The first convoy departs before the station’s artificial cycle shifts to rest mode. Five trade vessels move in cautious formation along the inner arc of the second corridor. Their hulls are unarmed, their escorts minimal but disciplined.
I stand in the observation bay watching them slip into the dark. The viewport glass is cool beneath my fingertips, and beyond it the void stretches indifferent and vast.
“This is what peace looks like?” Rethan asks softly beside me.
“This is what peace attempts,” I reply.
The answer barely leaves my mouth before alarms cut through the quiet.
“Impact registered!” a voice calls from the lower deck.
The projection snaps to life. One of the trade vessels shudders violently, its trajectory skewing off alignment as a localized explosion ripples along its hull plating.
“Source?” I demand.
“No Alliance signature detected,” the tactical officer replies. “Micro-drone detonation suspected.”
The damaged vessel stabilizes under escort, engine flare wavering but intact.
“Casualties?” I ask.
“None confirmed.”
Rethan’s expression hardens. “A warning.”
“Yes.”
A test of authority.
The convoy continues, tighter formation now, escorts repositioning with deliberate caution.
Hours later, I board a shuttle to inspect the outer patrol alignment personally. The airlock seals behind me with a muted hydraulic hiss, and the interior smells faintly of machine oil and charged plating. Four guards flank me—silent, precise, chosen for discipline rather than spectacle.
“You should not travel visibly,” one of them says quietly.
“I do not govern invisibly,” I reply.
The shuttle undocks and slides into corridor space, engines humming steady beneath our boots.
For several minutes, nothing disturbs the quiet except the faint vibration of transit through controlled vacuum.
Then the proximity alarm shrieks.
“Fast approach vector—blind angle!” the pilot shouts.
A small craft—barely more than a reinforced shell—erupts from the shadow between patrol arcs.
Impact.
The shuttle lurches violently, throwing us against bulkheads. A shaped charge detonates against the outer hull, metal screaming under stress.
“Boarding breach!” a guard barks.
The inner hatch explodes inward in a shower of sparks and smoke.
The attacker moves through the breach like a blade—armored, silent, intent condensed into motion.
My guard fires first, but the confined space limits angles.
