As Silas entered the Black Nebula, he knew he would either leave with a pilot or a death sentence. He walked through the crowded cantina, the low thrum of a music beat, something harsh and discordant, vibrating up to his teeth. The air gripped him with a mixture of smoke, cheap liquor, and the musk of hopeless souls. Every glance he caught held a challenge, a threat, a silent calculation of worth. It made his skin crawl. This was the kind of place where shadows clung to the corners, secrets whispered between tables, and the reek of desperation lingered all around.

But right now, desperation was Silas's only companion. He'd been sitting on this shipment of cybernetics for days, his debts mounting, his stomach churning with acidic dread. Ever since the Terran Commonwealth Fleet had implemented a blockade on the Bellator system, inspecting every shipment in and out, no pilot in their right mind was willing to risk hauling his cargo.

The Terrans, in their infinite wisdom, had declared the trade of unauthorized cybernetics illegal, a threat to their precious order, their monopoly on technological advancement. Only a handful of corporations, those with deep pockets and connections that reached to the gilded towers of Earth, were allowed to dabble in the lucrative business of enhancing the human body. Everyone else was left to scrounge for scraps, to risk their necks on the black market and to deal with the consequences of crossing the Terran machine.

And Silas's neck was on the line.

He'd promised this shipment to Vlamurik, whose ruthless reputation echoed through the darkest corners of the Fringe. Delays, excuses, failures—none were tolerated by the man who collected debts with the same cold efficiency with which he amassed his fortune. Silas could already picture himself dangling from an airlock, his last view the cold, unforgiving stars, his final breath a silent scream swallowed by the void.

For days, he'd scoured the spaceports, the cantinas, the back alleys of Bellator V, searching for a pilot willing to run the blockade. A person desperate enough, or crazy enough, to take the risk. Someone finally whispered a name – Vance. A pilot with a reputation for taking on impossible jobs. For the right price.

"Excuse me," Silas called out, leaning against the bar, trying to catch the bartender's eye over the heads of a dozen boisterous patrons. "I'm looking for Vance. The pilot."

The bartender, a hulking brute with a scarred face and a cybernetic arm that whirred softly as he polished a glass, grunted. His gaze flickered toward a darkened corner at the back of the bar. "Over there," he said, jerking his chin.

Silas nodded, pushing his way through the crowd. His hand instinctively hovered near the blaster hidden under his grey overcoat. He reached the table, his eyes settling on the man seated across from a young, brown-haired woman. He was exactly the kind of rough-and-tumble pilot Silas had expected – a thick, dark beard dusted with grey, a network of lines etched around his eyes, a worn leather flight jacket slung over his broad shoulders. The man had a presence that commanded attention, a quiet, dangerous edge that made Silas's gut clench.

Silas was about to approach the table when something caught his eye. The girl tossed a handful of chips onto the table. She was playing poker with the man, her face impassive.

"Not falling for that again, girl," the man said, his voice a low growl, tossing his cards with a sigh of resignation. "I'm done. Need a drink." He pushed himself away from the table, his big hands bracing against the surface as he rose and strode towards the bar.

Silas intercepted him, placing a hand on the man's arm. "I'd be happy to buy that drink," Silas said, his voice smooth, "if you have a few minutes to spare. I've got a business proposition you might find... very appealing. Vance, am I right?"

The man turned, his gaze sweeping over Silas, assessing him with a sharp, calculating look. He shook his head, a wry smile twisting his lips, and jerked a thumb back towards the young woman at the table. "She's Vance," he growled.

Silas stared at the girl. Her? This young woman, barely out of her teens? She couldn't possibly be the Vance he was looking for... could she?

Silas walked to the table, squeezing through the patrons, and pulled out the chair opposite from her. She was counting her winnings, stacking the chips with precise, economical movements, her gaze fixed on her task. Her chocolate-brown hair, cut in a practical, chin-length style, framed her face, highlighting the contrast between her delicate features and the determination in her eyes. A faint scattering of freckles dusted her nose, softening her otherwise serious expression. As she adjusted the collar of her teal bomber jacket, a subtle splash of color against the cantina's drab greys and browns, she drew the occasional glance from nearby patrons—glances that lingered a moment longer than usual.

