Iron Haven never slept.
Not really.
Even during station-night cycles the old industrial corridors still echoed with cargo loaders, distant arguments, leaking steam pipes, and ships arriving from every corner of civilized space and several corners that definitely weren’t civilized.
The station lived.
Barely.
Which was exactly why Malak liked it.
The doors to Marx’s office slid open with a mechanical hiss.
Malak Voss walked in first with his usual careless swagger while Rhea followed behind carrying a datapad full of supply expenses the crew could no longer ignore.
Marx sat behind a cluttered metal desk surrounded by glowing data screens.
Silver hair.
Dark coat.
Glasses low on her nose.
Her silver cybernetic jaw reflected the dim office lights while her cybernetic left arm rested against the armrest beside her untouched cup of tea.
And standing silently behind her as always…
Roshe.
Black clothes.
Black sunglasses.
Katana across his back.
Completely motionless.
Malak pointed immediately.
“You know, one day I’m gonna catch him blinking.”
Roshe did not react.
Marx sighed.
“One day I’m going to charge you for wasting oxygen in my office.”
“See? That hurts, Marx. We’re practically family.”
“You owe docking fees.”
“Families owe each other money all the time.”
Rhea walked forward and dropped the datapad onto Marx’s desk.
“We need work.”
Marx glanced at the numbers.
“You mean money.”
“That too.”
Marx leaned back slightly.
“I heard about Blackwake Reach.”
Malak scratched the back of his neck.
“Yeah.”
“You delivered the supplies.”
“Yeah.”
“You didn’t get paid.”
“…technically.”
Marx stared at him over her glasses.
“Normally the concept of a job includes receiving payment instead of giving away expensive medical supplies to desperate miners.”
Malak slowly looked toward Rhea.
“I know.”
Rhea snorted quietly.
Marx took another sip of tea.
Everyone in the room knew he would have done the same thing.
Finally Marx set the cup down.
“There may be something.”
Malak straightened slightly.
“Oh?”
“Roshe heard a group of mercenaries asking around for captains with ships.”
Malak blinked.
Then slowly looked toward Roshe.
“…heard?”
Marx nodded once.
“They docked three hours ago.”
Malak ignored the rest entirely.
“How could he hear something without you there? Isn’t he always standing behind you like some kind of haunted furniture?”
Marx pointed toward a station map projected beside her desk.
“Docking Bay Twelve.”
Malak still stared at Roshe suspiciously.
“No seriously. Does he ever leave?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“He uses doors occasionally.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Marx rubbed her forehead.
“Malak.”
“What?”
“Docking Bay Twelve.”
“Right but how did he hear—”
“Go. Before I reconsider helping you.”
Malak narrowed his eyes at Roshe.
“You know, I don’t even think I’ve ever heard you speak.”
Roshe remained perfectly still.
Malak pointed dramatically.
“See? Creepy.”
He leaned slightly closer.
“Hey Roshe… can you speak?”
Silence.
Not even breathing.
Just those black sunglasses staring forward endlessly.
Malak slowly took one step backward.
“…absolutely horrifying.”
Rhea was already walking toward the exit.
“You coming?”
“Yes.”
Malak pointed one last time at Roshe.
“You’re deeply unsettling.”
Roshe didn’t respond.
Malak physically shivered before leaving the office.
The moment the doors shut behind them, Marx finally exhaled tiredly.
“…I should charge him double.”
Behind her, Roshe spoke calmly.
“He is entertaining.”
Marx smirked faintly.
“I know.”
Docking Bay Twelve smelled like fuel, cheap alcohol, and bad decisions.
Which usually meant mercenaries.
Three men waited beside a battered cargo vessel covered in mismatched armor plating and fresh weld marks.
The ship looked functional.
Technically.
Barely.
The apparent leader stepped forward first.
Tall.
Synthetic eye.
Military posture buried beneath civilian clothing.
“You a captain?”
“Depends who’s asking.”
The mercenary ignored the answer.
“We need transport.”
“To where?”
“A remote world in the Veyra Fringe.”
“What kind of transport?”
