The stolen prototype cruiser drifted through deep space in complete silence.
No prison walls.
No alarms.
No guards hunting them through steel corridors.
For the first time since the escape, neither of them had a plan.
Elias Rune sat on the floor of engineering surrounded by exposed wiring, half-disassembled panels, and flickering diagnostics. The lower deck smelled faintly of ozone and coolant leaks while the prototype reactor hummed behind the walls like some sleeping animal.
Across the room, Malak Voss leaned back in the pilot chair with his boots resting on the console.
Completely relaxed.
Like they hadn’t just become two of the most wanted fugitives in the Federated Colonies.
Malak finally broke the silence.
“So.”
Elias didn’t look up. “That usually means you’re about to say something irresponsible.”
“You got a plan?”
Elias snorted softly. “You’re asking me?”
“You’re the genius.”
“We stole an experimental military cruiser.”
“Borrowed.”
“You assaulted a commanding officer.”
“He was rude.”
“You’re accused of war crimes.”
Malak pointed casually toward him. “Alleged war crimes.”
Elias rubbed his face tiredly.
The ship lights flickered again.
“Also,” he added, “half the systems on this thing are dying.”
“She has personality.”
“She has reactor instability.”
Malak shrugged.
“We could split up if you want.”
The words hung in the air longer than either expected.
Elias slowly stopped working.
Logically, splitting up made sense. Malak was dangerous. Reckless. Wanted across multiple systems. Staying near him practically guaranteed trouble.
But Elias also knew something else.
Without Malak, he probably wouldn’t survive long out here.
And despite everything, the idea of leaving felt… wrong.
“You’d get yourself killed without me,” Elias muttered.
Malak grinned immediately.
“There it is.”
“That’s not agreement.”
“You already agreed.”
Elias rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the faint smile.
Maybe that was the strange thing about surviving together.
At some point during the escape, they had stopped being prisoner and accomplice.
Now they were just… alone together.
Two weeks later, the ship nearly exploded.
“DON’T TOUCH THAT!”
Too late.
Malak flipped the switch anyway.
The entire lower deck erupted with warning sirens as the reactor violently surged.
Elias dove across the console while sparks exploded from an open panel overhead.
“I WAS CURIOUS!”
“You cannot be curious around experimental propulsion systems!”
The ship lurched sideways hard enough to slam Malak into the wall.
He burst out laughing.
“I think she likes me!”
“She’s trying to kill you!”
Elias frantically rerouted power while smoke poured from a vent beside him.
After several agonizing seconds, the alarms finally died.
Silence returned.
Elias collapsed backward onto the floor, exhausted.
Malak casually handed him a ration pack.
“You know,” he said, “if we survive long enough, this’ll all become funny.”
“We are surviving despite you.”
“Still counts.”
Days slowly turned into weeks.
The ship changed with them.
Engineering became Elias’s territory entirely. Loose tools, open maintenance panels, hanging cables, and half-built modifications slowly consumed the lower deck.
Meanwhile the bridge became unmistakably Malak’s. Old star charts, smuggling routes, handwritten notes, empty caf containers, and stolen music files cluttered every surface.
The military cruiser slowly stopped feeling like TS-Gamma.
It started feeling like something alive.
Something theirs.
Which was exactly why Malak eventually announced:
“This ship needs a real name.”
Elias didn’t even look up from his datapad.
“It literally already has one.”
“That’s a military designation.”
“That’s because it’s a military ship.”
“Not anymore.”
Malak stood dramatically from the pilot chair.
“The Ghostline.”
Silence.
Elias slowly lowered the datapad.
“…What?”
“The Ghostline.”
“That’s awful.”
Malak looked offended.
“It sounds legendary.”
“It sounds fake.”
“It sounds mysterious.”
“It sounds like a cheap nightclub.”
Malak ignored him completely.
“Imagine hearing it over comms.”
“I hope I never do.”
“The Ghostline.”
