Chapter 138 · The Salvage

Traffic thinned as they left the wounded lanes behind, replaced by long stretches of unclaimed starfield that felt lighter under the hull. The Faded Glory responded to it, too—her engines smoothing, the vibration under the deckplates easing into something almost like enthusiasm.

Eli didn’t say it out loud, but he could feel it: the ship wanted open space as much as they did.

Ahead, a scatter of metallic signatures began to pepper the sensor display, faint at first, then clustering in unpredictable bursts. Stent leaned forward, studying the pattern with a narrowing of his eyes that Eli had learned to recognize. Not concern: assessment, possibility.

“That’s debris,” Eli said, sitting up straighter. “A lot of it.”

“Not recent,” Stent replied. He adjusted a dial, bringing the sensor sweep into focus. “Trajectory is too slow. Origin of destruction… weeks, perhaps months.”

“Leftover battle?”

“No. Deconstruction.”

Eli blinked. “Someone took it apart?”

“Someone is still taking it apart.”

The first structure drifted into view like a carcass suspended in space: the skeletal remains of an old Imperial refueling station, its support struts exposed, plating peeled back with systematic precision. Bright work-lights blinked at irregular intervals across its surface.

Eli leaned forward, grin creeping in despite everything. “Salvage crew.”

Stent gave a faint sound that might have been agreement. “Unregistered. Operating without Imperial authorization.”

“That’s most crews lately.”

“That is most crews who are still alive,” Stent corrected.

They angled closer. The lights brightened, revealing a chaotic tapestry of tethers, cutting rigs, jury-rigged clamps, and ships of every class and condition latched to the station’s bones. It wasn’t pretty. But it was industrious in a way that felt almost refreshing after days of watching the galaxy collapse under its own weight.

Eli exhaled a low breath. “Well… look at that. Civilization in its natural state.”

“Disorganized,” Stent noted.

“Alive,” Eli countered.

A small hauler broke from the cluster and drifted toward them with a wobble that suggested either poor piloting or too much enthusiasm and not enough fuel. Its hull was painted in bright, uneven stripes—colors chosen with more hope than taste. A long tether coil dragged behind it like a forgotten tail.

Eli leaned forward. “Well that’s not Imperial.”

“Correct,” Stent said.

As the hauler closed the distance, the cockpit lights inside flickered, revealing a Twi’lek pilot with violet skin and one lekku wrapped in a band of welding cloth. She looked like she’d been up for three days straight and loved every terrible minute of it.

She flashed her running lights in what could charitably be called a greeting pattern. Sloppy. Friendly. Entirely sincere.

Eli smiled. “I like her already.”

“Do not make that declaration over comms,” Stent advised.

The hail came through in a burst of static, followed by a voice that somehow cut through all of it with sheer personality: “Unidentified ship! If you’re selling trouble, we’re not buying—unless it’s discounted! If you’re selling parts, come closer! If you’ve got coolant, I swear by my grandmother’s lekku we’ll kiss your landing gear!”

Eli blinked, amused. Stent blinked, concerned.

The Twi’lek continued without breathing: “We’re hauling scrap from a corpse of a station and half my tools are older than I am. Please tell me you’ve got something shiny!”

Eli clicked open the channel. “We might. Depends on what you’ve got.”

Instant excitement. “Oh, stars bless us, a sensible trader! Bring your lovely hull in, stranger! Welcome to our marketplace of questionable ethics!”

Eli glanced toward Stent, grinning. “Adventure?”

Stent didn’t smile. But a tiny breath left him — not annoyance, not resignation. Something quieter. More like acceptance.

“Possibly,” he said.

The docking arms of the refueling station looked like someone had welded them together from leftovers and hope. The Faded Glory eased into position with a soft metallic scrape that made Eli wince.

The Twi’lek’s hauler latched on at the neighboring port, wobbling through the final meters like a drunk insect. A moment later, a docking signal flashed green with enthusiastic disregard for safety.

