Velia stepped onto the HUB’s bustling concourse as though she’d done it a hundred times before—her posture radiating calm, her eyes swift to evaluate the endless sprawl of makeshift stalls and shifting crowds.

  A jangling melody floated from a hidden band somewhere behind the stalls, nearly drowned by the raised voices of two reptilian traders locked in a shouting match over “stolen scales.” Flickering holo-posters overhead advertised new technology with blinding neon fonts, intensifying the crowd’s energy.

  Erica’s breath caught in her throat. Another wave of voices, scents, flashes of color bombarded her senses. She gritted her teeth and closed her eyes, allowing herself a moment to adapt to the chaos. Once the noise stopped buzzing in her ears, she let out a breath and continued tailing Velia.

  Multicolored lights, half illuminating and half obscuring, revealed an astonishing variety of wares: sizzling pans releasing savory plumes of spiced steam, and blinking devices chattering in strange, mechanized tones.

  Behind her, a second figure glided through the throng wearing a long, black coat and hood. Though taller than Velia, she was by no means the tallest in this galactic crossroads.

  Beneath the hood, a helmet’s dark visor mirrored the station’s neon glow, turning every flash of light into a brief secret. She seemed more shadow than threat, alert to her surroundings but ever-curious.

  Inside that visor, Erica’s heartbeat drummed. Each breath rasped softly in her enclosed mask, the translator in her helmet scrolling with overlapping dialogue from every corner of the concourse. The sheer assortment of alien faces and voices tempted her to stare, but she clung to Velia’s firm instruction: remain discreet—no unwanted attention.

  “And don’t forget,” Velia spoke over her shoulder, her voice low beneath the market’s roar, “we’re here for supplies and then out. Let me handle the talking.”

  Despite Velia’s warning, a part of Erica longed to gawk at everything—like a first-time traveler stepping off a starliner, wide-eyed and unprepared. Maintain composure, she told herself, though her heart thumped with anxious curiosity. Her helmet’s visor reflected the swirling lights, mirroring the swirl of her emotions.

  Erica dipped her head—though the hood likely concealed the motion. “Understood.” Her voice echoed gently in her helmet. A beat later, she whispered, “I’ve never seen this many people… or creatures… all in one place.”

  A measured voice crackled in her earpiece: “Steward here, Avatar. I detect elevated heart rate. Keep pace with Velia and do not remove your mask.”

  “Yes, yes,” Erica mumbled, hurrying to match Velia’s stride. She briefly eyed a reptilian stall owner boasting about freshly harvested scales, but forced herself forward.

  Velia threaded through the crates and canopies as if she knew every short cut. “We’ll try to find tension rods in this sector,” she said, scanning each booth with a practiced gaze.

  Everywhere Erica looked, alien wonders abounded—a shallow tank of pink amphibian-eels, mechanical trinkets humming with energy, pungent food stands wafting alien spices.

  She paused at the eel-like creatures, fascinated by their tiny legs, until Steward’s quiet reminder nudged her onward. “Sorry,” she muttered. “There’s just… so much here.”

  Velia’s ear flicked in mild humor. “This HUB is a central junction. All sorts pass through. But gawk too obviously, and the unscrupulous will notice."

  Almost on cue, an overwhelming scent struck Erica’s filters—a thick swirl of sweet spice and musk. She jerked back, coughing. Velia tugged her aside, away from a stall draped in red cloth and piled with glimmering jars. Its four-eyed owner glared at Erica. “Sacred Elnar Pollen,” he snapped. “Respect it or keep moving.”

  Erica’s heart hammered. She bowed in silent apology, allowing Velia to lead her away.

  “You’re already offending merchants,” Velia said, her tone equal parts exasperation and amusement.

  Through Erica’s earpiece, Steward added, “Elnar Pollen often triggers severe respiratory issues. Your sealed suit shielded you.”

  Erica swallowed. “Noted.” They pressed on, stopping at a sign plastered with multiple alien scripts.

  Velia studied it with narrowed eyes. “We might find tension rods around here.”

