Edran's Relics & Repair second-hand junk shop and home was tucked away on a long stretch of storefronts on level 12 in the Commerce District, on a small unassuming corner. It didn't look like much from the outside. A tall metal wall with an automatic door and a barred window. It had Edran's neon blue logo of nanodriver and despite it being out of the way from the lower engineering levels, he was well-respected for his expert repairs and cheap prices.

  The Commerce Districts atmosphere was thick with the scent of recycled oxygen and hulking asteroids loomed outside as miners returned from the outside after days away at the mines.

  From the outside, the Weave dominated the black void, a colossal star-station spanning over thirty kilometers with asteroids and mining ships clumped together close to the blue star Tyrmos that gave the Weave its faint, shimmering blue glow. It was responsible for native Weavers dark, black coal-like eye color. Its vast rings spun in entrancing synchronization, mimicking the orbit of a distant moon.

  The docking bays alone stretched for miles, their platforms crowded with freighters, shuttles, and warships. Lights glimmered from countless windows across its surface, a lattice of brilliance that seemed to outshine the stars themselves.

  It was in no way glamorous, at least, not anymore, but it was home. Syra had grown so used to it that she barely noticed what once marveled her.

  Their shop got their fair share of foot traffic, but most days were fixing things no one bothered to look sideways at, or commissions from the council for malfunctioning bots that wandered too far from their garbage targets.

  That was just the way Syra liked it.

  Unassuming. It was good for...other kinds of business.

  She stretched, letting out a low groan as she eased herself off the creaky cot in the back of her father's shop. She rubbed the stiffness from her neck, blinking blearily out of the small port window. Time in the Scattered Weave followed the slow rotation of the station, mimicking the rise and fall of a day. As the station turned, one side faced Tyrmos, bathing the sprawling structures in a cool, sapphire light. On the opposite side, night fell. Tyrmos's glow faded, leaving the station in shadow. Auxiliary lights flickered on - soft blues and purples lining the streets and corridors, casting a calming, station hue.

  The cycle was deliberate, a mechanical imitation of linear time despite being so far away from it, but for those who lived here, it felt just as real as living on a planet. Tyrmos, though distant, provided their sun and their anchor, in the endless sprawl of the Weave.

  Rubbing her eyes, Syra pulled her faded work jumpsuit from the floor and stepped out into the cluttered expanse of the shop. The place was a maze of old tech and scrap, with shelves stacked high with everything from rusted parts to half-fixed machinery, all of it waiting to be salvaged, sold, or put to use.

  At the centre of it all stood Edran, her father, hunched over a disassembled cybernetic trash unit that was spread out across the workbench like an open-heart patient. He had a long intricate Kessaryon braid that dipped underneath the collar of his shirt and he wore goggles, matte-black and small with adjustable magnifying lenses on each side, like a favourite hat. With a quick flick, the auto-adjust lenses could stack for stronger magnification, revealing even the tiniest nano-parts in sharp detail. Each lens glowed faintly blue, giving a clear view of circuits and mechanisms.

  His left arm, the mechanical one, whirred faintly as he fiddled with the circuitry inside the cybernetic units chest. His flesh-and-blood hand held a thin nano-driver, which he used with the kind of focus that made it seem like the world beyond his work didn't exist.

  "Morning, papa," Syra said, kissing his cheek as she passed him in familial affection.

  Edran kissed her cheek back instinctively, without looking up, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Good morning, jara. Sleep alright?"

  Despite living in the Weave for most of her life, he still carried the heavy accent of their home world, Kessyra, roots that made him stand out in the Weave. Not many Kessaryon's made it off planet, not with the meagre credits and hard farming life that came with it. Syra still didn't quite know how they made it to the Weave.

  Syra padded towards the small square kitchenette, "I had a dream I got stuck in the elevator on the fifth floor and Arleen Mast came to save me but the whole time she was lecturing me about not doing a better job on the escalator contract I did last week. Then suddenly the whole star station had no walls, and everyone was floating around as if nothing was wrong. And I was standing there thinking 'what the hell, do they not see that they're floating?'," she stretched her arms over her head, grimacing as her shoulders cracked loudly. "Also, that bed is killing my back."

  Edran snorted and adjusted the goggles over his eyes, the blue glow from the magnifying lenses casting a sharp, cool light across his face. His gaze narrowed as he leaned closer to the delicate nano-parts, the lenses whirring softly as they clicked into focus. "Don't know who you got your imagination from. Certainly wasn't me. And I told you, you could have the upstairs bed, and I'll sleep on the cot while you get back on your feet."

  She set a pot of water to boil and began rummaging for the granulated caffeinated Yava beans in their cluttered cupboards. "No, papa. You're getting old, you need it more than me."

  "I'm not getting old," Edran scoffed defensively and then made a face, "Well, maybe the years are just going by too quick."

  Syra looked sideways at her father who proceeded to tentatively stick his nano-driver into the chest piece causing a spark. "What time did you get up?"

