Docking Bay 14 smelled like engine coolant and desperation.
The Constant Spaceport's lower bays served the ships that couldn't afford — or didn't want — the polished berths on the upper level. Freighters with hull patches older than their crews. Shuttles running on borrowed time and falsified inspection certificates. The kind of vessels that flew to places nobody put on tourism brochures.
The Distant Fortune fit right in. A Kowloon-class freighter, sixty meters of boxy utility with a cargo hold that dominated its profile like a beer gut. Scorch marks along the port side where someone had done a bad job with a welding torch. Running lights flickering in a pattern that suggested an electrical short nobody had bothered to fix.
A woman sat on a cargo crate at the base of the boarding ramp, cleaning a Predator pistol with the practiced ease of someone who'd done it a thousand times. Late forties, dark skin, close-cropped grey hair. Arms corded with muscle under a leather flight jacket. She looked up when he approached, and her eyes made the same assessment Harlow's had — cataloguing, filing, deciding.
"You Reyes?"
"Reyes handles comms. I'm Captain Okonkwo. You're the one who messaged at ten PM."
"Webb. Marcus Webb."
She didn't stand. Didn't offer a hand. Just tilted the pistol's barrel toward the light and checked the thermal clip housing.
"Combat certifications?"
He pulled up his service record on the omni-tool. Alliance Infantry Advanced, Close Quarters Combat, Shipboard Security Operations. Webb's training had been thorough before the brass decided to bury him.
Okonkwo scrolled through it without expression.
"Decorated officer takes a twenty-K escort job on a garbage freighter heading into pirate space. No questions about cargo manifest, route, or return date." She set the pistol down. "What are you running from, Webb?"
"Does it matter?"
"It matters if whatever you're running from follows you onto my ship."
"Alliance Intelligence, a batarian loan shark, and the ghost of a man whose life I stole. Take your pick."
"Personal debts. Nothing that transfers to you or your crew."
She studied him for a long ten seconds. Then she stood, holstered the pistol, and jerked her head toward the ramp.
"Berthing's on deck two. Stow your gear, meet me on the bridge at 0545. We launch at 0600 sharp. Miss it and I leave without you."
"Understood."
"One more thing." She turned back. "My ship, my rules. You shoot when I say shoot, you stand down when I say stand down. That combat record says you've got a problem with following orders. On the Fortune, that problem doesn't exist. Clear?"
"Clear."
She disappeared up the ramp. He stood in the oily air of Docking Bay 14 and let out a breath he'd been holding since he walked in.
---
[Constant Spaceport — Main Concourse, 0528]
The spaceport's morning crowd was thinner than expected. Commuter shuttles, a few merchant crews loading cargo, a cluster of tourists with too much luggage and not enough sense. The departure boards flickered with destinations — Arcturus, Citadel, Bekenstein, and a handful of Terminus routes marked with yellow hazard warnings.
He was buying a coffee — real coffee, not the nutrient paste the hospital had served — from an automated kiosk when the batarians appeared.
Two of them. Not Kragen. Younger, broader, the kind of muscle that got hired by the hour. They materialized from the concourse crowd with the particular economy of motion that meant they'd been following him and had just decided to stop pretending.
"Webb."
The one on the left. Heavier, with a scar running diagonally across his upper-left eye. Arms folded. Blocking the path to Bay 14 without making it obvious.
"Kragen sends his regards. Says you're leaving without settling your account."
"I'm leaving to earn the money to settle the account. Different thing."
"Kragen doesn't see it that way."
The second batarian — leaner, twitchy, hands not visible — shifted to the right. Boxing him in against the kiosk. The coffee dispenser hissed and filled his cup with complete indifference to the situation.
The concourse was still busy. Cameras on every pillar. Spaceport security drones humming overhead on their patrol circuits. Kragen's people wouldn't start a fight here — too much visibility, too many witnesses, too many ways it went wrong. But they could slow him down. Delay him past 0600. Let the Fortune leave without him.
"They're not here to hurt me. They're here to trap me on Eden Prime."
He picked up his coffee. Took a sip. Made it look casual while his brain ran through exit angles.
"Hey!" He raised his voice. Not a shout — louder than conversation, pitched to carry. "Hey, I said no. I don't want whatever you're selling."
Heads turned. A turian merchant two stalls over looked up from his inventory. A human woman with a security contractor's armband paused mid-stride.
The scarred batarian's upper eyes narrowed.
"I told you," he continued, louder now, his free hand gesturing broadly. "I'm not interested. Stop following me. This is harassment."
More heads. A spaceport security drone adjusted its patrol arc, drifting closer. Its sensor pod swiveled toward the cluster of bodies near the kiosk.
"Sir?" The security contractor stepped forward. "Everything alright here?"
"These two have been following me since the lower market. I've asked them to leave me alone."
The scarred batarian's jaw worked. Four eyes assessed the drone, the contractor, the growing ring of curious bystanders. His partner's twitchy hands appeared — empty, deliberately visible.
"Misunderstanding," the scarred one said. Flat. Controlled. "We thought he was someone else."
They withdrew. Not fast, not slow. Professional disengagement, the kind that said we'll find you later without speaking a word.
The security contractor watched them go.
"You okay?"
"Fine. Thanks."