  Erica’s gaze fell on a stall of pinkish Silkas—soft-bodied creatures labeled as delicacies, though their eyes seemed to follow her in unnerving unison. Her stomach twisted at the thought of them being served on a plate.

  Velia signed and rolled her eyes as she gently guided the avatar away once again. “You don’t want to start arguments about whether Silkas are sentient. Best leave them be.”

  Erica grimaced. “This place is a jarring blend of wonder and horror.”

  Velia managed a wry smile. “Better uneasy awe than ending up in real trouble.”

  They skirted a booth proclaiming “Savory Tasting Bar—Try if you Dare!” Sizzling unknown meats were arranged in neat rows. Erica’s hunger stirred, but she remembered the warnings about her suit. She hesitated. “Velia, is there anything safe enough for me—?”

  Velia shook her head. “I doubt it.”

  So Erica lingered, gazing at a row of violet cubes identified by her translator as Susk Fruit—noted as potentially hazardous. She nearly reached out—

  “Stop,” hissed Steward in her ear. “That fruit harbors a potent enzyme that attacks organic cells on contact. Your suit would not be able to neutralize it quickly enough. And you wouldn't be able to make it back to the ship in time for me to neutralize it."

  Erica snatched her hand back as though scalded.

  Velia gave her a concerned glance. “All good?”

  Trying to laugh it off, Erica murmured, “Yes, just reconsidering my dietary choices.”

  Moments later, Aelar—Velia’s bright-eyed son—appeared, grinning. “Leave you alone for a second and you’re flirting with toxic fruit?”

  Erica’s cheeks heated behind the visor. “Let’s call it curiosity gone wrong.”

  Velia’s ears tipped forward. “Enough distractions—we need to find those rods.”

  Another near-collision interrupted them—a robed scholar with a single-lensed eyepiece muttering about “unidentified species” and “anatomical scans.”

  Erica summoned a quick retort about negative reviews, prompting Velia to firmly intervene, guiding her away from more prying eyes.

  Finally, they found the stall rumored to sell tension rods. Negotiations proved tense, but Velia’s practiced haggling skills prevailed.

  With rods in hand, she declared, “Time to go.”

  Erica, overloaded by the swirl of neon color and intense smells, could only nod, clutching her small purchase. Despite the near-disasters, she felt a bright flicker of triumph. Next time, she told herself, I’ll handle this with more confidence.

  Velia ushered Erica from the chaos of the central corridor to a quieter row of open stalls. The din mellowed into a subdued murmur; the pungent spices gave way to gentler fragrances. Decorative lamps hung overhead, their muted glow dancing across a wooden walkway that felt almost quaint amidst the station’s metallic sprawl.

  Exhaling slowly, Erica said, “It’s calmer here, but still… a lot to take in.”

  Velia stopped at a booth piled with odd coil-like devices.

  “A good spot for a quick lesson in local trade. Watch for maker’s marks—if they’re smeared or reversed, you’re looking at a fake.” She demonstrated haggling by offering a fraction of the asking price, appearing disinterested, then meeting the merchant halfway.

  Erica watched, trying to memorize the flow of it. “Acting unimpressed is part of the tactic?” Erica asked, intrigued.

  Velia smiled faintly. “Precisely. Now, your turn.”

  At the next stall, Erica chose a small clamp without knowing its use. Her attempt at haggling flopped—she lowballed so severely the vendor was insulted, then she overpaid in her when she over corrected. She left with a trivial trinket, face burning with embarrassment. The weight of her failure clung to her like static, but beneath it stirred something else—resolve. Next time, she would get it right. Next time, she'd walk away with more than just a souvenir and a lesson.

  Velia’s tail swished in mild amusement. “Not terrible, but still quite a bit to learn. You’ll get there.”

  Erica stared at the clamp in her gloved grip. “I didn’t mean to upset him or overpay.”

  Velia shrugged. “Experience is a teacher. You’ll gain your footing soon enough.”

  They ignored a pastry cart’s enticements and, once out of earshot, Velia leaned in conspiratorially. “A phrase you should remember: Ku’ori matrask. It means ‘Fair exchange, no grudges.’ Vendors typically honor it. If you cheat or they cheat, whichever side fails the vow loses face.”

