Chapter 61 · Under Inspection

Three days into the trade spine, the lanes began to narrow.

Not physically—space couldn’t do that—but in feeling. Traffic slowed. Civilian ships queued in neat lines, all waiting for permission to keep existing.

The comm crackled with the same message on repeat: “Imperial Customs Frigate Vigilance requests immediate identification and registry confirmation.”

Eli had known it was coming. He’d seen the alert beacons hours ago, flashing through the lanes like tiny white eyes. Still, his stomach knotted when the frigate appeared ahead, its shadow sprawling over the convoy like a sermon on order.

He eased the Faded Glory into the pattern, eyes fixed on the white hull and the gleaming insignia that once meant safety to him.

“Maintain vector,” Stent said calmly. “Broadcasting civilian transponder.”

Eli nodded, his throat tight. “Let’s hope the paperwork holds.”

They waited. Silence filled the cockpit—thick, mechanical, alive with the background hum of scanners crawling over their hull.
Eli had lived this scene a hundred times from the other side of the uniform.

The efficiency, the clipped voices, the façade of procedure that barely hid the hunger underneath.
He used to think that detachment was discipline. That the calm came from confidence. Now, hearing it through the speaker, he recognized what it really was: fear perfected into policy.

The voice that finally answered was smooth and distant.
“Freighter Faded Glory, registry L-9762. State your cargo and purpose of travel.”

Eli swallowed. “General trade. Textiles, preserved goods, minor machine components.”
He kept his voice neutral, deferential—the tone of someone too small to matter.

A pause, then: “Origin?”

“Lysatra. Destination pending.”

The silence stretched. The comm’s static became a kind of heartbeat.

“Inspection required. Prepare to receive boarding party.”

Eli exhaled slowly. “There it is.”

Stent rose, every movement deliberate. “I will remain on the bridge.”

Eli turned in his chair. “No, you’ll stay out of sight. They’re jumpy enough as it is.”

“I am not contraband,” Stent said evenly.

“Try explaining that to someone whose training manual doesn’t cover ‘blue officer with perfect diction.’”

They locked eyes for a moment. Stent’s expression didn’t shift, but the stillness said he understood.

Eli sighed. “Fine. Stay behind me, don’t talk unless I say so, and if anyone asks, you’re my silent partner.”

Stent considered that. “Silent is accurate.”

The frigate loomed closer until its hull filled the viewport—gray lines, flawless paint, the neat precision of Empire-made geometry.
A magnetic clamp latched onto the Faded Glory with a jolt that rattled through the deckplates.

Eli could hear the hiss of the docking collar pressurizing, the metallic rhythm of boots crossing the umbilical. It was the sound of inevitability.

The door cycled open.

Two stormtroopers entered first, rifles angled low but ready. Behind them came an officer—tall, pressed uniform, eyes like polished glass.

He smiled the way Imperial officers did: politely, without warmth.
“Inspection,” he said.

Eli kept his own smile mild. “Of course, Lieutenant. You’ll find everything in order.”

The man’s gaze moved past him, caught on the shape in the shadows—Stent standing motionless near the bulkhead, hands clasped behind his back.

The smile faltered. “And who,” the officer asked, voice thinning, “is that?”

Eli’s answer came smooth, practiced, and quiet.
“My business associate. Silent partner.”

Stent’s expression didn’t change. He inclined his head once—an acknowledgment so precise it almost looked rehearsed.

The officer blinked, uncertain whether to be reassured or unsettled. “Right,” he said finally. “We’ll make this quick.”

Eli nodded, the old reflexes sliding neatly back into place. The same words he’d seen more than once used to strangers, the same brittle calm.

And for the first time since leaving the Empire, he hated how easily it fit.

The officer made a slow circuit of the bridge, datapad in hand, the stormtroopers following with mechanical precision. Every few steps, his stylus clicked against the screen—a small sound, deliberate, almost mocking.

Eli tracked the rhythm, already predicting his questions.

The man had the look of mid-level command—career enough to be careful, ambitious enough to notice details that didn’t matter. The dangerous kind.

“Registry checks out,” the officer murmured, “but your shipping license expired three months ago.”

Eli leaned forward just enough to seem cooperative. “Paperwork delay out of Lysatra, sir. The port authority’s been slow since the latest tariff changes.”

A pause. The officer didn’t look up. “And the cargo?”

“Manifests uploaded.”

He flicked through the file, the faintest curl of a smile on his lips. “Textiles, preserved foods, assorted metals. Modest holdings for a crew of two.”

Eli shrugged. “We prefer modesty. It travels light.”

The officer finally looked up, eyes cold. “Modesty doesn’t usually carry a ship with a class two hyperdrive.”

Eli kept his expression neutral. “Inherited equipment. The ship’s older than I am.”

“Apparently well-maintained.”

“We take pride in survival.”

The exchange might have passed for polite conversation, but the air had thickened. The troopers stood immobile at the doorway, silent punctuation marks.

The officer’s gaze flicked again toward Stent. “And your partner?”

Stent stood exactly where he had before—straight-backed, hands clasped, the image of composure.

Eli spoke before the pause could grow teeth. “Navigator and translator. He handles numbers and contracts better than I do.”

The officer’s brow tightened. “Species?”

“Chiss,” Eli said smoothly. “Trader family out of the Expansion Region. You know how the border sectors are—lots of private agreements, mixed crews. Cheaper than hiring a protocol droid.”

The officer looked at Stent again, clearly uncertain whether to believe or be impressed. “You speak Basic?”

Stent’s answer came level, precise, his accent deliberately heavier than usual. “Sufficiently.”

That single word landed like a pebble in a deep well.

The officer blinked. “Right.”

Eli smiled faintly. “He’s better with equations than conversation. Keeps me from saying something expensive.”

The corner of the officer’s mouth twitched. “Understandable.”

He glanced down at his datapad, the silence stretching long enough for Eli to hear his own pulse.

Finally, the officer tapped the screen, sealing the inspection file. “You’re cleared. Keep your registry updated next cycle.”

He paused, stylus hovering just long enough to feel deliberate. “You are also being filed for an administrative sanction—operating under an expired license. One week to renew or you’ll face seizure and fine.”

Eli felt his stomach twist, though his expression stayed neutral. “Understood, Lieutenant. We’ll handle it.”

“See that you do,” the officer said lightly, as if he were commenting on the weather.

He lingered a second longer, studying Stent as though trying to memorize what didn’t fit. Then he turned sharply and strode out, his troopers falling into step behind him.

The airlock sealed with a hiss that sounded like exhalation.

Eli stayed still until the docking clamps released and the ship’s tremor faded. Only then did he let himself breathe.

Stent was already seated, hands on the console, posture unchanged.

“Clearance confirmed,” he said. “No further pursuit.”

Eli sank into the pilot’s chair, rubbing his face with both hands. “You know what’s funny?”

“Unlikely.”

“I could have been that man.”

Stent regarded him without irony. “You were more efficient.”

Eli laughed once, hollow. “That’s what scares me.”

He glanced at the viewport, where the Imperial frigate dwindled to a point of white light amid the traffic lanes.

The stars around it looked smaller somehow—like they’d been taught to behave.