  "Early," he replied, his tone nonchalant, but she knew that could mean anything from dawn to the middle of the night. He had a habit of losing track of time once he got his hands on a project.

  "You're supposed to rest, remember? Doctor Vern didn't put you on that medicine for no reason."

  "Resting's for when you're dead," He waved his mechanical arm, the fingers not quite in sync, at the disassembled unit. "Besides, this one's close to being functional again. A few more tweaks and we might actually get some decent credits for it."

  "You've been saying that for weeks."

  "Well, the damn thing is stubborn, that's for sure."

  Syra didn't argue, though she couldn't help but sigh quietly. She stirred the brown liquid, the comforting warm smell of warming Yava energizing her. She poured some cream into hers and a sugar into Edran's mug. She walked over, placing the mug on the table beside him. "At least eat something this morning. I'll make breakfast."

  Edran took the cup and gave her a look-part grateful, part resigned. "You worry too much, kid."

  "Someone has to. Especially when you're up at all hours like a vengeful spirit."

  He grumbled something under his breath but didn't protest further.

  They fell into a comfortable routine - Syra cleared space on the cluttered workbench to set out the modest breakfast she'd prepared: toasted Felka bread, Bawken egg fry packs, a protein bar, and a small cup of processed fruit. Edran sipped his drink while he read the morning news slate. "Have you seen the news?"

  Syra had heard bits and pieces of political drama but tried to stay away from the mental drain of it all. But one thing was made abundantly clear. "I heard that Malwood Harwes is running for Overseer again."

  "Uh-huh. Shora vé Syrali." What now, Syrali? "And on the same day the TLA are protesting mechanical rights."

  The Liberty Association and Mr. Malwood Harwes were two ends of a spectrum.

  The Liberty Association advocated for oppressed and discriminated species and fought hard for rights most races didn't care for, despite some obvious complications to the species. Malwood advocated for new space stations, strict interspecies restrictions and costly amenities paid for by rising taxes though eighty percent of the Weave wouldn't see those changes and they paid for amenties on level 20. The finance district. The wealthiest part of the Weave, where the wealthy looked down on the workers keeping the Weave afloat.

  Syra would advocate for the TLA if there were some hard concrete evidence that the bots were sentient. But so far, it was all based on one eye-witness account, and they were in the middle of political warfare. A

  "Oh come on," Syra said, looking in the small mirror above the sink to fix the braids in her hair. "Mechanical rights? Are we going to start giving rights to our ovens, our lights, our...nano-drivers? It'd be different if these machines were alive but they're just metal and code. Let them come and work in a shop for a day and see how alive they think they are."

  Edran sipped his coffee. "Well, they're convinced one of them asked for help. Was frantic, apparently. It sounds like a recipe for a bot uprising. Like that film slate that just came out. Uhm...oh what was it called..."

  "The Steel Giant." Syra said. Edran clicked his fingers. Syra continued, "Where'd you hear that?"

  "I saw Mr. O'Amra yesterday. He was out walking with one of the new service models on 13. Must've cost him a year's wages. Almost mistook it for human if I hadn't noticed the way it was movin'. Gives me the creeps."

  "Well, I'd like to start charging them rent then with how much power they take up on our utility bill."

  "Well, word is Malwood is trying to push for them out in the mines. Says they get work done quicker."

  "He can't do that...can he? What about the people already asking for more work? I mean people will lose their jobs. They still have to feed their families. You start kicking people out of their livelihoods and you will have an uprising."

  "Syrali to'venya." He murmured in agreement, head resting against his fingers as he swiped midair to scroll to the next article. Syrali, show us the way.

  It never failed to bewilder Syra at her father's persisting faith to their Kessyra's patron goddess Syrali, even after seeing the universe beyond his world. Syra took one look at the vast open expanse of space and believed simply in the cosmic anonoly that is space. Edran believed so much that he even pushed for her to be called Syra, after Syrali, meaning bringer of rain, a common name in their village.

  They ate in companiable silence and then Syra got to work organizing the shop and sorting through the piles of scrap that had accumulated in the back. She checked the inventory logs, marking down which parts had been sold or scavenged and needed to be restocked. It was a tedious task, especially since Edran preferred to forget about it or sporadically update it, but it kept the place running smoothly. With so many traders, miners, and wanderers passing through the Weave nowadays, business was steady, if not unpredictable.

  The doorbell jingled as the first customer of the day wandered in-a grizzled asteroid miner from level 6, still in his dusty work clothes. "Jharis," he greeted, nodding to Syra.

  "Morning, Anders." His face was kind and fatherly and reminded her of her own father. His eyes were dark, so dark they were almost black, hiding behind thick brows. A tell-tale sign he was born in the Weave. Syra absently thought of his three young troublemakers with the same eyes, who, on more than one occasion, tried to sell her faulty data chips.