“Land planetside. Pick something up. Bring it back.”
Rhea crossed her arms.
“What exactly are we extracting?”
“Cargo.”
“That tells me nothing.”
“That’s intentional.”
Malak smiled slightly.
“Now we’re communicating.”
The mercenary handed over a datapad.
Coordinates.
Payment amount.
Rhea’s eyebrows lifted slightly.
“That’s a lot.”
“Half upfront,” the mercenary said. “Half after extraction.”
Malak studied the man quietly.
Too much money.
Too little detail.
Too many weapons.
Classic trap.
Rhea clearly saw it too.
“You’re following us in your own ship?”
“In case there’s trouble.”
“That somehow makes me trust you less.”
The mercenary shrugged.
“So?”
Malak looked toward the battered ship behind them.
Not military.
Not professional.
Probably stolen.
The kind of crew desperate enough to hijack a captain’s vessel if given the opportunity.
Normally he’d walk away.
But the Ghostline needed repairs.
Fuel.
Supplies.
And Iron Haven definitely wasn’t forgiving docking fees out of kindness.
Finally Malak sighed dramatically.
“I already hate this job.”
Then smiled.
“But I hate being broke more.”
Back aboard the Ghostline, the entire crew immediately knew something was wrong the moment Malak walked into the common area smiling.
Brakk looked up from cleaning a rifle.
“That smile means danger.”
“It means money.”
“Same thing.”
Rhea tossed the datapad onto the table.
“Possible extraction job.”
Elias scanned the payment numbers.
“…that is absolutely a trap.”
Aya glanced at the coordinates once.
“Yes.”
Malak dropped into a chair casually.
“Probably.”
Rhea leaned against the wall.
“They’re likely planning to steal whatever ship shows up.”
Brakk grinned immediately.
“Oh good.”
“You say that every time violence becomes possible,” Elias complained.
“Because violence keeps happening.”
Aya remained focused on the mission data.
“They are not professionals.”
“No,” Malak agreed. “But desperate people can still be dangerous.”
Elias frowned.
“So why accept?”
Malak grinned lazily.
“Because nobody alive is catching this ship.”
Hours later the Ghostline cut through open space toward the Veyra Fringe.
Behind them the mercenary cargo vessel followed at distance.
The prototype engine hummed through the hull with that strange unstable vibration the crew had long since accepted as normal.
Mostly.
Elias monitored sensor readings from engineering.
“They’re keeping pace surprisingly well.”
“That’s because they’re trying not to lose us,” Malak answered.
Rhea sat nearby checking ammunition magazines.
“You still think they’re planning to attack us?”
“Absolutely.”
“Comforting.”
Then alarms exploded across the cockpit.
Elias swore instantly.
“There it is.”
The mercenary ship accelerated suddenly.
Weapons charging.
Brakk grinned.
“There’s the betrayal.”
But before anyone could respond—
Two additional ships dropped from hyperspace ahead of them.
Not military vessels.
Not organized.
Just random armed ships covered in different paint, mismatched parts, and rushed repairs.
Probably stolen recently.
Which somehow made the situation worse.
Because desperate crews made reckless decisions.
Plasma fire erupted immediately.
The Ghostline rolled violently sideways as shots screamed past the hull.
Warning alarms filled the cockpit.
Aya grabbed a support rail effortlessly while everyone else nearly lost balance.
Three attacking ships spread outward trying to box them in.
Malak’s eyes lit up.
“Oh this was definitely a setup.”
“One you willingly accepted!” Elias yelled.
“Yes because now I get to be right.”
Another blast narrowly missed them.
Aya watched the movement patterns carefully.
“They are trying to limit maneuvering space.”
Malak grinned.
“Good luck with that.”
Then he slammed the throttle forward.
The prototype engines screamed through the hull.
The Ghostline accelerated instantly.
Not gradually.
Violently.
The attacking ships overshot almost immediately.
One attempted to rotate for another firing angle—
Too slow.
The Ghostline cut beneath incoming plasma fire with a turn no normal ship could survive.
Brakk laughed loudly.
“I LOVE THIS SHIP!”