  Erica repeated the words until they felt natural on her tongue. Spotting a sour-faced fruit seller, she tried them out. The merchant only snorted but tossed Erica a dried slice of produce—a begrudging sign of respect.

  “Your accent needs work, but not bad,” Velia noted with a small grin.

  They descended creaking steps onto a small wooden platform ringed by open stalls. Vendors here displayed curated curiosities: polished circuit boards, half-refined alloys, or exotic plants that pulsed with faint bioluminescence. The chatter was quieter, more personal, as shoppers and sellers struck deals in hushed, hurried tones.

  At a one kiosk, they examined stubby power cores. Velia hefted one thoughtfully. “Too light—it’s likely garbage.” She handed one to Erica, who confirmed with her suit’s sensors that it was substandard.

  Erica set it down. “So the genuine articles weigh more than you’d expect?”

  Velia nodded. “Counterfeiters mimic the shell but can’t match the interior density. Better to trust your instincts.”

  Velia slowed before an orange-canopied stall. “I suspect we’ll find tension rods here if we’re lucky.”

  Rows of rods glinted under a fluorescent strip, neat and orderly. The alien merchant, tall and spindly, managed his display with four delicate limbs, multitasking effortlessly.

  “Industrial-grade rods?” Velia inquired, voice smooth.

  The merchant raised a rod in a slender hand. “Reinforced alloy, triple-standard rated.”

  Erica approached, her visor scanning the faint markings etched along the rod. The translator recognized partial specs: load capacity, some mention of a manufacturer’s guarantee.

  Velia hefted the rod doubtfully. “Feels too light,” she said. “Certain it’s standard?” The merchant dismissed her concern with an airy wave. “Tested thoroughly. Guaranteed to handle triple capacity.”

  Erica’s own quiet readings gave a mild alert—possibly close to the mark, but uncertain. She whispered her concerns to Velia, who merely nodded and commenced haggling. The exchange of offers was swift and tense, culminating with both sides grudgingly meeting in the middle.

  Erica watched with admiration. One final nod, and Velia claimed two sets of rods. “Done,” she said, turning to leave.

  Erica’s helmet beeped in warning—Steward alerting them to a hazardous energy spike in the area.

  They spotted a cloaked figure hunched in a darkened nook fumbling with a canister that spat occasional sparks. It didnt take long for near by Bystanders to notice and hurried past, wary.

  Velia’s brow furrowed. “We need move before that thing blows.”

  But Erica lingered. Despite better judgment, she rushed at the figure, who jerked back in panic before turning and running off into the crowd. The container hissed and spat, threatening meltdown.

  A blinking prompt appeared on her helmet’s HUD: “Activate Emergency Containment Field?” She silently thanked Steward and confirmed with a single thought. At once, the suit’s interface engaged, erecting a protective field around the canister. Its meltdown sensor flared, then steadied.

  Breathless, she straightened, letting out a relieved exhale. “I think we’re safe.”

  Velia stood at her side, tension rods under one arm, relief evident. “Your impulsiveness…" the merchant captain just shook her head. " Let’s get out before the next crisis finds us.”

  Yet as they turned away, Erica caught the merchant’s accusing stare from behind the stall. He slammed a comm unit onto his counter, muttering something about “station security.”

  A knot of uneasy onlookers parted to let them pass—but not without shooting them glances, as though memorizing their descriptions. … We’re not out of trouble yet, Erica thought, the prickle of being watched clinging to her as they wove into the crowd.

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  A hush of startled murmurs trailed in their wake. One alien with a comm unit snapped photos, muttering something about “reward money.” Another hastily tapped out a message while eyeing Erica’s helmet. Great, she thought grimly, I’ve basically advertised the suit to half this corridor.

  Velia’s ears flicked, confirming she noticed too. “We’ll have watchers now—locals who caught wind of your field tech. Keep moving.”

  They slipped back through the station’s narrow thoroughfares, the echo of whispered gratitude from nearby travelers following them.