  "Heard you've got some new grav stabilizers in stock. My rig's been acting up like it pays the damn bills, and I need a replacement."

  "We only have two in at the moment," Syra replied, already walking toward the far wall where a row of stabilizers hung. "Not the latest model, but they'll hold up."

  "That's all I need," Anders said, scratching at the stubble on his chin. "The thing doesn't need to be pretty, just needs to keep working."

  "I've got an Arcadian Stabilizer for two thousand credits. It's a good deal considering it's only five years old and runs like a dream. Ooor...I've got a second-hand model down for one thousand fourteen but it's not—

  ."

  "I'll take the second hand, whatever's cheapest."

  Syra shot him a wry smile, "Unless you want to be in here in another couple of weeks, you may as well spend the little extra on the Arcadian. It's stable, reliable, you won't have to pay double the credits next time if it doesn't work out."

  "I know what you're trying to do-"

  "All I'm saying is you'll get a lot more out of it. Twice the life, saves you credits in the future. So I don't have to see you for a good six months rather than next few weeks. And Sovereigns Day is coming up - I know how a few extra credits for the kids goes a long way. This is me looking out for you."

  Anders simply chuffed, "You're something else, you know that. I've not been in here five minutes and you're already trying to haggle me out of my last credit. Fine. But just because I need Malwood off my back, and because I don't want this issue in a week."

  Syra flashed a smile. "You won't regret it."

  "I'll be bringing it back if it fails."

  "It won't. Dad fixed it himself."

  Anders grinned, "The Jharis special, huh? Who knows, thing might last me ten years."

  Syra rang him up on the small touchscreen data pad and held it out for him to complete his transaction. He waved a sleek black band around his wrist over the screen, and it accepted. 2000 credits deposited. "Receipt?"

  "Please," he tucked his hat in his back pocket and took the stabilizer under one arm, "You know we've got work down on level 6 if you ever need it," Anders said. "I heard what happened to you on Thenia. For what it's worth, you did a damn fine thing. You served with honour."

  Syra smiled faintly; the sting still raw. "Thanks Anders. But it was reckless. I could've gotten a lot of people killed, including my team, on a decision that wasn't mine to make. And I lost my entire career over it. The fact that it went right was pure luck." Syra printed off a receipt and slid it over to him, "And thank you for the offer but I don't think your engineers could handle a woman down there."

  Anders waved a dismissive hand in the air, "Bah, that's bullshit Dominion has drilled into you, and you know it. My wife's cousin was on one of the transport ships you pulled off the surface. Instead of dying in a crushed mass of ship parts and red rock, he got to see his kid be born this week. You may not know it Syra, but you changed the course of so many people's lives. Just know most everyone on level 6 respects the hell outta you."

  Syra smiled, but her eyes stung and she looked away, clutching onto her clipboard. The unsettling dark pit her dishonored discharge left her never quite went away, even after five months out of service. Everything she worked so hard for, gone in an instant. "Thanks, Anders. Really. Don't be going all soft on me though. You need any help fitting it?"

  "Nah, that's what the apprentices are for." He grinned. "Remember what I said, eh? You've got a lot more people on your side than you realise. Cheers for the stabilizer. Say hi to your dad from me."

  She watched him leave with the stabiliser under one arm and then glanced over to where her father was still bent over the bot. Edran was in his own world. She envied his ability to lose himself like that, to just focus on one thing and block out everything else.

  Syra wiped her hands on a rag and moved back to where her father was working. She needed him to head out back for a few hours, so she could deal with some business of her own. "You know," she began, keeping her tone light. "I could handle the customers while you take a break. Maybe even get some sleep."

  Edran didn't look up. "I'm fine."

  "Papa, you're not a machine," Her gaze drifted to his mechanical arm, which gleamed in the faint light. "Not entirely, anyway."

  He chuckled at that, a dry sound that seemed to echo through the cluttered shop. "That's debatable," he said, but he set down his tools. "Alright, alright. I'll take a break. Happy?"

  "Yes, thank you," Syra replied, giving him a small, satisfied smile.

  The rest of the afternoon passed in much the same way: customers trickling in and out, parts traded or bartered for, the shop's cluttered shelves gradually shifting with the flow of business. Syra liked the routine; it kept her grounded, gave her a purpose in a place that often felt like it was drifting aimlessly in the void. There were always repairs to make, parts to salvage, and people looking for a deal.

  Syra turned back to her father, who was already seated at the workbench at the back, fiddling with a small circuit board. She shook her head, letting out a quiet laugh and she called out to him, "I thought you were taking a break."

  "This is my break," he said without looking up. "I'm just...finishing up."

  "Sure, you are," she replied.

  Edran waved her off with a grunt, but as she turned away, she saw the faintest hint of a smile on his lips.

  She stood behind the cluttered counter with an old spacer module, turning it over in her hands, feeling its worn edges and faded markings. She carefully pried the casing open, examining the tangle of circuits and wires inside. With a small screwdriver, she nudged at a few loose connections, hoping to coax the old device back to life.