Eli popped the ramp. The moment the atmospheric seal engaged, the Twi’lek bounded aboard without waiting for permission. She was small and sharp-eyed, violet skin smudged with grease, lekku wrapped in protective cloth, and she radiated the exact kind of manic cheer that could survive any apocalypse. “HELLO, HELLO NEW FRIENDS!” she announced. “You brought a ship with matching hull panels. Luxury! Disgusting! I’m jealous!”

Stent stiffened one millimeter.

Eli grinned. “We’ve been called worse.”

She moved like her own thoughts were trying to outrun her mouth, pointing at things before she even looked at them. “You got coolant? You got rations? You got anything that makes engines not explode? Oh, is that an intact starboard stabilizer? No—wait! Don’t tell me yet, surprises make me happy!”

Eli opened the cargo panel to show what they’d brought from Baros: spare sealant canisters, metal coils, emergency blankets, some basic foodstuffs.

She gasped dramatically. “Are those standard gauge coolant hoses? In this century? Who raised you? Saints?”

“They’re from Baros II,” Eli said.

“BAROS II!” She clapped once, lekku twitching. “I like those miners. Honest people. Terrible taste in liquor. They pay upfront, bless their dusty hearts. Okay, okay—what do you want for the hoses?”

“Fuel additives,” Eli said. “And maybe a look at our port-side actuator.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” she said, already walking past him to inspect the ship’s underbelly. “Additives I got. Actuator I can poke. Repairs? Depends on whether your ship bites. Some do. Mine does. Twice.”

Stent stepped into her path. “What is your price?”

She stared up at him, squinting as though calculating his height in bad lighting. Then she pointed a finger at his chest. “You. Are. Tall. And of a nice shade of blue.”

Stent blinked. “Correct.”

She rubbed her temples, muttering, “Tall blue men always ruin my negotiating rhythm.”

Eli swallowed a laugh.

Negotiations began in earnest with the speed of someone who only knew two settings: hyperactive and asleep.

“Okay! Six coolant hoses for—no, wait, fuel’s expensive now—five hoses and one emergency blanket for two tanks of additive!” she rattled off. “And I fix your actuator if it doesn’t shock me!”

“That is not a fair trade,” Stent said.

“Correct! That’s why we’ll keep talking!”

She spun back toward Eli. “Four hoses!”

“Three,” Eli shot back.

“FOUR AND A HUG!”

“No.” Said Eli and Stent in unison.

She waved them off. “Fine, fine, fine. Four hoses and one blanket for two additive tanks and actuator diagnostics. No hug. I’ll save my hugs for people who say yes.”

Eli bit the inside of his cheek. “Three hoses, one blanket, one can of sealant.”

She stopped. Eyes narrowed. Lekku twitched. Then she broke into a broad grin. “THREE HOSES, YES. SEALANT, YES. BLANKET, YES. This is an excellent day! And I only almost died once so far!”

Eli nodded to Stent. “Deal?”

Stent gave a single, unimpressed blink. “Deal.”

The Twi’lek punched the air. “PERFECT. You two wait here. Or don’t. I trust no one but I like pretending I do!”

She sprinted back toward her hauler, leaving a trail of dropped tools and chaotic optimism.

Eli leaned his shoulder against the bulkhead, still smiling. "She's fun."

Without replying immediately, Stent reached into the pocket of his cargo trousers and retrieved the handheld glucose reader. Eli offered his left arm without being asked. Stent passed the scanner over the sensor adhered to the back of it and waited for the reading to appear. Satisfied, he slipped the device back into his pocket. "She appears... mentally unstable."

Eli laughed. "You mean unhinged?"

Stent considered the word. "It is not entirely inaccurate."

"Still," Eli said, "I kind of like her."

"That," Stent replied, "remains distinct from whether she is competent."

Eli chuckled. “She’s exactly the kind of person who survives out here.”

“Yes,” Stent said, gaze following her hauler’s movement across the station. “Until she does not.”

There was no judgment in his voice. No coldness. Just pragmatism.

Eli looked at the glowing work-lights across the hollowed station frame. Salvage crews swarmed like insects, cutting through metal and memory, making a living out of what the Empire left behind.

He could feel the shift happening underneath the moment: something new waking up, quietly, beneath the collapse.

