Chapter 49 - Borrowed Wings

  Narrowing down the list of ships to a suitable selection was fairly easy. They needed a ship that was small enough to fly with a single person but large enough to have a void drive so it could jump to other systems. Ideally, it would be fast enough to make avoiding the orbital defence grid a little easier as well.

  With those criteria in mind, there were only about six possible options, only two of which were actually viable. One was the personal craft of a rich businessman – a luxury vessel that mostly existed as a status symbol.

  Darius wanted it. Badly. Partially because it was shiny and cool, and he wanted cool things, but also because he wouldn’t feel even the least bit guilty for stealing it. The owner was exactly the kind of person who would have insurance for it, and even if he didn’t, he was rich enough to just buy a new ship. As far as Darius was concerned, it was practically a victimless crime.

  Unfortunately, it wasn’t exactly a… subtle ship. Pure white with gold accents, a gently swooping shape that reminded him somehow of a bird in motion, even just looking at it made him feel vaguely poor.

  Which, you know, he was, but still.

  The point was that the first time anyone else saw it, and then saw him, would immediately jump to the – very correct – conclusion that he had stolen it. He could always try to sell it somewhere, but for all that he was currently a criminal, he didn’t exactly know anything about the underworld.

  Such as where to find people who would buy a starship without asking uncomfortable questions like ‘Where did you get this’ and ‘What would happen if I called the enforcers right now’.

  The only other viable option was about the polar opposite of the fancy ship. It could charitably be called a rust bucket, and looked like someone had welded a couple of massive engines to a truck, installed a life support system, and called it a day.

  The manifest had astonishingly few details about the ship, its purpose, or its cargo – so little detail, in fact, that Darius rather suspected it was on purpose. The cargo listed as “various” was the first red flag. Nobody shipping something legitimate used a term so vague on official documentation, especially when ship manifests were notorious for being the easiest records to forge.

  Add to that the Captain’s name, which was just “Captain,” and Darius’s suspicions sharpened. Running a ship, even one as basic as this, wasn’t cheap. The life support alone required constant upkeep, and the engines—while laughably overbuilt for the size of the vessel—were undoubtedly guzzling fuel at an absurd rate. Whoever owned this ship wasn’t just running freight; they were hiding something.

  Smuggling. Had to be. The lack of detail, the laughably generic aliases, the sheer functionality of the ship—it all screamed “illegal transport.” And Darius couldn’t think of a more poetic justice than stealing from criminals.

  It was perfect.

  The ship was small enough to fly solo, had a void drive, and looked rugged and utilitarian enough that no one would bat an eye seeing him at the controls. He could slip into the black, jump systems, and vanish without a trace. If anyone saw him in this rust bucket, they’d just assume he was another small-time smuggler trying to stay under the radar.

  Even better, the ship was docked in an out-of-the-way berth. He knew the berth from experience – he’d done some maintenance on other ships docked there over the years. It was tucked behind an aging maintenance facility that rarely saw activity. The docking arm was shadowed, and the walkway was poorly lit—perfect for discreet movement of goods. Whoever owned the ship clearly valued privacy, which made it all the more appealing.

  Unfortunately, privacy also meant paranoia.

  Smugglers weren’t the type to leave their livelihood unguarded. Darius wasn’t exactly an expert on the subject, but he had to assume that there would be at least one member of the crew on board – likely armed, and almost certainly not the trusting sort.

  Which meant he couldn’t count on being able to get close enough to surprise them or knock them out or whatever. Not that he really knew how to knock people out in the first place, but still.

  Not, this would almost certainly end up being loud and chaotic. He’d have to be ready to take off pretty much immediately, and work off the assumption that he would be attracting attention from Imperial forces all but instantly. Darius spared a moment to wonder if planning for something to be chaotic made it any less so.

  Probably not. Oh, well.

  – – –

  The berth where their target was docked was just as uninviting as Darius remembered. Dim overhead lights struggled to illuminate the space, their pale yellow glow casting long, jagged shadows across the cracked metal flooring. The air was heavy with the sharp scent of engine grease and ozone, a combination that clung to everything in the berth like an oily film.

  Even by the standards of Caldera IV, this was pretty bad.