  Erica’s heart thumped with a strange mix of fear and exhilaration. Distant hums of cargo lifts replaced the immediate din of the open market, and with them came the sharp hiss of station air exchangers.

  Erica let her mind replay the day: the swirl of foreign scents, the haggling, the near explosion. She felt alive, if overwhelmed. “I’m in so far over my head,” she admitted softly.

  “We all are, at first,” Velia said gently. “You’re learning.”

  Erica nodded, swallowing hard. Her body still hummed with leftover adrenaline from the meltdown fiasco and the near-poisonous fruit. I was fumbling at every turn, she thought, and yet…I actually helped fix something. I’m still alive.

  Part of her trembled with the realization that she—Erica, who’d never set foot off Earth until recently—had haggled, saved a canister from meltdown, and outmaneuvered station criminals. It was exhilarating…and terrifying. A day ago, I would have frozen in panic.

  “Come on,” Velia said. “Let’s keep moving.”

  Erica allowed herself a shaky breath. Maybe I can belong out here after all, she thought. Then she followed Velia into the station’s neon-lit maze, not quite so green as when she’d first arrived.

  Even this late in the cycle, the HUB teemed with life, its overhead lights adjusted to a gentler hue that cast subtle reflections on the polished deck. The main thoroughfares still bustled with travelers exchanging cargo and gossip, but Velia and Erica kept to narrower passages, where shadows spilled across the corridor floors like liquid ink.

  Her new tension rods in tow, Velia moved with a deliberate calm, though every so often her ears flicked in alert. Beside her, Erica remained silent, Their foot steps hidden behind the station’s distant drone. Despite her outward composure, the swirl of neon and half-lit corners made her anxious—she couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched.

  That feeling soon proved correct.

  From within her helmet, Erica’s translator flickered with quiet notifications. Steward had set himself to monitoring the station’s communications channels—an invisible watchdog scanning bursts of chatter from various frequencies. Now, his voice crackled in her earpiece:

  “I’ve intercepted Citadel security transmissions referencing an ‘unusual biosignature’ connected to the meltdown incident earlier. They believe you and Velia were near the energy spike, and they’ve flagged you as persons of interest.”

  Erica’s gloved fingers curled tighter around her small cargo of rods. “Just our luck,” she whispered, glancing at Velia. “They’ve already labeled us suspects in that meltdown fiasco.”

  Velia’s muzzle scrunched in frustration. “I suspected as much—there was no way the Citadel would ignore a containment field flaring up in the middle of their market.” She paused at an intersection, scanning the corridor. “We’ll slip past them if we keep a low profile. Best to avoid the main patrol routes.”

  But Steward wasn’t finished:

  “Additional data indicates they’ve also tagged Dr. Teklen. They suspect he may be your medical provider and might carry records explaining your unique physiology. They’re distributing his name and possible description to local squads.”

  Erica’s heart sank. “Teklen’s in trouble too? He wasn’t even there!”

  Velia shot her a sympathetic look. “They likely assume if you have an uncommon biology, he’s the one aiding or treating you. Don’t worry—Teklen’s resourceful. He’ll keep his head down.”

  They continued on, footsteps merging into the hush of side corridors lined with storage crates. Dim overhead strips cast shifting pools of light, revealing glimpses of signage in multiple languages. A short turn brought them into a half-lit row of vendor tents—these quieter stalls catered to specialized ship parts and discreet deals. Ordinarily, it would be a good place for a final check of needed supplies, but tonight, an air of tension laced every step.

  “Criminal elements are also discussing you,” Steward added, voice low and urgent. “I’ve infiltrated their private comms. They want your suit—apparently it’s rumored to be advanced tech worth a fortune.”

  Erica exhaled shakily. Of course. A perfect storm: Security suspicion on one side, petty criminals on the other, all set off by that single moment she’d used the suit’s containment field. “What’s next?”

  Velia pointed her muzzle down a narrower offshoot corridor. “We’ll head back to the ship—quietly. The less we linger, the fewer eyes track us.”

  They slipped into a connecting passage used mostly by cargo runners and station staff. Tangles of conduits trailed overhead, and flickering monitors displayed rotating announcements in a half-dozen scripts. Erica fought the urge to check behind her at every step. She could practically sense the station’s watchful gaze pressing in—both from law enforcement and opportunistic thieves.

