He shakes his head. “Don’t.”
His eyes flick over my face like he’s memorizing it, like he already knows he might not see me again soon.
“Go,” he says.
I swallow hard and step into the transport.
The hatch seals with a soft hiss.
The engines hum low.
I strap in, hands steady, heart not.
The craft undocks.
I clear the corridor junction.
And immediately, my console pings.
A “routine” navigation inquiry.
Soft. Polite.
Wrong.
Then another ping.
Then a signal handshake request from a private security node I don’t recognize.
My skin prickles.
I kill broadcast functions reflexively, trying to drift cold again—but the corridor’s traffic systems don’t like silent ships. A warning flashes:
FAILURE TO MAINTAIN TRAFFIC COMPLIANCE WILL TRIGGER INTERCEPT
Of course.
There’s always a rule that makes survival illegal.
I adjust—minimal compliance, minimal signal, just enough to avoid an automatic lock.
A craft slides into my path ahead—sleek, black, unmarked. Another flanks to my left.
My throat tightens.
Then the comm channel opens without my permission.
A man’s voice fills the cabin, smooth, bored, carrying authority like it’s a casual accessory.
“Routine inspection,” he says. “Power down and prepare to be boarded.”
My fingers hover over the controls.
“Credentials,” I say, forcing my voice steady.
A packet pings onto my console—security credentials, stamped, formatted correctly… and yet the formatting has that subtle wrongness I’ve learned to feel, like counterfeit paper that looks fine until you rub your thumb against it.
Falsified.