  The door hissed open, and Syra glanced up - a lanky Anaxian with marbled translucent coloured skin, nervously glancing around the shop. Its three small eyes blinked rapidly as it slid a small box across the counter with one of its four arms, trying not to meet her gaze.

  A small colony of Anaxian's settled in the Weave nearly a century ago and were still treated poorly by the general population, despite providing over 30% of the workforce. They worked for meagre credits, usually down in the ship bay where they offered cleaning services and chaperoning.

  What he was doing here, Syra didn't know.

  She recognized it as one of their nanotech tool kits, small adaptive screwdriver kits - the kind used specifically for bots and utility units. Not just anyone bought these.

  She gave the male a once-over, her expression unreadable. She'd never seen him before. "You got the credits for this?"

  The alien stammered, shaking its head. It's voice was melodic, watery sounding, distinct to their race. "Just need to make a quick trade..." He placed a metal case onto the table as his trade, "I heard from Savros Valen you also..."

  "You heard nothing," Syra interrupted quietly. Savros hauled in generally legal goods, occasionally bending the rules to earn some extra credits. Syra occasionally let others pass through the cracks undetected for a hefty fee. She'd have to talk to him about handing her name out.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  Behind her calm exterior, Syra's mind worked quickly. The metal case was inconspicuous, branded with a Dominion sigil. A four-pointed star with an infinity knot in the center to represent the Sovereign's Ember implants. The four Sovereigns of Sennia were each equipped with an implant, placed at the base of the neck, each designed to enhance the skills needed to rule an empire.

  Unity, the current reigning sovereign, helped connect with people and unify different factions, strengthening alliances and reducing conflict.

  Valor boosted courage, ensuring the sovereign can make bold decisions and lead in times of war or crisis.

  Fortune guided decisions toward prosperity, giving them a keen sense of opportunity and wealth.

  Justice ensured fairness, helping uphold laws and maintain balance, preventing corruption.

  Together, they once ruled as Four, their Ember implants enhancing and amplifying skills and traits they already possessed. It was said the Ember chose their host, where it had been bitterly torturous for those who weren't worthy.

  During the Interstellar Convergence, a time long before Syra and her parents, where the Sovereign's mother planet Cerbus was destroyed by their dying sun. The surrounding planets also abandoned their homes. headed in the direction of ripe, habitable planets and colonized them. Kessyra being one of them. A planet made up of four different religious and planetary races. Many years after the creation of their Ember implants, Valor's decisions changed the entire galaxy by destroying six planets loyal to the Valeri system, essentially wiping the slate clean for the Valeri star system, a move seen as problematic by many major houses, despite their loyalty to Sennia. He turned the tide for Sennian loyalties and ensured any who defied would be met with the swift end of atomic planetary destruction. Syra didn't study hard enough to remember all the stories but it'd been brutal enough for it to be considered cursed to speak aloud about it.

  "Where'd you get this?"

  "Dominion War ship shipwrecked on the coast of Anaxia. Dominion quantum battery."

  They cost a pretty credit on Sennia, and they were so regulated that getting them fitted into a non-Dominion ship was like trying to shoot fish with your fingers. But if you could get your hands on one it would supply a lifetime of renewable starship energy.

  She weighed her options. Her ship could use some upgrades and getting a battery like this was rare and would help power a better jump drive model. After getting it shot out in a skirmish with the other smugglers, her ship may as well be shipwrecked too - stuck in her cozy corner of the Galaxy. She knew this offer didn't come without another favor, "Where do you need me to be?"

  "Outpost 13. Two nights from now. Patrols start at 1100 hours but break away for an hour period at blue break." Blue break, when the asteroid began to face the pale icy hot glow of Tyrmos, signalling the start of everyone's morning.

  She couldn't afford to make deals like this with her father watching too closely. They were part of her side business, a quiet arrangement for certain smuggling contacts who passed through the Weave. Syra got paid big credits for a five-minute operation opening the gates for their cargo to slip by unseen by the Weaves security.

  Tech could be bought, it was the right contacts that truly held value.

  She leaned in closer, her voice a low murmur. Due to the nature of her work, the trouble she could get into and what little reputation she still had, the battery seemed like a rip off. "Throw in a deluxe ship wash and it's a deal." Before the Anaxian could reply Syra quicky continued, "And you fix the hull...and fit the battery."

  The Anaxian nodded eagerly, snatching the box of nano-drivers and stuffing it into a worn satchel, its three eyes blinking in rapid succession as it made for the door. "Bring it down to the ship bay next couple breaks. I'll have it powered up and shining like a star."

  Before the stranger was even out the door, Syra saw a flicker of movement. Edran's figure emerged from the dimness, his heavy boots clanking against the metal flooring. She straightened up, quickly hiding any trace of the transaction as the Anaxian disappeared out onto the streets.