Adventure stirring at the edges.

Before he could say anything, the Twi’lek returned hauling a box twice her size. “LET’S FIX A SHIP AND GET RICH!” she called.

Eli shot Stent a sidelong glance.

Stent lifted one brow—the closest he came to amusement. “Proceed,” he said.

The Twi’lek clambered down the boarding ramp before Eli could even open his mouth. Up close, she smelled faintly like welding compound and energy drink syrup. “Name’s Numa,” she announced. “Numa if you like me, ‘hey you’ if you don’t, and ‘stop touching that’ if you’re him.” she pointed at Stent.

Eli blinked. “We just met.”

“Doesn’t matter. I can already tell he’s a ‘stop touching that.’ type.”

Stent stared at her. She grinned like she’d won the exchange.

Eli didn’t try to hide his smile. “I’m Eli, and he’s Stent.”

Numa popped a case of tools open on the deck with the flourish of someone presenting a feast. “Okay! Let me see what your girl needs. Don’t tell me yet—I want the heartbreak to be a surprise.”

Eli let her go to work. She moved with the kind of energy that suggested she lived in permanent debt to sleep.

A small maintenance droid floated up behind her, spherical and chattering in a rapid staccato of beeps and clipped modulations.

Numa snapped her fingers. “Behave, Kix. And don’t touch that one—he looks fragile.”

Kix warbled.

Tee rolled forward like a jealous cat, plating stiff, lights bright. Kix whirred. Tee blipped. Kix chirped back with rising tones.

Numa pointed at the two droids as if watching children fight over a toy. “Ah, perfect. They hate each other. Friendship is inevitable.”

Tee gave an indignant metallic clang, rocking sharply on his treads.

Numa beamed. “See? Bonding!”

Stent exhaled through his nose, extremely quiet, but Eli caught the minute twist in his brow. He thought she was chaos incarnate.

Which, Eli reflected, was oddly fitting. The Chiss had spent centuries navigating and living in a region known as the Chaos, yet seemed to possess an almost instinctive aversion to chaos in every other sense of the word.

Eli thought she was charming.

A human salvager in a patched flight suit ambled over, running a greasy rag over his hands as if that would make him look professional. He jerked his chin toward Eli. “You tradin’? ‘Cause I’ve got parts you won’t find anywhere—”

Numa shoved him back with one palm. “Nope! Mine. I saw them first. Go flirt with the core stabilizer if you’re bored.”

“Hey—”

“BYE.”

The man retreated with an offended huff.

Numa turned back to Eli as if this was perfectly normal. “Ignore him. He’s allergic to work and attracted to ships he can’t afford.”

Eli nodded. “We’re used to that type.”

Stent added, “They populate every sector.”

Numa tilted her head. “Oh, I like you two. You talk like trouble and walk like accountants.” Still grinning she looked from one to the other, then froze."...Wait." Her eyes narrowed. "You're not Imperials, are you?"

Eli felt his stomach tighten.

Before either of them could answer, Numa burst into laughter and waved the thought away. "Nah. What am I saying?" She pointed at Stent. "You're an alien. That would've been embarrassing." She shook her head, still chuckling. "See? This is why I shouldn't think before caf."

As she worked, time lost its shape.

The station ran on no discernible cycle—lights at odd intervals, crews eating when they remembered to, droids recharging wherever they toppled. “Night” arrived only because Eli and Stent felt it in their bones, not because anything around them changed.

During their break, Eli sat on a crate while Numa paced in circles, waving a multitool for emphasis. “So here’s the thing,” she said. “Your port actuator’s not just sticky. It’s angry. Like, deeply angry. Hates itself, hates you, hates life. I’ll coax it back into being less suicidal, but it’ll need a professional promise of love and tenderness.”

Eli laughed.

Stent did not.

Kix buzzed by Tee again. Tee followed like a bodyguard investigating a stalking threat.

Numa watched the droids, pleased. “Perfect. They’re keeping each other entertained. Suspiciously.”

The next morning—if it was morning—Numa crawled out from under the hull and pointed toward the ventral cargo frames.