  Cloaked figures materialized briefly at the end of the corridor—then vanished. A quiet dread slithered down Erica’s spine. “Velia,” she said under her breath.

  “I see them,” the Fennecari replied, voice taut. “Might be small-time muscle. Let’s keep moving.”

  A burst of static in Erica’s ear:

  “They’re coordinating near Deck Eleven’s access ways,” Steward warned. “Citadel security is assigning roving pairs to hunt for ‘the masked traveler’ and ‘her associate’ tied to the meltdown device. I’m also intercepting private chatter from local thugs about your suit. They think you’ll be easy prey if cornered.”

  Velia’s tail lashed in rising annoyance. “We are definitely not easy targets. But let’s avoid proving that tonight.”

  They reached a junction that opened onto a mid-level walkway spanning the station’s central atrium. Far below, throngs of travelers looked like colored specks in swirling motion. Overhead, wide archways gleamed with embedded glow-strips, giving an illusion of an artificial twilight sky. Ordinarily, Erica might have paused to marvel at the spectacle.

  Not this time.

  Across the atrium, a pair of Citadel officers stood near a broad signpost, their uniform patches catching the glow. One officer consulted a handheld device, flipping through data. They raised their eyes, scanning the crowds crossing the walkway. Even from a distance, Erica sensed their heightened alertness, as if her presence was a puzzle piece they were determined to slot into place.

  Velia leaned close, voice barely audible above the station’s hum. “We can’t just bolt—they’ll notice. Act normal.”

  Erica tried to calm her pulse, stepping onto the walkway in a slow, relaxed stride. Behind the tinted visor, her mind raced with questions about Teklen and what it would mean if the Citadel found him first. She doubted they’d harm him physically, but the ramifications…

  “Keep right,” Steward instructed in her ear. “The next branch leads to a maintenance corridor. Minimal foot traffic. I’ll scramble any cameras for fifteen seconds.”

  Perfect. They angled that way just as the Citadel officers turned to check passersby on the left side of the atrium. Erica’s heart hammered, but the officers only gave them a fleeting glance before pivoting to question a different traveler.

  The narrow corridor yawned ahead, lined with stacks of crates and sealed doors. A single flickering lamp cast staccato light across the floor. They slipped inside, the hush broken only by a faint hiss of climate controls.

  Erica felt her suit vibrate as a new data packet arrived from Steward:

  “Interception of criminal channel: ‘We lost them in the atrium—someone reported them heading right. Spread out. Keep an eye out for a helmet and a black coat.’”

  Velia cursed softly. “They’re persistent. Let’s not give them another chance.”

  They hurried down the corridor, passing closed shops and storage rooms. The environment carried a subtle tang of burned wiring, possibly from older station sections. Up ahead, a battered sign indicated a freight elevator leading to a docking bay. Almost there.

  Then footsteps clanged behind them—rapid, uneven. Erica glanced back. A pair of lean figures emerged from behind a stack of crates, eyes locked on them. One wore piecemeal armor festooned with gaudy patches, the other cradling a short-barreled weapon.

  A chill of alarm rippled through Erica. “Velia—”

  “I see them,” Velia murmured. “Steady.”

  The criminals advanced, no words spoken—just the threat in their posture and the greedy flick of their gazes over Erica’s suit. Velia tensed, but instead of confronting them, she nudged Erica forward.

  “Avatar,” Steward’s voice cut in, “a second group is approaching from your left. I recommend immediate evasion.”

  They acted at once. Velia gripped Erica’s arm, pulling her sideways into a narrow alley formed by stacked crates. Ducking beneath a half-lowered shutter, they slid into a short maintenance hallway. Harsh lighting pulsed overhead, revealing pipes that lined the walls like mechanical ribs.

  A cursory glance back showed the criminals pushing their way past the crates, searching. They wouldn’t be far behind.