He walked to Bay 14 without looking back. The coffee burned his tongue on the way. He drank it anyway — the heat was grounding, something real and immediate and small enough to hold onto.
---
[Distant Fortune — Bridge, 0558]
The bridge was cramped. Two pilot stations, a sensor console, a communications array held together with cable ties and optimism. Okonkwo sat in the captain's chair. Her first mate — a wiry turian named Demos with a cracked left mandible — handled the helm.
"Cutting it close, Webb."
"Had company at the kiosk."
Okonkwo's eyes flicked to the external cameras. The concourse feed showed nothing unusual.
"The kind that follows you onto ships?"
"The kind that won't leave Eden Prime. Trust me."
She held his gaze for two beats. Then turned to Demos.
"Take us out."
The Fortune's engines groaned to life. A deep, shuddering vibration that ran through the deck plates and up through the soles of his boots. The docking clamps released with a series of metallic clanks. Through the viewport, the spaceport's walls slid sideways as Demos guided them out of the bay and into Eden Prime's pale morning sky.
[SOVEREIGN MANDATE SYSTEM — NOTIFICATION]
[DEPARTURE FROM ALLIANCE-CONTROLLED TERRITORY DETECTED]
[WARNING: ABSENCE FROM DUTY STATION EXCEEDS AUTHORIZED LEAVE PARAMETERS]
[ALLIANCE CLASSIFICATION UPDATE: AWOL → DESERTION (PENDING)]
The notification sat in his vision like a brand. AWOL. Desertion. If he ever walked back into Alliance space, they'd arrest him before he made it past customs.
His omni-tool buzzed. Incoming message flagged priority — Alliance Intelligence, Eden Prime Division.
FROM: AGENT R. HARLOW RE: Scheduled Interview — March 19, 2180 Lieutenant Webb — you failed to appear for your scheduled follow-up. Departure records show you aboard the civilian freighter "Distant Fortune," destination: Terminus Systems. Failure to return to Eden Prime within 72 hours will result in desertion charges and a warrant for your arrest. This is not a request.
He read it twice. Then closed the omni-tool.
Eden Prime shrank in the rear viewport. A green-brown sphere getting smaller by the second, its colonial grid of prefab cities and agricultural domes blurring into abstract pattern. Somewhere down there, Agent Harlow was filing paperwork. Kragen was recalculating. Sara Webb was waiting for a child support payment that would arrive late — but it would arrive. He'd make sure of that.
He reached under his collar and unclasped the dog tags. Webb's name, Webb's service number, Webb's life in stamped metal. He couldn't wear them anymore — not in the Terminus, where Alliance identification was either worthless or a target. He folded them into his jacket pocket. The weight settled against his hip.
"Marcus Webb died the moment I got on this ship. Whatever I am now, I'm building it from scratch."
The Fortune accelerated toward the mass relay approach. Through the viewport, the relay loomed — a massive structure of rotating rings and blue light, ancient beyond comprehension. A Reaper construct designed to control the flow of civilization, and right now it was his exit door.
"Relay transit in thirty seconds," Demos announced, his turian subvocals carrying the professional calm of someone who'd done this a hundred times. "Destination: Voyager Cluster. Transit time: instantaneous."
"Brace," Okonkwo said.
The relay caught them. Blue light swallowed the viewport. The Fortune lurched — not physically, but something deeper, a wrongness in the gut that said you just moved farther than biology was designed to handle. Half a heartbeat later, the blue cleared, and unfamiliar stars filled the glass.
Terminus Systems. Lawless space. No Alliance, no Council oversight, no rules except survival.
[LOCATION UPDATE: TERMINUS SYSTEMS — VOYAGER CLUSTER]
[ALLIANCE JURISDICTION: NONE]
[SYSTEM RECOMMENDATION: TERRITORIAL ACQUISITION OPPORTUNITIES DETECTED IN CURRENT REGION]
The stars were different here. Not brighter or dimmer — just unknown. No constellations he recognized, no patterns he could name. A whole section of the galaxy he'd only seen on game maps, now spread out in front of him as the place where he'd live or die.
Okonkwo's voice cut through his reverie.
"Three days to Haven's Point at standard FTL. Get some rack time, Webb. You look like you need it."
"Copy that."
He turned from the viewport. Stopped at the bridge hatch.
"Captain?"
"What?"
"Thanks for not asking questions."
Her reflection in the viewport glass didn't look back.
"Don't thank me yet. We haven't hit the Nemean Abyss corridor. That's where the last three convoys disappeared."
The hatch closed behind him. He walked to his quarters — a coffin-sized berth with a fold-down bunk and a locker that didn't lock — and sat on the bed.
The system display pulsed in the corner of his vision. MP: 84/100 and climbing. Three days of transit meant three days of regeneration. By the time they reached Haven's Point, he'd be close to full.
His palms ached. He looked down — crescent-shaped marks where his nails had dug in during the batarian confrontation. He hadn't noticed. The body reacted to stress in ways he was still learning.
The mattress was thin and smelled like industrial cleaner. It was the most comfortable thing he'd touched in four days.
He closed his eyes. The War Council timer pulsed behind his eyelids.
[3.19 YEARS REMAINING]
The Fortune's engines hummed. The stars moved. The timer counted down.
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