She didn't look at him, didn't acknowledge his presence as he settled into the chair. He opened his mouth to talk but closed it again. He'd hired dozens of pilots for dozens of jobs, most of them twice this young woman's age, their faces etched with the lines of hard living, their hands calloused from years spent wrestling with starship controls and mechanics. If he wasn't so desperate, he wouldn't have given her a second glance.

But desperation had a way of blurring the lines between logic and necessity. He'd come all this way, chased a whisper of a name through the dark corners of the planet, and this... girl... was his last hope.

He straightened, sliding into the familiar persona of the experienced operator, the man who knew the rules of the game. "I'm looking for someone to run a shipment. Heard you're a pilot. Interested?"

She finally looked up, her hazel eyes catching his with a sudden intensity that startled him. "Maybe," she said. "Depends on the what, the where, and the how much."

"You forgot about the when," Silas said, leaning back in his chair. "The when is very important. Especially in this... climate."

Vance's lips curved into a smirk. "I learned to fly before I could walk. I can handle the when," she said with a quiet assurance. "So, what are we moving?"

Silas scratched his neatly trimmed beard. He was still uneasy about trusting this young woman, this girl barely old enough to drink, with such a valuable and dangerous shipment. But the clock was ticking. He couldn't afford to lose her.

"Fashion accessories," he said, his voice smooth, gauging her reaction.

Vance tilted her head, one eyebrow arching skeptically. "Come on," she said. "You didn't come to this shithole looking for Interstellar Express. Relax, I'm not about to call the Terran patrol on you."

Silas crossed his arms, his eyes hardening as he studied the young woman across from him. Could he trust her? Was she as skilled, as fearless, as the whispers in Bellator V suggested? Or was he about to make a fatal mistake, handing over a fortune in illegal tech to this kid?

"Look..." she said, leaning closer, her eyes holding his with a steady gaze, making him shift in his seat. "If it's drugs, you don't even have to tell me. I don't haul narcotics. Weapons... depends on who's getting them. But I won't let you put a single box on my ship without knowing what's inside. I'm not stupid. And I'm not desperate."

Silas considered his options, weighing the risks of revealing the truth against the consequences of losing her. Vlamurik's patience was wearing thin, the pressure building like a supernova about to explode. He took a deep breath, and desperation won.

He leaned, his voice barely a whisper above the din of the bar. "Very well, girl. It's a shipment of cybernetics. Bound for Acheron III. High-end stuff. Military-grade."

Her lips curved into a satisfied smile, a flash of white against the red glow of the cantina lights. "See? That wasn't so hard, was it? Now we're just missing the... how much."

"Ten thousand," Silas said, cutting to the chase. It was a generous offer, more than most pilots would command for a standard cargo gig. But this was no ordinary job, of course.

"Twenty," Vance countered, crossing her arms. "Upfront. This isn't a milk run, and a girl's got to make a living. Especially in this climate."

Silas's fingers drummed against the table. Twenty thousand ciphers? That was highway robbery, even for a run through a Terran blockade. He studied her, searching for any sign of hesitation, any crack in her confident facade.

"Five upfront," he said, his voice tight. "Ten when we get there. And you're ripping me off, kid."

"We?" she asked, raising an eyebrow, a challenge in her voice.

Silas's jaw tightened. He might be desperate, but he wasn't stupid. He wasn't going to trust this young woman, this Vance, with his precious cargo without some oversight.

"Yes," he said, his voice hard. "I'm coming along. To make sure the merchandise arrives... intact." He leveled a finger at her, his gaze unwavering. "And don't even think about charging me extra for that."

Vance smiled. "Skin in the game... I like it." She extended her hand across the table. "We've got a deal, mister..."

"Silas," he replied, shaking her hand, surprised by the strength of her grip. "Silas Morgan. And you're just... Vance?"

"Kira," she said, a hint of mischief in her eyes. "Kira Vance. The one and only."

Kira Vance. The girl had guts, Silas had to give her that. But guts weren't enough to get them through a Terran blockade. He'd need every ounce of his cunning, every trick in his arsenal, to survive this journey. And he wasn't sure he could trust her not to drop the ball - or stab him in the back - along the way.

Author's Note:

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