  "Who was that?" he grumbled, looking like a strange space man with his goggles still over his eyes, wiping his hands on an oil-streaked rag. He flipped up his visor and his sharp gaze fell on the figure retreating and then back to her.

  Syra smiled innocently. "Just a wanderer. Didn't have the credits, so I told 'em to come back another time."

  Edran grunted, unconvinced. "Don't go givin' away the goods for just anything, jara. Everyone must work for what they have. We don't run a charity here."

  She bit back a sarcastic retort, nodding instead, knowing if he found the Dominion battery pack tucked under the counter, he'd lose his mind. Edran had once lived and breathed Dominion; her family had a small legacy of proud pilots, each one dedicated to the fleet like it was a birthright. Her grandfather who still resided on Kessyra, had been a point of honour, a scientist at heart but a pilot during the peak of his career. Her father was an engineer. It was something Edran used to carry with pride. It was something Syra used to carry with pride.

  Now, it was a bitter reminder.

  Syra's gaze drifted to the Dominion battery, sleek and functional, humming faintly with the energy it stored. It was efficient, reliable - everything the Dominion promised to be. But her father saw it differently, saw it as a cruel reminder of what they'd taken from him and the proud lineage they'd let fade.

  To him, every bit of Dominion tech was a symbol of betrayal. If he knew she had it... she didn't want to think about the argument that would follow.

  So she kept quiet, nodding along as he grumbled.

  "Of course, papa."

  Edran cleared his throat, wiping his hands on an oil-stained rag as he walked over.

  "You're quiet today," he said casually, leaning against the counter. "Too quiet."

  Syra glanced up, arching a brow. He didn't hear her, did he? "You want me to start humming or something?"

  Edran chuckled, shaking his head. "Not exactly, but it's not like you when you're not grumbling about something. Thought maybe you were sick."

  "I'm fine," she said.

  He watched her for a moment, then picked up a loose bolt from the counter and tossed it lightly in the air. "So," he started, "have you spoken to your mother recently?"

  Syra froze mid-motion, her fingers gripping a circuit board tightly. "No," she said, her voice a little sharper than she intended. "Why?"

  Edran gave her a measured look, tilting his head. "Because she's been sending slate messages. Wants to talk to you."

  Syra let out a frustrated sigh, setting the board down with more force than necessary. "Of course she does."

  "She sounded...earnest," Edran said, his tone careful. "Not her usual cryptic Eternal Light stuff. Just...like she wanted to talk."

  "She always wants to talk," Syra muttered, crossing her arms. "But you don't know what it's like on the Aurora, papa. They're a bunch of weird sex feigns-"

  "Eh, eh eh," he waved her off at her wording, "Syra, must you be so crude?"

  "It's the truth. It gives me the creeps and grosses me out. And whenever we talk it's always the same thing. 'The Eternal Light saved me, Syra, it can save you too.' as if she's trying to indoctrinate me into her sex cult. Her own daughter. Like it's some miracle cure for abandoning your family."

  Edran's mouth twitched, but he didn't comment on her bitterness. Instead, he leaned a little closer, his voice softer. "Your mother lived a hard life, Syra. Before you, before me. She was half-happy half-sad at any given moment and as much as I tried, there was nothing I could do for her. I have had to accept that for my own peace of mind. I think - I have to believe - if she hadn't turned to the light she would be buried in darkness by now and I must accept this was the choice she made in order to save herself. I'm not saying you have to forgive her. But maybe hearing her out wouldn't hurt."

  Syra shook her head, pushing back from the counter. "I've heard all of her excuses. She made her choice. I don't like or agree with it so she can leave me out of it."

  "She's still your mother," Edran said gently. "And I know you. I see how it affects you, jara."

  Syra's jaw tightened, and she turned away, pacing a few steps before stopping. "Why are you even bringing this up? I thought you hated her for what she did."

  Edran shrugged, his expression unreadable. "I was angry. Still am, sometimes. But people make mistakes, Syra. And sometimes people make choices for themselves that seem selfish to others but are the only way they can cope."

  Syra let out a short, humorless laugh. "And what about my life? You think she can fix this with some half-hearted apology and a speech about enlightenment?"

  "No..." Edran said honestly placing down the mail slate on the counter. "But I think she's trying. And maybe that's worth something."

  Syra didn't respond right away, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. The slate still sat on the counter, its screen dark but its presence heavy. She could feel the weight of her father's gaze, patient and unyielding.

  "I'll think about it..." she muttered finally.

  Edran nodded, stepping back to give her space. "That's all I'm asking."

  He turned and went back to his work, leaving her alone with her thoughts. Syra stared at the slate for a long moment before picking it up and shoving it into her pocket. She wasn't ready to open it - not yet.

  Edran gave her a long look before turning back to his project, but she could feel the weight of his doubt lingering in the air. She exhaled, releasing the tension in her shoulders once he disappeared behind the wall of parts again.