“Please stop encouraging him!” Elias shouted.
Aya stared through the cockpit glass as the stars blurred violently outside.
Even with her combat instincts…
Tracking the movement felt unnatural.
“How are we turning this tightly?” she asked.
Elias looked personally offended she didn’t already know.
“Because this ship is special.”
Rhea smiled slightly.
“Go ahead, Elias.”
That was all the permission he needed.
“The prototype engine can partially bend localized inertia fields around the ship,” he explained proudly while rerouting power through damaged systems. “It reduces how much force affects the hull and crew during extreme movement.”
Brakk frowned.
“I understood maybe four words.”
“It means,” Elias continued, “the Ghostline can do things normal ships physically cannot.”
Another blast shook the hull.
Elias barely noticed anymore.
“Extremely tight turns. Sudden acceleration fast enough to overwhelm normal pilots. Sharp vector changes that confuse targeting systems. Combat maneuvering beyond military safety standards.”
Malak rolled the ship sideways around incoming fire while laughing like a psychopath.
“Military safety standards are suggestions.”
“They are ABSOLUTELY not suggestions,” Elias yelled back.
The Ghostline accelerated again.
Fast enough to make ordinary pilots black out instantly.
The attacking ships struggled to track them.
Targeting systems constantly lost lock as the cruiser changed direction unpredictably.
Aya watched the stars distort around the cockpit.
“…and hyperspace travel?”
Elias brightened further.
“Longer range. Faster travel times. Overdrive jumps that can outrun pursuit.”
Rhea glanced back toward him.
“You forgot the important part.”
Elias grimaced.
“Right. The engine is also horribly unstable.”
A warning light immediately flashed beside him for emphasis.
“Pushing it too hard causes hull stress, reactor imbalance, overheating, drive desynchronization, damaged systems—”
The ship shook violently.
“—and occasionally THAT.”
Sparks exploded from a nearby console.
Elias immediately dove underneath it.
“I HAVE TO FIX THIS RIGHT NOW.”
Aya stared silently while Elias disappeared halfway into an access panel mid-combat.
“…during battle?”
“Yes,” Rhea answered calmly. “Frequently.”
Malak spun the Ghostline hard sideways beneath one attacker and fired upward.
The enemy vessel erupted into flame.
The remaining ships panicked immediately.
“See?” Malak said proudly. “Everything’s under control.”
“We are actively on fire!” Elias shouted from beneath the console.
A second attacker attempted emergency hyperspace calculations.
Too slow.
The Ghostline accelerated again and tore across its flank with cannon fire.
The ship detonated instantly.
The final vessel tried fleeing.
Malak watched it turn away.
Then sighed slightly.
“You know… this fight might’ve gone very differently if we were dealing with an actual trained force flying better ships.”
Brakk cracked his knuckles.
“But we weren’t.”
“True.”
The Ghostline fired one final time.
The last attacking vessel vanished in flame.
Silence settled slowly across the cockpit except for warning alarms and Elias swearing inside the floor panels.
Then Rhea looked toward Malak.
“You enjoyed that way too much.”
“A concerning amount,” Aya agreed quietly.
Malak leaned back comfortably in the pilot chair.
“We survived. That’s what matters.”
Elias crawled halfway back out from the access panel covered in grease.
“The reactor nearly desynchronized!”
“Yes but it didn’t.”
“That is not the point!”
Brakk laughed loudly.
“I still love this ship.”
Hours later the crew drifted through the wreckage field searching for anything useful.
Mostly junk.
Weapons.
Credits.
Cargo.
Nothing valuable enough to justify the ambush.
Which told Malak everything he needed to know.
They were never after a specific target.
Just another desperate crew hunting for easy prey in the outer systems.
Any ship that answered the job would’ve been attacked.
They had simply chosen the wrong one.
Aya stood beside Elias afterward in engineering while he recalibrated damaged systems.
She glanced toward the reactor housing.
“The ship really is different.”
Elias looked up proudly.
“The Ghostline isn’t just fast.”
He rested a hand against the humming wall panels.
“She breaks rules.”