“No.”
Malak pointed toward the cockpit proudly.
“That’s her name.”
Elias stared at him for several seconds.
“I need you to understand this clearly.”
Malak grinned.
“You love it already.”
“I hate it so much.”
Draxos sat beneath the endless glow of neon storms.
The planet never truly slept.
Massive towers stretched upward through thick industrial haze while holographic advertisements flickered endlessly across the night skyline. Music pounded from crowded street clubs hidden beneath elevated transit rails. Smugglers, mercenaries, addicts, bounty hunters, and corporate criminals packed the undercity districts shoulder to shoulder.
Draxos was where people disappeared.
Or reinvented themselves.
The stolen cruiser drifted into one of the countless hidden docking bays buried deep beneath the city levels.
Elias stared out the cockpit window.
“This place feels illegal.”
Malak smirked.
“That’s because it is.”
“You said we were meeting an old friend.”
“We are.”
“That sentence keeps getting worse every time you say it.”
The docking garage door groaned open.
Inside stood a massive mechanic with four cybernetic arms and burn scars running across his neck.
He stared at Malak for several long seconds.
Then barked out a laugh.
“Well I’ll be damned.”
Malak grinned.
“Miss me, Torren?”
“I heard you got executed.”
“Government exaggeration.”
Torren crushed him in a one-armed hug before finally noticing Elias standing awkwardly nearby.
“…Why is there a teenager here?”
“I’m nineteen,” Elias answered immediately.
Torren squinted at him.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
Torren looked back to Malak.
“You adopt him?”
Malak looked horrified.
“No.”
“Absolutely not,” Elias added.
Torren shrugged. “Could happen.”
“It literally could not.”
Malak leaned onto the workbench.
“I need registry forgery work. Full ship identifier replacement. Also need discrete upgrades.”
Torren whistled softly.
“That’s expensive.”
“We’re low on credits.”
“Obviously.”
Torren tossed a datapad toward them.
“One quick transport job.”
Elias narrowed his eyes instantly.
“That phrase has killed people.”
Torren ignored him.
“Accountant wants off-world quietly. Pick him up here on Draxos and deliver him to a contact on Ornos.”
“Ornos?” Elias repeated.
Torren nodded.
“Sage Republic research world. Super clean. Super advanced. Which means super annoying security.”
Malak smirked.
“Easy enough.”
Elias looked between both men suspiciously.
“Why do I feel like none of you understand what the word easy means?”
The accountant turned out to be a sweating middle-aged man carrying a metal briefcase chained to his wrist.
Elias immediately distrusted him.
“What’s in the case?”
“Financial records.”
“That means it’s definitely not financial records.”
The man looked away nervously.
“Right,” Elias muttered. “Good talk.”
The actual problem started before they even left Draxos.
Dock security stopped them at the launch platform.
Two armed officers approached slowly while scanning the stolen cruiser.
One of them frowned.
“This registry ping doesn’t match station records.”
Elias felt his stomach drop.
Malak, meanwhile, looked completely relaxed.
“That’s because the docking system is outdated,” he said smoothly.
The officer didn’t look convinced.
Elias quietly started calculating escape routes in his head.
Then suddenly, somewhere deeper in the docking district, an explosion thundered through the undercity.
Alarms erupted instantly.
People started screaming.
Both officers cursed and turned toward the noise.
One pointed at them aggressively.
“Don’t leave this dock.”
Malak nodded politely.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
The second the officers disappeared into the crowd, the cruiser launched off the platform.
Elias stared at Malak.
“You caused that.”
Malak kept piloting.
“Define caused.”
“You absolutely caused that.”
“I prefer strategically redirected attention.”
Ornos looked like another universe entirely.
Bright white towers.
Clean air lanes.
Perfect transit systems.
Everything smooth. Ordered. Controlled.
Sage Republic patrol craft glided silently between enormous research spires while drones moved in flawless synchronized patterns overhead.