  Syra's gaze lingered on the spacer module in front of her. Her chest tightened, a familiar weight settling over her as memories clawed their way to the surface.

  She didn't need to see her mother to know what it would feel like—the subtle, unspoken disappointment that radiated off her, like a shadow she could never step out of.

  It wasn't hate Syra felt for her. Not exactly. But it was a type of exhaustion that never quite went away. The kind that came from years of feeling like she wasn't enough. That her doubts, her choices, her very existence, were a rejection of something greater. Her mother had never yelled, never lashed out, but her calm certainty had been sharper than any blade. "You're walking away from salvation." The words had replayed in Syra's mind more times than she cared to admit.

  The Aurora wasn't just a ship. It was a reminder of everything her mother had tried to mold her into. Of the life she was supposed to embrace, the religion she was supposed to accept, the belief she was supposed to bow to. It was a weight she had shrugged off years ago, but the scars of it still pressed on her, invisible but heavy.

  No, she couldn't step foot on the Aurora. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

  She glanced at the small communicator in her pocket, checking the encrypted messages for any updates from the Anaxian but there were none. There was a big haul of rare parts docking at lunchtime though, and she'd have to move quickly if she wanted to get the first pick of stock.

  She shot another glance toward the back of the shop, her smirk fading into a calculated calm.

  Syra ducked under a low-hanging conduit as she made her way through the crowded interior of the shop. It was an organized mess, a maze of mismatched starship parts, rusty gears, and bits of forgotten tech piled high on every shelf. Neon lights flickered above, casting an electric-blue glow over everything and giving the place a gritty, cluttered feel.

  She glanced at Edran, who was hunched over a small cart engine from the local grocery store. "I'll be back later," she called out, grabbing her jacket off a nearby hook.

  "Don't get into too much trouble, Syra." That was his way of telling her he loved her.

  "No promises."

  The shop door hissed open, amplifying the hustle and bustle of the massive station, as she stepped out into the busy lanes of the Scattered Weave.

  As she walked, the sights and sounds of the asteroid settlement buzzed around her - mail carts zipped through the air above, vendors shouted out deals, and the hum of ship engines reverberating through the air. The sky above was a patchwork of metal structures and floating platforms, all illuminated by their star through massive paned glass walls.

  As she reached the edge of the market, her handheld comm device buzzed at her hip. She pulled it out, frowning as she saw the message: "Clear the way. Incoming."

  No name, no sender ID. Just cryptic words.

  Syra's eyes narrowed slightly as she scanned the skies above the docking bays, searching for any sign of an unfamiliar incoming ship. She didn't usually get anonymous transmissions from people. She'd have to get to her ship to figure out who was trying to get in touch.

  Syra wound her way through the familiar maze of massive corridors, her boots echoing against the metal floors as she descended deeper into the belly of Astra Nexus, the Weave's largest asteroid station.

  She knew these paths like the back of her hand, each turn, each corridor, each rusted-out bulkhead. The overhead lights flickered sporadically, casting an uneven glow that made the metal walls shimmer with an almost eerie luminescence.

  As she approached the docking yard, the faint hum of engines and the distant hiss of pressurized air grew louder.

  Finally, the narrow hallway opened into the massive expanse of the ship dockyard - a cavernous space that stretched further than the eye could see, layered with platforms and docking bays as far as the dim lights allowed.

  This was the heart of Astra Nexus, a sprawling of ships, each docked in its designated space, some pristine and well-kept, others patched together from decades of salvaged parts. Ships of all sizes rested in their berths, from sleek cargo haulers to battered smuggler vessels, their exteriors varying from polished metal to weathered, scratched panels.

  The Anaxian's were already out in force, moving methodically between the ships, performing their maintenance routines with quiet precision. They were a stoic species, the primary workers here, dressed in their standard-issue four-sleeved jumpsuits and thick gloves, moving in rhythm with each other as they cleaned ships in the wash bay.

  Syra watched as one of them operated the spray cannons, blasting away layers of grime and space dust with streams of high-pressure water, while another buffed a nearby hull to a dull shine. The Anaxian's were meticulous, practically born for this work, and though they rarely interacted with the other residents of the Weave, their presence was a constant.

  Syra adjusted her flight jacket as she passed by a few of them, nodding in acknowledgment. They gave her a slight nod in return, their faces mostly unreadable, focused on the task at hand.

  She saw them nearly every day but still didn't know their names.

  Taking a sharp left, she weaved through the rows of ships, her path guided by the markers etched into the floor, directing foot traffic away from maintenance zones.

  The lights overhead changed from amber to green as she approached the docking area, a sign that the protocols allowed her through. The green light meant an all-clear for foot traffic, a signal that no ships were set to depart or land in this section.

