Chapter 16: What Waits in the Dark
The breach hole glowed faint white at the edges—molten alloy cooling into glassy beads that floated like tiny planets. Karl anchored his boots to Vulture's hull, mag-clamps biting, and waved the boarding team forward: Miguel, Selene, Tala, Jun—each tethered, rifles ready, visors black with reflected starlight. Rios remained aboard Hearth-Hammer, recording, gardening, waiting.
He flashed hand signals—thumb up, fingers spread: five seconds. They nodded. He gripped the cut edge, kicked off, and slid through the wound head-first, rifle leading into darkness.
Inside, gravity was nil. Air hissed out around him, pressure dropping but not zero—compartments still bleeding. His helmet lamp carved a white cone through smoke and metallic dust. Shapes resolved: severed conduit, floating ration packs, a single glove spinning slow. No bodies—yet.
Behind him Miguel emerged, then Selene, then Tala, then Jun. Five heartbeats, twelve ghosts, one purpose.
They formed a stack along the starboard bulkhead. Karl keyed low-power comm. "Target priority: drives—confirmed dead. Next: reactor, weapons bay, bridge, cargo. Keep eyes open for crew or prisoners. Move quiet."
He pushed off, boots skimming deck grating. The ship felt wrong—too quiet, too clean. Pirates usually lived in filth; this corridor smelled of ozone and fresh scorch, like someone had sterilised before departure.
First junction: signs in Meridian standard—POWER, WEAPONS, BRIDGE. He chose POWER. The team flowed behind, magnetic soles clicking in slow rhythm.
Reactor bay door stood open. Inside, the bottle was cold—fuel cores removed, lines cut clean. Same professional looting as Echo. Karl photographed the cavity, logged time. No bodies, no blood, just absence.
They back-tracked to WEAPONS. Hatch sealed, manual wheel red-locked. He spun it; dogs retracted. Inside, racks stood empty—missile slots hollow, plasma cartridges gone. Only one canister remained, cracked open, uranium slug missing. Selene whispered, "They stripped for market, left scraps."
Bridge next. Corridor lights flickered emergency amber. Half-way along they found the first corpse—male, coveralls, faceplate shattered by vacuum. Dried eyes stared at overhead. Tala checked tags: Meridian freight, not pirate. A prisoner taken, then discarded when air ran out. She closed the lids gently, recorded ID.
Second corpse floated outside the bridge—female, arm severed at elbow, tourniquet half-applied. Tala bagged the body, tears floating free inside her visor. Karl counted beats—forty-three—and clamped down rage.
Bridge door was unlocked. They entered single file. Consoles dark, master screen cracked in a spider web. Chairs empty, harnesses cut away. On the central column someone had sprayed letters in red paint—dried now, brown-black:
WE WERE NEVER HERE. THE VOID REMEMBERS.
Jun pulled a sample chip, scanned for DNA—nothing, wiped clean. Professional again.
Karl's gut tightened. Pirates didn't spray poetry; they took, burned, left. This felt different—ritual, message, warning.
They swept the rest of the deck—crew quarters, galley, med-bay. All empty, lockers stripped, bunks bare. No personal items, no logs, no names. A ghost ship wearing pirate skin.
Final target: cargo bay. Hatch sealed, pressure gauge red. Karl cycled override; air hissed in, equalized. They entered weapons-up.
Bay was vast, zero-g, dark. Helmet lamps revealed rows of cargo cubes—standard corporate modules, locked. He motioned Miguel to cut one. Plasma shears sparked, metal parted. Inside: reactor cores—three Meridian units, serials still readable. Proof. Vulture had murdered Echo for profit.
They opened a second cube—more cores. Third cube: different. Inside, stasis pods—four, lids cracked open, occupants gone. Tala checked logs imprinted on pod memory: occupants removed 43 days ago. The number hit Karl like a hammer—forty-three again, the heartbeat of this ship.
Fourth cube: not cubes at all—a cage. Bars welded from hull plate, door forced outward from inside. Floating inside the cage: children's shoes, small gloves, a plastic toy star. No bodies.
Rage rose, hot and metallic. Karl forced breath, counted primes, got to thirteen before voice steadied. "They traffic crew, cores, and kids. We just found the warehouse."
Jun's scanner pinged—life-sign, faint, aft corner. They moved fast, rifles high.
Behind a stack of cores a maintenance locker door stood ajar. Inside, a shape huddled—human, female, teenager maybe, coveralls too big, eyes wide with terror. She clutched a wrench like a holy relic.
Karl lowered rifle, raised visor slowly. "Easy. We're not them."
She stared, trembling. Tala pushed forward, gentle hands. "Name?"
Whisper: "Ayla. They took my brother. Said we'd fetch good core-price."
Karl's heart cracked. He unclipped a water bulb, offered. She drank, sobbed, drank again.
Selene scanned the bay—no more life. Ayla was the only survivor.
They wrapped her in thermal foil, floated her toward exit. She clung to Tala, whispering numbers—forty-three, forty-three—like a prayer or a count. Tala held her tight. "You're safe. Count stops here."
Back on the bridge Karl set charges—cutting strips on reactor supports, epoxy bombs on remaining cores. He placed the last charge inside the cage, on the toy star. Symbol mattered.
They retreated to the breach hole, pulled tethers, kicked free. When all were clear he keyed detonator.
Vulture's mid-section bloomed white—silent flowers in vacuum. Hull plates peeled, cores slagged, the cage vaporised. Debris cloud expanded, cooling into glitter. No explosion reached Hearth-Hammer; distance and physics kept them safe.
Karl floated, watching the cloud disperse. Forty-three seconds later the last shard vanished against starlight. He whispered, "For the Echo, for the children, for the count."
They cycled back into Hearth-Hammer, suits venting cold air. Ayla was sedated, hydrated, wrapped in a real blanket. Tala stayed bedside, monitoring.
Karl reached the bridge, logged the kill:
Target Vulture – hull destroyed
Reactor cores neutralised
Prisoner recovered: 1 (minor, female)
Crew missing: unknown number, believed sold
Trafficking evidence: cores logged, DNA samples taken
Retribution delivered, not finished.
He closed the entry, then opened a new channel to Haven-3. "Haven, this is Hammer. Target down. We have a child on board. Prep med-bay, prep trauma counselling. And prep justice—this hunt isn't over."
Miguel's voice came back thick. "Copy, Hammer. Bring her home. Bring them all home."
Karl set course for Haven-3, low burn to save fuel. Acceleration gentle—0.05 g—enough for Ayla to rest without weight crushing bruised ribs.
Outside the viewport debris sparkled like broken stars. Inside, thirteen heartbeats echoed: twelve from paper, one from flesh. He touched the pocket disk—thirteen tally marks—and felt steel remember names.
The lance was cool now, but hunger lived in the coils. Somewhere, buyers of children and cores still flew. Hearth-Hammer had tasted first blood; it wanted more.
Karl counted forward this time—one, two, three—toward the next rendezvous with night. The forty-three-second interval was gone, replaced by a new rhythm: forward, forward, until every cage was empty and every echo answered.