“These,” she said, “are holding you together out of spite. Where have you been, guys? Meteor storms? Gravitational tantrum? Did someone forget to extend the struts and dropped the ship?”

Eli and Stent exchanged a look.

Numa shook her head. “Right. Never mind. I don’t want to know the answer.”

She tapped the outer hull. “Repairs were done from the inside only, and poorly from the outside. No reinforcement out here. I know a crew that can fix this. Cheap if you’re nice, cheaper if you’re not.”

Stent folded his arms. “Hull reinforcement should be performed in controlled conditions. On a planet. In a shipyard.”

“In a perfect galaxy,” Numa said. “This is not that galaxy.”

Eli crouched beside the damaged frame, running his fingers over the uneven welds. “She’s right. This is the best place we’ve seen in months.”

Stent’s jaw flexed.

Eli lowered his voice. Cheunh flowed effortlessly off his tongue. “You know the structural risk. If those fail during a jump—”

Stent answered in the same language, clipped and tense. “I do not trust salvagers to build what they break.”

“They didn’t break this,” Eli said gently. “And they’ve got experience.”

“Experience dismantling ships,” Stent corrected. “That does not equal construction.”

“It’s still better than leaving it,” Eli pushed. “And if we’re going deeper into the Core…” He let the implication hang. That meant higher prices and the risk of travelling with a hull in need of repairs.

Stent closed his eyes, just once, a controlled exhale that meant agreement without concession.

He turned back to Numa. “We will require supervision.”

“Sure!” Numa chirped. “I’ll shout at them if they weld anything important to anything else important.”

Eli grinned. Stent didn’t—but he followed Numa under the hull anyway.

Day two began before either Eli or Stent realized day one had ended. The station lights didn’t shift, no clocks chimed, no schedules rotated. The only sign of time passing was Numa banging on the Faded Glory’s hull—three rapid thumps—her version of a polite summons.

Eli opened the ramp bleary-eyed. Numa stood there holding a can of stimcaf and a welding torch, one in each hand.

“Rise and shine, pretty people!” she chirped. “Well—shine. You can rise later.”

Kix hovered behind her, making proud little beeps. Tee rolled forward and blocked him possessively, like a jealous older sibling who considered their charge untrustworthy.

Numa clapped her hands. “Come on! Frames aren’t going to fix themselves.”

Her reinforcement crew arrived in a shuttle that looked like it had been dropped from orbit and then patched in the dark with emotional support. They were a motley collection of species: a Trandoshan with welding gauntlets twice the size of his head, a Mirialan with a soot-stained face and the posture of someone who slept under ships, and a pair of humans who carried their tools like weapons.

They didn’t introduce themselves. They just set to work.

Numa pointed dramatically at the Faded Glory’s ventral undersides. “Treat her like a lady but talk to her like a delinquent! That’s how you get results!”

The Mirialan nodded solemnly, as if this were sacred doctrine.

Stent descended the ramp with the air of a man preparing to oversee a delicate surgical procedure, zipping his jumpsuit closed. The crew watched him approach like he was about to give a lecture.

Once Stent actually started working, the chaos changed shape. He moved with rigid precision—measured cuts, exact angles, every weld calculated as if the ship were a prize model instead of a bruised freighter with half her guts held together by hope.

The salvagers were the opposite: quick, messy, loud, and startlingly effective. They grabbed braces before he asked, shoved tools into his hands before he needed them, and shouted instructions at him in three different languages.

A human named Varo shouted from under the hull, “NOT LIKE THAT! You trying to marry the metal or scare it?! Angle downward! Downward!”

Stent huffed—it might have been the first undignified sound Eli had ever heard him make.

Numa leaned toward Eli and whispered, “He’s doing great.”

“He hates everything that’s happening,” Eli whispered back.

“That too.”

Midway through the shift, Stent crouched beside a joint, examining the weld line with his meticulous frown. “Your angle is imprecise. This seam will weaken under heat stress.”

The Trandoshan welder paused, visor lifting. “Imprecise?” His voice rumbled like gravel poured down a chute. “You solder like a snob.”