  She continued on, glancing at the protocol panels stationed every few meters. One panel flashed a blue light, indicating a lockdown on the third platform. She was used to these signals-the blue was a warning for fuel containment, yellow for restricted entry during unloading, and red for immediate evacuation. It was an intricate dance of lights, a safety net in a place as chaotic as the Weave.

  Finally, she spotted her ship, nestled in its usual spot at the far end of the dockyard. Syra grinned remembering the Game of Stones that won her this ship. Poor bastard, she thought. Lucky me.

  The Nebula. It was a small, rugged vessel with chipped paint and a few scorch marks from rough landings, but it was hers and it was in better shape than many ships in the docking bay.

  Her fingers brushed the hull almost affectionately. This was her freedom, her ticket out of the Weave whenever she needed. Though she wasn't going anywhere far with her jump drive out of commission.

  She pressed a button on the ramp control, her sleek band acting as a key and the door hissed open. Taking one last glance around, she muttered to herself, "All right, let's see who's knocking."

  She made her way to the cockpit, a small square control station. She pushed open a hidden compartment in the Nebula's side wall. The familiar hum of the ship's engines vibrated beneath her boots, a constant companion in her life among the stars.

  Syra opened the compartment, revealing her gear. EMP grenades, jammers, and the latest in anti-surveillance tech gleamed in the low light. She began pulling out what she needed for the job, her mind already racing through the plan.

  Just as she finished, the ship's comms pinged. She glanced up at the console, her breath catching when she saw the name flash across the screen.

  Colt.

  Of course.

  Her heart gave a small, disobedient flutter, but she tapped the comm button before it could betray her any further.

  Outside the wide viewport, the sprawling neon lights of the Weave's Undercity flickered like stars trapped in a never-ending twilight. Her shop was tucked away somewhere down there, buried deep beneath layers of steel, corruption, and opportunity.

  The comms crackled to life, breaking the quiet.

  "Well, well, if it isn't my favourite pilot," he drawled, that familiar smirk practically audible. "Syra. It's been too long."

  She smirked, recognizing the familiar smooth voice and vividly recalled their last passionate three-day reunion that had her sore for a week.

  "Colton Harven, you sly dog," she replied, her tone light and laced with amusement. "You're still alive? Thought one of your backwater deals would've gotten you killed by now."

  "You know you could have a little faith in me," She could see his smile already. Too wide, too charming for everybody's own good. "But you know me, I've always been good at slipping through the cracks. Speaking of which..."

  She leaned forward, adjusting the comms signal, making sure their conversation stayed private. "Go on," she drawled, eyes narrowing in anticipation. "What trouble are you dragging me into this time?"

  "There's a back entrance to the Undercity," Colt began, his voice lowering as though someone might be eavesdropping. "Outpost 47."

  "Yeah, I know it," Syra replied, her voice cooling ever so slightly. She knew the entrance all too well - a narrow, unmarked passage through the old infrastructure. Dangerous, yes, but lucrative. It was a discreet way to move goods, bypass checkpoints, and - if you had the right contacts - get in and out without so much as a whisper.

  "I need it clear for a couple of hours tonight. You know the drill. A few shipments coming through tonight, nothing you haven't handled before. Easy credits."

  Syra rolled her eyes, leaning back in her chair, letting the silence stretch just long enough to keep him on edge. "And what's in it for me this time, Colt? Last time I got undercut and your buddy was getting a little too friendly. You know I don't do charity work."

  "First off he wasn't my buddy and I ended up reimbursing you."

  "I remember you telling me you were going to."

  "C'mon, Syra, you'll be well compensated. Your shop stays protected, and you and your old man stay off anyone's radar. I'll even throw in a little extra this time-hazard pay, considering it's a bit more...risky."

  She raised an eyebrow, enjoying the game, but also well aware of the stakes. Colt was smooth, always had been, and she had once been more than willing to let him charm his way into her bed, but that was before things got more complicated. Not that she minded a little flirtation now and then, but business was business.

  "Hazard-pay? What kind of hazard are we talking about?"

  He paused, a brief hesitation that told her there was more to this than he was letting on. "It's nothing to worry about. A couple of ships have been poking around. I heard there was a Dominion ship in the vicinity."

  That wasn't good. "Dominion ship? I haven't heard anything about a Dominion ship docking today?"

  "Yeah, well that's because I've got better contacts," he said teasingly causing her to roll her eyes. "Listen, it could be nothing. I haven't seen it yet, but it feels like someone's watching the routes. We've been keeping an eye out and so far so good. Nothing you can't handle, though."

  "Don't think you can sweet talk me into taking on more heat without a little something extra."

  "Goddamn, Sy, you know how to empty a man's pockets," he conceded. "Double the credits. Fourteen thousand. Plus, a little something personal, just for you."

  She chuckled, shaking her head. "Still trying to buy your way into my good graces, I see."

  "Can you blame me?" he replied, his tone softening. "A woman like you...worth every credit and then some."