  “Quick,” Velia hissed, spotting a side hatch labeled “Emergency Access—Authorized Personnel Only.” She yanked on the handle, forcing it open, and ushered Erica inside. A cramped set of metal steps spiraled downward, echoing with each footstep.

  At the stairwell’s bottom, a thick door barred their way. It screeched open under Velia’s determined shove—revealing a smaller corridor that smelled of stale air. The light strips here flickered uncertainly, but at the far end lay the docking bays they needed.

  Relief welled in Erica’s chest. “Almost there.”

  “Citadel detail is patrolling near your dock,” Steward reported. “They’ve been alerted to suspicious activity. I can mask your approach for a brief window if you time it right.”

  Velia’s muzzle lifted in a resolute nod. “Then that’s exactly what we’ll do.”

  Erica swallowed hard, a new idea tugging at the edges of her mind. “Steward,” she whispered, voice trembling with adrenaline, “could you—maybe feed them false signals? Trick the Citadel into thinking the criminals are us, or vice versa? If they run into each other, it might buy us time to slip past.”

  Velia’s eyes flicked to Erica in surprise but quickly warmed with approval. “That’s… not a bad plan.”

  Steward’s calm voice responded: “I can plant partial ID matches on the criminals’ scans, and highlight their suspicious weapon signatures on the Citadel’s logs. Simultaneously, I’ll feed the criminals rumors that Citadel forces are carrying high-grade contraband. But the window will be short.”

  “Do it,” Erica urged, breath hitching. “We just need enough distraction to slip by.”

  They hurried the final stretch, slowing just short of the docking bay entrance. Through the transparent barrier, Erica glimpsed two Citadel officers scanning IDs. Her heart hammered anew. But within her visor feed, a flurry of data scrolled by—Steward’s digital infiltration in real time.

  Outside, the Citadel handheld scanners chirped with new alerts. Confused chatter erupted: “Wait—these weapon profiles… Do we have active hostiles near the east corridor?” Meanwhile, the criminals, still hunting for Erica’s distinctive helmet, suddenly got pings claiming an undercover Citadel squad carried advanced tech.

  For a heartbeat, the corridor erupted in confused tension: the Citadel officers pivoted to check a side hallway, one of them pressing a comm to his ear with anxious eyes. Simultaneously, a cluster of the petty thugs rushed from behind a row of crates, heading straight for the security detail with brandished weapons.

  A short, sharp standoff ensued—both parties momentarily too startled to question why they’d come face to face. Shouts and threats rang out, weapons half-raised, leaving a perfect gap for Velia and Erica to dart behind a cargo loader and move into the docking bay corridor.

  No alarms for them. No shouted orders in their direction.

  They reached the final hatch leading to the drone shuttle, parked in a private docking berth. Once inside, the door sealed behind them with a pneumatic hiss, effectively blocking out the swirling chaos of the HUB.

  Erica sagged against the bulkhead, adrenaline still coursing through her limbs. “We made it,” she breathed.

  Velia clutched the rods, exhaling sharply. “This time, yes. But both the Citadel and those lowlifes won’t just give up. They’ll figure out they were duped soon enough.”

  “Confirmed,” Steward added quietly. “We must remain vigilant—and find a way to clear this suspicion if we intend to operate on the HUB again.”

  Erica nodded. “And Teklen… if they’re after him too—”

  “We’ll reach out,” Velia assured her. “He’ll know how to lay low until we can slip away or fix this mess.”

  Despite the heaviness in her chest, Erica felt a spark of grim triumph at their ruse. She lifted her gaze to Velia, seeing in her companion’s eyes the same mixture of relief and unease.

  Outside, the station’s hum carried on, oblivious to the drama that had just played out in its corridors. But within the berth, the air throbbed with unspoken tension—a reminder that in the labyrinth of the HUB, the line between predator and prey could shift in an instant. And for now, at least, they had turned that uncertainty to their advantage.

  They made it back aboard the New Horizon with the tension rods in tow, the HUB’s neon bustle still echoing in Erica’s mind. The ship felt calmer by comparison—low lights, a steady hum, and no origin-dissolving fruit threatening her life.

