Missed by a Hair's Breadth
The interior of Scarab Station was humid and noisy. The air reeked of burning oil, cheap booze, and sweat. The streets teemed with all manner of alien species and cyborged-up mercenaries. Distrust and wariness ruled here—no one held another's gaze for long. I pulled my hood low and headed straight for the nearest black market exchange.
The deal went smoothly. The titanium alloy panels and military sensor parts I'd brought were hot items, so the croc-skinned dealer tried to lowball me hard. But I'd been around this game long enough to hold my own. After some back-and-forth haggling, I unloaded the goods at a solid price. Checking my now-plump digital wallet, I glanced at Eve's condition readout and pondered the best food option before making for the foodstuffs section.
I'm fine living off nutrient packs... but she needs meat. Not the usual synth-meat, but real, bloody protein chunks. But the moment I saw the prices at the butcher corner, I couldn't help but let out a dry laugh.
'Holy hell, real beef at the price of one of my ship's fuel tanks for just 100 grams?' Unlike synth-meat, genuine livestock was practically a luxury good.
'Frontline grunts rolled on a single synth tube for days, and here a scrap of meat costs more than a soldier's monthly pay. Goddamn world.' I smacked my lips bitterly and turned away. But I couldn't give up on meat entirely. That hungry look in her eyes, the way she'd chewed regretfully on an empty nutrient pack—it kept nagging at me.
In the end, my feet took me to a dingy corner of the market where the air stank of fish. The pet food aisle.
"This grok meat, right? Gimme the biggest hunk. Fresh, not frozen."
The butcher eyed me up and down before roughly wrapping a massive slab of meat dripping with blood from the hook and slapping it down. It was the tough, stringy flesh fed to Federation guard dogs and beasts of burden—infamous alien critter meat.
'Sorry, Eve. This is the best I can do right now. But it'll pack the nutrition.' I hefted the heavy load. My shoulders sagged, but my mind felt a bit lighter. Hurrying toward the docking bay, old habits had me instinctively muffling my footsteps and scanning the surroundings.
Then.
As I neared Bay 7 where my ship sat, instinct screamed a warning. The vibe had shifted. The station's usual racket had cut off dead. The air hung heavy. I slowed, ducking behind the crowd, then cautiously peeked toward the bay.
"……!"
My breath caught. Right next to my battered, rusty Night Raven in Bay 8, a new ship was docking. It didn't belong here at Scarab Station—not one bit. Sleek streamlined hull without a speck of grime. Matte black paint that seemed to swallow light whole. No markings, no ID numbers on the side. But everyone here knew. That wasn't a smuggler's ride. Or a merc's.
'Vector-class stealth assault ship. Not even standard Federation issue.'
Trackers? Already? This fast? My heart pounded wildly. The black ship's hatch was opening. Three figures in pitch-black reinforced suits stepped out.
'Three-man team. Standard search formation.'
Tension coiled tight. Thud. Thud. Thud. Their heavy booted steps felt like they were crushing my chest. I crammed myself into the shadows behind the crowd. The raw meat on my shoulder gave off a fishy blood stench. Through gaps in the throng, I saw the three black shadows pass right in front of me. Their helmet visors' red glow swept indifferently over the surroundings.
'Stay cool. No way they've pegged me already.'
I forced my brain into gear. The lab was vaporized without a trace. I'd wiped my ship's landing logs, and I'd twisted my flight path three times to dodge trackers en route. They weren't after me. With no leads from the explosion, this was just a wide-area sweep of the sector. So what I had to do was simple: blend in as just another clueless criminal passing through.
Luckily, their eyes skipped over my shabby, crowd-blended form. They brushed past me and vanished into the bustling market depths.
Once they were out of sight, the tension ebbed like a receding tide.
"Hoo……."
I exhaled the breath I'd held. No time to waste. I had to bounce before they looped back from the market. I quick-marched toward the docking bay—natural as possible, but faster than anyone else.
"Eve! We're leaving now!"
I yelled the second the Night Raven's hatch opened. Eve blinked up at me from her seat by the cockpit, panting as I burst in.
"No time to explain. Hang on tight."
I dumped the gear on the floor and dove into the pilot's seat. I force-ignited the engines before they'd even fully prepped.
Engine temperature rising. Excessive maneuvering may cause—
"Shut up and start!"
I ignored the warning and slammed the throttle to max. With a bang, the Night Raven tore free of the docking clamps like a wild animal. Curses crackled over the comms from control, but I killed the channel. We skimmed past Bay 8 where the black ship loomed, broke free of Scarab Station's artificial gravity, and plunged into the void. I didn't wipe the cold sweat from my brow until the station shrank to a dot on the screen.
Back alleys of Scarab Station. The three agents swept through the market without raising a fuss. They just approached junk dealers or info brokers that caught their eye, hitting them with quiet but undeniable pressure.
"……So, a corpse?"
The junk dealer trembled before the hulking black-suited figures.
"Yeah. A corpse in the shape of a young girl. Humanoid, internals completely incinerated organic mass. Picked up or traded anything like that in the last three days?"
Alpha, the team lead, asked in a flat tone.
"N-nothing like that! This is a scrap-and-parts joint—we don't deal in bodies. Sometimes stiffs pop out of cryo pods, but kids...? No way."
"Enough."
Alpha turned away without a second glance.
"Memory wipe."
At his curt order, Bravo behind him leveled a small device from his right hand at the dealer.
"Wait—what do you mean memory—?!"
Flash. A bluish spark slammed into the dealer's pupils. His eyes lost focus, going blank. He'd stare into space for a while, forgetting who he'd talked to, what he'd feared.
The trio melted back into the crowd. But no leads. They'd scoured the station top to bottom—nothing on their target.
They looped back to their docking bay.
"Strikeout."
Charlie, trailing last, opened helmet comms with a whiny edge.
"That was a massive blast. Took out the whole underground bedrock of the lab. Target probably just vaporized, right? Place was reduced to rubble—not a speck of dust left. And they want us to find it?"
Charlie kicked irritably at trash underfoot.
"Federation space is huge—'girl-shaped corpse' as a search term? And brass riding our asses in under a week?"
His griping didn't stop. These ops were usually long hauls or intel-backed sure things. This call-up was too rushed, intel too thin.
"……Boss."
Bravo, who'd been silent, spoke up.
"You know what we're really after, right?"
Alpha's stride hitched.
"We need to know too. Why's HQ board moving out personally? Not just some bio-weapon snatch."
Bravo's question cut sharp. A lab blowing up was big, but not this big. Field agents' guts screamed it wasn't just a bio-weapon.
Alpha turned slowly. Red visor stared down his men coldly.
"Don't ask."
Charlie flinched at the low, weighted voice.
"Security Level 1. Maybe higher. I don't know exactly what that corpse is. And I don't want to."
Alpha shook his head.
"'Why' is poison on ops like this. We know one thing: it can't leave alive. That's it."
He paused, clapped Charlie's shoulder.
"Don't stir shit. Curiosity gets your skull cracked open later."
"……Understood. Standing down."
Charlie and Bravo shut up. The boss's weight was real.
"RTB. Next system—assume alive, widen the net if no trace."
The three shadows sucked back into their black ship. Left behind: merchants staring blankly, forgetting what just happened.
The ship lifted off silently. They never knew. The target they'd hunted so hard had brushed past them minutes ago—in that rickety old ship.
Fate had missed by a hair's breadth.