  Syra let the compliment hang in the air for a moment, her eyes flickering to the small picture on the dash - her father and eight-year-old Syra standing outside their shop, blissfully unaware of the deals that kept their livelihood safe. She didn't like having to play both sides, but it was necessary. Her shop, her reputation, and her survival all depended on keeping a certain balance.

  "Alright, Colt," she finally said, her voice smooth and confident. "I'll clear the way. But you owe me - big time. If this gets messy, I'm not taking the fall for you."

  "You've got nothing to worry about," he replied smoothly. "I knew I could count on you, Syra. Always a professional."

  She leaned back, feeling a sense of satisfaction as she tapped a few buttons, prepping her ship's systems. "Is that what we're calling it now?"

  "Among other things," Colt said, "I'll owe you a drink when we touch back down in the Weave."

  "Make it two, and maybe I'll let you buy me dinner." She smirked, though there was no attachment there. Not really. They'd grown up together but taken opposite paths. Colt was useful; a fun distraction, but that's all it was, and he knew the deal.

  "Deal," he replied, his voice full of promise. "I'll send the details in a minute. And Syra?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Stay safe out there."

  She rolled her eyes. "I always do."

  The comms clicked off, and Syra exhaled. Colt always had a way of getting under her skin though she'd never admit it to his smug face.

  Her thoughts already moving to the task at hand. Clearing the way wasn't hard, but it meant keeping her head down and making sure the wrong people didn't notice. Colt was good for credits, and those credits kept the shop running, but there was always a risk - especially now that security was heating up around the Weave with everything going on politically.

  As the engines hummed back to life, she couldn't shake the feeling that this was just another layer of complication in a life already full of them. But credits were credits.

  Flirtations and favors aside, Syra knew exactly what she was getting into. And as she headed toward the Undercity, she couldn't help but smile at the thrill of it all, the danger and the rewards intertwined in a way that excited the hell out of her.

  Syra sat in the cockpit of the Nebula in a quiet discreet corner bathed in the soft blue light of the control panels as she waited for Colt to arrive. Her eyes flicked over the readouts, fingers hovering over the controls as she prepared to do what she was best at: making things disappear. Colt's ship, sleek and silent, was waiting in the distance, its outline barely visible against the backdrop of stars.

  "Alright, let's get this done," she muttered into the comms, pulling up the interface she needed to disable the Weave's sensor grid. Tricks she learnt from Dominion itself.

  The Weave was a tricky place to navigate, filled with tight corridors of space where sensors constantly monitored ships passing through. Smuggling anything through without detection was nearly impossible - unless you knew how to scramble the system just right. Syra did.

  She brought up a series of old codes, hidden under layers of data that most wouldn't bother to find. They were tucked away like treasure in a forgotten vault, and Syra knew exactly where to dig. The screen blinked as she bypassed the first set of protocols. A proud grin spread across her face - she was in.

  With a few precise commands, Syra activated the pulse disruptor embedded in the Nebula. It was a custom job, designed to send out just the right frequency to momentarily scramble the Weave's sensors.

  A temporary blackout, like a ripple in the air, letting anything slip by unnoticed. She had about five minutes to pull this off before the system reset itself.

  "Time to disappear, Colt," she whispered, eyes narrowing with focus.

  As the disruptor hummed to life, the Weave's sensor grid flickered, then dimmed, like the stars themselves had blinked out for a moment. She could see Colt's ship-a dark, ghostly silhouette-begin its slow glide through the now-blind sector of space. Her heart raced, watching as he slipped through undetected.

  The tension held as his ship moved past the last of the Weave's perimeter sensors. Seconds stretched. Her grip on the controls tightened, feeling the pulse of adrenaline thrum through her. If anything went wrong, Colt's ship would light up on every radar for miles, and they'd both be done for.

  But then, Colt's ship disappeared completely into the stars, undetected, as if it had never been there at all. The sensors flickered back to life, and the Weave's watchful eyes resumed their surveillance-none the wiser.

  Syra let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. The job was done.

  She leaned back in her seat, staring out into the vast expanse of space where Colt had been moments before. The cockpit was quiet again, save for the hum of the Nebula's systems returning to their normal state.

  A crackle came through the local channel. She flicked a switch, and Colt's voice filtered through, smooth and laced with that familiar cocky edge. "Damn, Syra, you're good. Almost makes me miss working with you."

  She smirked, not bothering to hide it. "Almost? You owe me more than that, Colt."

  "I know, I know," he replied. "I'll make it up to you. Drinks when you get back. That's a promise."

  Shaking her head, she leaned forward, toggling the comms off. It was never just about the drinks with Colt, but that was a problem for later. Right now, she had to make sure her tracks were covered. No one could know what had just happened.

  Syra pulled up the final protocol and wiped the logs clean, scrubbing any trace of the disruptor pulse from the system. A few keystrokes, and it was as if she had never been there either.

  With the job done and Colt safely through the gate, Syra set a course back to the Undercity.