Eli blinked. Numa’s eyes lit up like festival lanterns.

Stent blinked exactly once. “A… snob.”

“Yeah,” Trandoshan said, adjusting the torch. “All straight lines and tidy little dots. Cute. Like art class.”

Numa patted Stent’s arm as she passed. “He’s complimenting you. In his culture, that’s basically a proposal.”

"Is that accurate?"

The welder barked a laugh and Eli hid a smile behind his hand.

Around what Eli guessed was midday—though nothing in this station acknowledged the concept—he slipped away to the galley and cooked.

Actual fresh food. The last good vegetables from Baros. Some spiced grain. Portable hand pies he’d learned to make from his dad years ago: food good to eat on the go while you work!.

He set the trays out beside the tool crates, and Numa stopped mid-weld, mask flipping up. “Is that food? Real food? Not station bars or desperation snacks?”

“Baros ingredients,” Eli said.

The crew descended like grateful locusts. The Mirialan murmured a thank-you with his mouth full. The Trandoshan devoured two portions, pronounced them “acceptable,” then stole a third. Varo groaned, “We’re definitely working late now.”

Numa pointed at Eli with wild delight. “OH, we are finishing today. THEY WILL FINISH TOMORROW!. They will work faster for real food!”

“We didn’t discuss price,” Stent said.

“We don’t need to!” Numa replied. “Food counts as a bribe. A cultural one. Now they won’t charge for the overtime.”

Eli raised both hands. “This wasn’t my plan.”

“This is always your plan,” Numa said, mouth full. “You just don’t know it yet.”

Hours passed in productive, glorious chaos. Metal rang. Sparks skittered. Kix darted about carrying clamps like a heroic courier. Tee followed, beeping sternly like a supervisor monitoring a delinquent intern.

By the end of the cycle, the underside of the Faded Glory looked stronger than it had in years. New braces. Reinforced beams. Fractures sealed from the outside the way they should’ve been the first time.

Even Stent had a streak of grease across his cheek—a rare and deeply satisfying detail Eli committed to memory.

Numa popped her head out from under the hull. “GOOD NEWS! You’re less likely to die!”

Eli laughed. “Always uplifting.”

“Bad news! Normally this would take three days, but since you fed us—TWO DAYS ONLY! Free of charge! You’re welcome!”

Stent wiped his hands on a rag—one that immediately regretted its existence. “Are your rates always this… variable?”

“Yes!” Numa chirped. “It keeps life exciting!”

“Or dangerous,” Stent said.

“Same thing in the right company.”

Eli wasn’t sure if she meant them, the job, the ship, or the fact that she lived on a station that probably ran on caffeine and collective denial.

He suspected all of it.

Day three began with the quiet confidence of a place that thought it had found a rhythm.

Numa showed up tapping her knuckles on the hull to a jaunty beat that might have been a song or simply the noise her brain made when happy. She had a fresh stimcaf in one hand and Kix whirling excitedly behind her like a child who’d been promised tools. Her jumpsuit was only marginally cleaner than yesterday; the scorch marks were arranged in a new pattern.

“GOOD MORNING SUNSHINES!” she declared, stepping over a coil of cables as though gravity obeyed her personally. “Time to finish turning your lovely lady from a cautionary tale into a slightly less embarrassing cautionary tale!”

Eli opened the ramp with a grin. “You’re in a good mood.”

“I had breakfast,” she said. “Three breakfasts. Kix ate part of one. Voluntarily or involuntarily? Who can say!”

Tee rolled down the ramp and deliberately interposed himself between Kix and the Faded Glory’s exposed paneling.

Kix beeped the digital equivalent of let me work, grandma.

Tee’s lights flashed over my dead power core.

Numa clapped her hands. “Teamwork! Let’s get started!”

The reinforcement crew arrived in their dented shuttle with the casual swagger of people who trusted the universe exactly as far as they could throw it. They had clearly eaten well yesterday thanks to Eli’s food, because they worked with renewed ferocity, welding torches cutting through metal with surety.

Varo shouted up at Eli from beneath the hull, “If you’ve got more of these pies, I’ll fix your entire life, not just your ship!”