  Velia keyed in commands at the central holotable. An incoming call blinked insistently at the edge of the display, sending pale reflections across her fur. She glanced toward Rathen—stationed at a side console—who’d been coordinating their next run.

  “Looks like a transmission from Korin Logistics,” he muttered, leaning in. “They’re asking for an update on our departure time—still pushing us to leave immediately.”

  Velia’s ear flicked. “What’s the rush?”

  Rathen shrugged. “No idea. Just says we need to be gone before the end of the shift cycle. They’re being real insistent about it.”

  Velia tapped the comm interface, and the holotable flickered to life. A corporate logo flashed—Korin Logistics, Outer Rim Division—followed by a prim-sounding voice message:

  To the esteemed crew of the New Horizon:

  We trust you’ll begin transit promptly. Given the time-sensitive nature of this cargo, our affiliates cannot tolerate delays. Note that failure to depart by the end of the current station shift will result in penalties as outlined in our breach-of-contract clause. Our partners expect discretion and speed.

  A clipped beep ended the message.

  Rathen raked a paw through his fur, ears flicking in frustration. “They won’t even tell us what it is. Just want it gone.”

  Velia’s tail twitched. “That’s not standard procedure.”

  Another ping interrupted them—text-only, flagged urgent. Rathen tapped the console and frowned.

  Korin Logistics:

  Reminder—this shipment is highly time-sensitive. Delays or procedural complications such as inspection requests may impact contractual obligations. We trust in your professionalism.

  Velia rubbed her temples. “They're really hammering that point.”

  Steward’s orb descended from the overhead track, mechanical iris whirring softly. “I strongly advise a covert scan regardless. The insistence on secrecy, combined with the urgency, implies elevated risk.”

  Erica crossed her arms. “Feels off. Why not just tell us what it is? What’s in these crates that can’t wait a few hours?”

  Rathen nodded slowly. “The manifest is vague. Some of the labels don’t match standard codes. Could be specialized equipment… could be mislabeled cargo. Either way, it’s sketchy.”

  Velia’s gaze sharpened. “I don’t like flying blind.” She pointed to a readout on the screen. “Crate Seven is triple the mass it should be. That’s not a normal shipment of ‘medical supplies.’”

  Erica tapped the console, scanning further. “Two other crates show mismatched data. Could be a mistake… or not.”

  Rathen exhaled. “Korin says no scans, but if something’s wrong with that cargo and we don’t catch it before takeoff…”

  “We’re the ones holding the bag,” Velia finished grimly.

  Steward hovered closer. “We’ll run a passive scan. Low-power intervals only—enough to gather data, not enough to trigger breach protocols.”

  A loud, static-laced announcement crackled over the HUB’s dock-wide intercom, interrupting the ambient clatter of loaders, freight chatter, and distant engine whines:

  "Attention: All docked vessels, be advised—new inspection protocols are now in effect. All outbound cargo is subject to random security checks. Repeat, all outbound cargo is subject to random security checks."

  Inside the New Horizon, ears perked and eyes lifted as the muffled announcement filtered faintly through the ship’s hull. Almost immediately, the holotable lit up, displaying a synchronized station-wide relay:

  IPS Notice:

  Additional security measures in effect. All outgoing ships subject to random checks.

  Rathen swore under his breath. “Figures. The minute we’re under pressure, station security tightens the screws.”

  Velia flicked her tail, frowning. “Feels like we’re being rushed for a reason we’re not being told.”

  Erica set her jaw. A strange tension was building in her chest—part worry, part curiosity. “We’ll figure it out. Let’s do the scan, stay quiet, and decide once we know what we’re dealing with.”

  Velia exhaled, glancing around at the others—Rathen, Steward’s orb, Erica in her dark visor. “All right. Let’s move fast. Everyone to your stations. Get me answers—quietly. And no one mentions this cargo to HUB officials unless we know exactly what we’re hauling.”

  Even as she gave the order, unease gnawed at the back of her mind. Korin’s insistence, the vague manifests, the timing—it all pointed to something deeper.

  But for now, all they knew was that they had less than an hour to get off the station.

  And no room for mistakes.

  Trouble or not, they had a job to do.