  The ship itself rested on its struts in the centre of the berth, a hulking, graceless machine that seemed more scavenged than constructed. It somehow managed to look even worse than the photo on the manifest.

  Its exterior was a patchwork of mismatched panels, some of them held together with what looked like industrial-grade adhesive. The engines, mounted awkwardly at the rear, dwarfed the rest of the ship. They were enormous and crude, the kind of overbuilt monstrosities that prioritised raw power over efficiency. The hull bore streaks of rust and scorch marks from countless repairs, lending it an air of battered resilience.

  The plan – if it could really be called a plan – was straightforward, if risky. Echo would use his frame to pose as a service unit performing a routine check or diagnostic. Hopefully, this would be enough to lure the crew outside – assuming, of course, that there even were any crew members on board the ship.

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  Looking at it in person, Darius doubted the crew consisted of more than four people at most, and presumably, they would have already emptied their cargo, so there wouldn’t be anything worth protecting.

  Besides the ship itself, of course.

  Still, best to prepare for the worst. Echo’s frame didn’t exactly look like a standard bot, so chances were the ruse would only last as long as it took for someone to get a good look at him. Hopefully, the distraction alone would let Darius get close enough to hold the crew at gunpoint and convince them that it was better to live another day.

  If they weren’t convinced by the threat, then… well, he would do what he had to.

  Best case scenario, Echo’s frame would be close enough to help out, and Echo had assured him it knew how to safely subdue people.

  Darius crouched behind a stack of crates at the edge of the berth, his nerves taut as he sized up the ship. The access ramp at the rear was partially lowered, leaving just enough space to hint at activity within. If nothing else, it confirmed that someone was inside.

  With the ship isolated and the berth deserted, the setting was as perfect as Darius could hope for. He tightened his grip on the tool bag slung over his shoulder that he hadn’t bothered to ditch, running through the plan in his head one more time.

  Finally, he nodded to himself. “Alright, let’s do this,” he whispered to the frame standing behind him.

  Echo’s frame moved forward, its metal joints whirring faintly as it began its deliberate approach toward the ship. The sound and motion were just noticeable enough to draw attention without being immediately alarming. Darius tensed, crouched low behind the crates as he watched the figure step out onto the ramp.

  The man—a stocky type with a scruffy beard and a grease-streaked jumpsuit—had a pistol in his hand, its barrel gleaming under the dim berth lights. His sharp gaze swept the area, narrowing when he spotted Echo. He didn’t raise the gun, but he kept it in hand as he walked closer.

  “What’s this about?” he called, his voice gruff and annoyed. “We didn’t call for a bot.”

  Echo’s frame halted a few meters away, its head tilting slightly to mimic the thoughtful pause of an automated service unit processing a question. When it spoke, its tone was clipped and dry—just enough to sound plausibly indifferent. “Routine diagnostics. Issue flagged in the maintenance logs. Standard procedure.”

  The man groaned, tucking his pistol back into its holster with a muttered curse. “Of course there’s an issue. Always something with this piece of junk.” He squinted at the bot, his irritation clear but not suspicious. “Alright, wait a moment. I need to check with the Captain, make sure he’s expecting it.”

  He turned, already reaching for the comm unit clipped to his belt. Echo moved instantly.

  Its frame lunged forward with a speed and precision that didn’t belong to any service bot. In one fluid motion, it caught the man around the neck with an arm that clamped down like a vice. The crewman made a strangled noise, his hand scrabbling briefly at the metal limb before going slack as Echo adjusted the pressure just enough to render him unconscious without causing permanent harm.

  Darius watched the entire thing from behind the crates, his mouth slightly open. “Okay, that was… impressive.”

  He hadn’t even had time to react before the whole thing was over.

  Echo carried the man to a shadowed corner of the berth and propped him carefully against the wall, angling his body to look less suspicious. “He’ll wake up with a headache but no lasting damage,” the AI said, voice crackling calmly through Darius’s augs.

  Darius emerged from behind the crates, a grin spreading across his face. “Show off,” he muttered, jogging towards the ramp. He spared a quick glance at the unconscious crewman, feeling a twinge of guilt that was quickly overshadowed.

