eyes gazed up at her from inside the maintenance cavity.
For a moment neither of them moved.
Elara crossed her arms and stared.
“You’re terrible at this,” she said quietly.
Chime flickered.
Not panicking.
Just… waiting.
Elara shook her head slowly.
“You do realize sneaking around is my profession.”
Eye blinks in response.
She leaned back and sighed again. This is what raising children must feel like.
“If anyone here figures out what you are, you disappear into a laboratory, and I get a bullet in the back of the head.”
The ship shuddered again as the slipspace drive began collapsing the route.
Elara glanced toward the cargo bay’s vidscreen.
“Places like this eat curious little ghosts for breakfast.”
She backed up and waved it out.
“Come on. Stay quiet. Don’t touch anything. And for the love of the universe, stop trying to hide in places a second-year systems tech could find.”
Chime flowed over the console and trilled softly, “...sorry…”
Good enough. They made their way to the cockpit and Chime plopped into the co-pilot seat without being told. It was getting more proactive by the day.
The freighter lurched as the drive disengaged.
Slipspace unraveled.
Stars exploded back into existence across the viewport.
The Caelestis Officium system spread out before them in cold, orderly geometry.
Traffic filled the inner orbit like drifting constellations—cargo haulers, courier vessels, diplomatic cutters, and the sleek silhouettes of corporate patrol craft weaving between them.
Beyond it all hung Tyris.
A planet buried beneath city lights.
Three massive orbital rings circled the world in slow mechanical precision, each one layered with towers, docks, and transit hubs large enough to swallow entire fleets.
Registry.
Arbitration.
Embassy.
Power wrapped neatly in bureaucracy.
Her eyes scanned the traffic lanes.
SoulCorp registry beacons glowed faintly along the arbitration ring.
Noble holo banners drifted above the embassy ring like slow-moving scars against the void.
Somewhere down there, people who would happily sell her out were drinking expensive wine and discussing contracts.
And somewhere else…
Someone might know why a noble house’s surveillance probes were suddenly appearing across half the sector.
Her first stop was already decided.
An old contact.
Someone who dealt in information the way others dealt in currency.
Someone who had once helped her dismantle a smuggling network without asking too many questions.
Someone who also happened to know a certain hyena-smiling card dealer name Darius.
Elara studied the orbital traffic a moment longer.
Then she spoke quietly, almost absently.
“You picked a bad place to follow me.”
A flat stare.
“Try not to get us dissected.”