Elias stared out the cockpit.
“This place makes me uncomfortable.”
“Too clean?”
“Too expensive.”
Their contact waited inside a quiet transit terminal near one of the research districts.
Unlike Draxos, nobody here shouted.
Nobody lingered.
The Sol Collective operative wore simple gray clothing with no visible insignia.
Calm eyes.
Calm posture.
Like they already knew everything happening around them.
The accountant nearly collapsed with relief upon seeing them.
The operative simply nodded once toward Malak.
“Thank you for ensuring his safe arrival.”
Malak shrugged.
“Try not to make a habit of it.”
The operative’s gaze briefly shifted toward Elias.
“You’re new.”
Elias blinked.
“…What does that mean?”
“It means,” the operative replied calmly, “you still look surprised to be alive.”
Malak laughed loudly while Elias looked offended.
Several days later, the newly forged Ghostline rested inside Torren’s Draxos hangar once again.
Except now she looked different.
Sharper.
Meaner.
Hidden compartments lined the cargo bay. New heat dispersers sat beneath the hull plating. Sensor bafflers wrapped around the reactor housing.
She finally looked like a ship built to disappear.
Torren handed Malak a datapad.
“Registry’s clean. According to most systems, this ship officially doesn’t exist anymore.”
“Perfect.”
Elias stepped back to admire the hull—
Then froze.
Freshly painted beside the cockpit in bright white lettering were the words:
GHOSTLINE
Elias closed his eyes slowly.
“You actually painted it on the ship.”
Malak looked incredibly proud of himself.
“It looks amazing.”
Torren tilted his head.
“…I don’t get it.”
Malak blinked. “What do you mean you don’t get it?”
“It’s two random words.”
“It sounds mysterious.”
“It sounds like public transportation.”
Elias immediately pointed at Torren.
“THANK YOU.”
Malak looked offended.
“No, listen. Ghostline. Like a ship that appears out of nowhere.”
Torren scratched his beard.
“So why not call it Ghost Ship?”
“Because that sounds stupid.”
Elias stared at him in disbelief.
“You named our ship Ghostline.”
“Exactly.”
“That is objectively worse.”
Malak crossed his arms confidently.
“You two simply lack vision.”
Torren looked back toward the hull.
“…Still sounds like a train.”
Elias laughed hard enough he nearly dropped his datapad.
For a moment, the three of them simply stood there watching sparks rain across the shipyard while workers finished welding fresh armor onto the Ghostline’s hull.
Then Elias’s smile slowly faded.
“…You know something doesn’t make sense, right?”
Torren glanced over. “That describes most things on Draxos.”
“The job,” Elias said. “It was too easy.”
Malak leaned against the hull quietly.
The accountant had been nervous.
Terrified, honestly.
And the Sol Collective operative on Ornos clearly knew exactly who they were picking up.
No negotiations.
No delays.
No questions.
Just payment.
A lot of payment.
Torren’s expression darkened slightly.
“What was in the case?”
“Didn’t ask,” Malak answered immediately.
Elias frowned. “Which means you wanted to.”
“Of course I wanted to.”
“And?”
Malak looked back toward the glowing skyline of Draxos beyond the hangar doors.
“In our line of work,” he said calmly, “there are two kinds of dangerous questions.”
Elias crossed his arms. “And?”
“The ones you ask too late…”
A small grin appeared on Malak’s face.
“…and the ones you survive by never asking at all.”
Silence settled between them for several seconds.
Then Torren shrugged.
“Well. Whatever it was, at least it paid for the upgrades.”
Malak smirked.
“See? Optimism.”
Elias stared at both men.
“I am surrounded by terrible influences.”
“Correct,” Malak said proudly.
Above them, the newly forged Ghostline hummed quietly inside the neon-lit shadows of Draxos.
And somewhere deep inside Elias Rune, for the first time since escaping the facility, a dangerous thought finally started to form.
Maybe they could actually survive out here.