  He slipped through the open hatch and into the ship, the stale air hitting him with the musty scent of old engine grease and unwashed clothes. The interior was dimly lit, with flickering lights casting long shadows across the worn metal floor. It was cramped and cluttered, with exposed wires snaking across the bulkheads and tools scattered haphazardly.

  There were no indications that any other crew were aboard at the moment – no noises, and no one had come to investigate the sounds of struggle when Echo had choked the man out. Still, better to check than be unpleasantly surprised.

  He moved quickly through the entryway, adrenaline pumping through him. He checked the cramped engine room first, a tiny space dominated by a massive, jury-rigged fusion core that hummed ominously. It was clear that whoever maintained this ship prioritised function over aesthetics.

  He moved on, pushing past a door that swung inward with a groan to reveal a small bunk room. Four narrow bunks were bolted to the wall, each with a thin, stained mattress and a single, bare bulb overhead. A half-eaten ration pack lay discarded on the floor, and a worn datapad rested precariously on one of the pillows. It was obvious that the crew didn’t spend much time here, using the bunks only when absolutely necessary.

  Next to the bunk room was a tiny, claustrophobic space labelled “Waste Reclamation Unit.” The toilet was little more than a hole in the floor with a flimsy privacy screen, and the sink was stained a rusty brown. Darius wrinkled his nose in disgust and quickly retreated.

  He reached the cargo bay, the largest room on the ship. As expected, it was empty, with only a few scattered crates and loose straps littering the floor. The walls were lined with reinforced cargo hooks, suggesting that the ship was usually packed full of goods. Darius couldn’t help but wonder what they had been smuggling. Weapons? Drugs? Illegal tech? He shrugged. It didn’t really matter.

  Finally, he arrived at the cockpit. It was a cramped space dominated by a large, curved viewport that offered a panoramic view of the dimly lit berth. The pilot’s seat was worn and cracked, and the control panel was a bewildering array of blinking lights, buttons, and levers. Darius stared at it, his stomach sinking.

  He had just realised a rather significant flaw in his plan.

  “I have no idea how to fly a spaceship,” he muttered to himself. Somewhat sheepishly, he turned to Echo’s frame, which had followed him into the cockpit and was standing nearby with an air of calm indifference.

  “Hey, uh, Echo, you don’t happen to know how to fly, do you?”

  The mechanical frame tilted its head, the motion almost playful in its mimicry of human thought. “I am capable of piloting this vessel. Allow me to interface with the system.”

  Darius obligingly laid his hand on the console and watched as Echo’s nanite matrix melted through his skin. There was a brief pause before the lights on the control panel blinked to life, casting the cockpit in a soft glow as the AI worked. Darius watched nervously, arms crossed.

  “Diagnostics complete,” Echo said. “The ship is operational, though it requires some maintenance. The engines are functional but inefficient, and the life support system is overdue for calibration. However, we can achieve basic flight.”

  “Well, that’s a relief.” Darius sank into the co-pilot’s seat, letting out a long breath. His gaze drifted to the viewport, where the dim berth stretched out like a ghost town. “So, uh… what now?”

  Echo paused, the lights on its frame flickering faintly. “Remaining in place is advisable for the moment. The longer we delay, the greater the likelihood that the Empire’s lockdown will be rescinded or relaxed. Additionally, the ship’s systems will benefit from immediate attention. I recommend you familiarise yourself with the vessel and its operations.”

  Darius frowned, shifting uncomfortably. “Yeah, I get that, but what if the smugglers come back? We’ve locked the ship down, sure, but that won’t stop them from calling for help—or worse, trying to blow us out of here.”

  Echo’s voice remained steady, even as it continued to process commands. “Their response time is uncertain. Paranoia suggests they will return quickly, but overconfidence might delay them. The ship is locked; they cannot gain entry without considerable effort or external assistance. I calculate our immediate risk as manageable.”

  Darius chewed his lip, weighing his options. The berth outside was as quiet as ever, but his gut told him the clock was ticking. He stood, stretching his arms. “Fine. I’ll poke around and see what I can fix. Might as well make this bucket a little less rusty if I’m gonna trust it with my life.”

  “I will maintain a continuous watch on external sensors and prepare the ship for departure at a moment’s notice.”

  “Here’s hoping we don’t need it,” Darius muttered as he left the cockpit, knowing they almost certainly would.