“No promises,” Eli called back.

The Mirialan tossed a panel aside. “Feels like a good day to do something that won’t explode on us.”

The Trandoshan rumbled without looking up, “Everything explodes eventually.”

“At least let us finish the job before it does!” Numa chirped.

Even Stent seemed to accept the tempo today. He moved among the crew with that quiet precision of his, handing over tools, double-checking weld pressure, occasionally—very occasionally—adjusting someone’s angle without complaint. He had even adapted to Numa’s habit of appearing behind him mid-task and giving instructions at a volume that would rattle most pilots.

“You’re learning!” she told him, beaming.

“I am adapting,” Stent corrected.

“Same thing with extra steps.”

Midway through a weld run, Numa stopped abruptly, head snapping toward the far end of the station. Her lekku stiffened. “Did you hear that?”

Eli paused, listening. The station was always loud—metal, pressure pumps, shouting, tools—so it took a moment for the stray sound to separate itself: a distant, percussive thump, too heavy for routine work, too muffled for weapons drift.

Varo slid out from under the hull, eyes narrowed. “That wasn’t us.”

Another thump, closer this time. Followed by a sharper clang that echoed through the station frame like a warning bell.

The Mirialan muttered, “That’s docking arm seven. Someone hit it hard.”

The Trandoshan stood up slowly, visor lifting halfway. “Or someone rammed it.”

Numa hissed out a breath between her teeth. “Not today…”

Eli and Stent exchanged a fast, grim look. They didn’t need words. Trouble had arrived.

Stent was already moving, scanning the peripheral displays bolted to the station’s exterior scaffolding. The nearest screen flickered with static, then resolved into the shaky feed of a corridor camera showing men in mismatched armor forcing a hatch. Not salvage crew. Not station workers.

Raiders.

He straightened. “Hostile boarding.”

Numa swore in Ryl and grabbed her welding torch like she intended to set someone on fire with it. “I knew those bastards would come back eventually.”

Eli’s stomach clenched. “You’ve seen them before?”

“Twice!” She gestured wildly. “They steal everything that isn’t welded down—sometimes things that are welded down! And occasionally people!”

Tee beeped furiously. Kix spun in terrified circles.

Stent’s voice cut through the rising panic, perfectly calm. “We need to move.”

“Forget move,” Numa snapped. “We need to finish before they realize we’re not worth the effort!”

Stent looked at the half-exposed hull. “We cannot stay for repairs.”

“You can for five minutes!” Numa insisted. “Maybe six! Seven if they get lost in the ventilation again!”

Another distant metallic crash answered her.

Eli’s pulse kicked up. “They don’t sound lost.”

Stent stepped toward him, steadying. “We leave. Now.”

Numa bristled. “And abandon my station?! My people?! My tools?!”

The Trandoshan grabbed her shoulder gently, which for him meant ’not throwing her.’ “We fight later. Move now.”

Numa’s jaw worked. She exhaled sharply and turned to Eli.

“Grab what you can. Get aboard. I’ll cover you.”

Eli hesitated. Stent didn’t.

He put a hand on Eli’s back and pushed—firm, wordless, decisive.

The strike was here. And they were out of time.

A sharp burst of blaster fire cracked through the station’s frame—close, close enough that even the hull under their boots vibrated. Someone screamed. Someone else shouted orders in a language Eli didn’t recognize. The sound wasn’t chaos yet, but it was becoming it.

Numa froze mid-gesture. “Oh no. Not them. Not today—”

Stent didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

“All of you,” he said. “On our ship. Now.”

Varo swore and dropped his tool belt. The Mirialan grabbed her welding gauntlets with shaking hands. The Trandoshan stepped forward as if to argue, but another burst of gunfire made the decision for him.

Numa’s mouth opened, ready to fight him. “Stent, I can’t just—”

“You can,” Stent said. “Or you will not survive.”

It wasn’t cruelty. It wasn’t even fear. It was a conclusion, delivered like a pilot calling out altitude.

Another shot rang out—closer, ricocheting off a bulkhead.