Chapter 62 · The Cost of Passage

The Faded Glory drifted clear of the inspection lanes, slow and careful, like an animal leaving a hunter’s sightline.

Eli waited until the Imperial frigate was a pinprick of gray light before exhaling.

“Course plotted,” Stent said quietly. “Two hours until we’re past their tracking range.”

“Make it one,” Eli muttered. “I’d rather they forget we exist.”

He checked the console—power steady, engines smooth—and then opened the comm array. The signal indicators flickered green; they were finally close enough to transmit through civilian relays.

“Let’s see if Lysatra’s office has pulled itself together.”

Stent raised an eyebrow. “You intend to request the new license now?”

“Before the Empire decides our week of grace is too generous.”

The Holonet background hum filled the cockpit—a dozen open channels bleeding propaganda and static. An announcer’s voice, smooth and imperial, recited a report that seemed to stretch into eternity.

“…the destruction of His Majesty’s battle station at Yavin was an act of terrorism orchestrated by extremist elements. The Emperor assures the loyal citizenry that order will be restored…”

Eli muted the feed before the next slogan began. “Same song, new verse.”

“Information control stabilizes unrest,” Stent said, almost clinically.

Eli glanced at him. “You actually believe that?”

“I believe they believe it.”

He couldn’t argue with that.

The comm pinged—Lysatra connection established. Eli keyed in the Vanto company code. A split-second of static, then the familiar logo shimmered onto the screen. No answer. The line stayed open for thirty seconds before the system timed out.

He frowned. “Figures. They’re probably up to their necks in port audits.”

“They will respond,” Stent said. “Eventually.”

“Eventually is how fines happen,” Eli muttered, setting the relay to standby.

It was evening by the time the comm finally blinked to life again.
Laro’s face appeared in the small holofield, half-lit and a little too close to the pickup. He was whispering.

“Couldn’t answer earlier,” he said. “Mom and Dad were still in the office.”

Eli grinned despite himself. “You look like you’re sneaking out after curfew.”

“Feels like it. What’s wrong? You wouldn’t call unless something broke or blew up.”

Eli hesitated, then said, “We passed an Imperial checkpoint. Got through clean, mostly. But they filed us for an administrative sanction—expired trading license. We’ve got a week to renew or the Faded Glory gets impounded.”

Laro muttered something inventive under his breath. “Stars above. I should’ve seen that coming.”

“You and me both.”

“I can’t run it through Vanto Shipping,” Laro said quickly. “Mom handles the route logs herself now. If she sees a renewal for a ship that doesn’t exist on paper, she’ll have half the planet’s registry combed through before breakfast.”

Eli chuckled. “Yeah. And she won’t stop until she finds the answer. Remember when she caught me rerouting her supply manifests just to get free transport codes?”

“You were fourteen. She still brings it up.”

“Some wounds don’t heal,” Eli said.

Laro sighed, rubbing his face. “All right. I’ll send it through a secondary guild contact, off the record. You’ll have a temporary renewal within the hour. Won’t be elegant, but it’ll keep the Imperials off your back.”

“Thanks,” Eli said, softer now.

“Don’t thank me yet. I’m still hiding behind a cargo crate so Mom doesn’t hear me talking to ghosts.”

That earned an actual laugh from Eli. “Stay low, then.”

Laro glanced over his shoulder, then back to the holo pickup. “Before I go—how’s my girl? She behaving?”

Eli smiled, the kind that reached his eyes this time. “She’s perfect. Quiet engine, steady climb, smooth as glass. You did good work, Laro.”

From the copilot’s chair, Stent said without looking up, “The port stabilizer oscillates at point-four percent above tolerance.”

Laro raised an eyebrow. “That’s what gives her character.”

Eli laughed. “He doesn’t believe in character.”

“I gathered,” Laro said. “You keep her flying, all right? Check the secondary fuel lines after every jump—her previous owner said they used to clog in cold sectors.”

“Got it,” Eli said.

Laro nodded, voice softening again. “All right, I have to go before Mom starts wondering why I’m arguing with a crate of spare parts. I’ll send the license soon.”

“Appreciate it, Laro.”

“Yeah,” he said, smiling faintly. “Just bring her home one day, you hear?”

The holo flickered once and went dark, leaving only the hum of the ship and the dim reflection of Eli’s face on the console glass.

The refueling depot looked less like a station and more like an afterthought the galaxy had stopped caring about.

A cluster of metal rings hung in the black, lightless but for the pale gleam of landing beacons. The official chart called it Outpost 6-4B, but most traders knew it by its nickname: The Bleeder. It charged too much and gave too little, and every one of its personnel seemed to despise their own uniforms.

Eli eased the Faded Glory into dock. The clamps seized with a metallic thud that felt unnecessarily final.

“Fuel transfer authorized,” Stent reported. “Estimated duration: twenty-six minutes.”

“Make it fast,” Eli said. He watched the numbers roll across the console—credits vanishing like blood through a leak. “We’re paying imperial rates for recycled sludge.”

“Travel imposes cost,” Stent said.

“Yeah,” Eli muttered, “so does breathing.”

He didn’t suggest they disembark.

On the Mynock, every stop had been an excuse to move—to stretch, breathe, remember what open air felt like. But the Faded Glory didn’t need that. She had corridors to pace, a galley with actual space. And this place… this place wasn’t meant for comfort.

Through the viewport, they could see the depot’s main ring—rows of ships docked like animals at a trough, each one lit from below by the cold white glare of the inspection crews. No laughter, no chatter from travelers. Just the thud of cargo doors and the echo of orders barked through loudspeakers.

“Efficient,” Stent said.

“Dead,” Eli corrected.

The Holonet feed flickered to life automatically when they linked to the depot’s network. No choice in that; every port under Imperial control broadcast the same litany.
A woman in crisp gray stood before the symbol of the Empire, her voice smooth, measured, and utterly hollow.

“Compliance ensures prosperity. Trade brings order. Citizens are reminded that loyalty is its own reward.”

Eli muted it after six words. The silence that followed was heavier than the noise had been.

He rubbed a hand over his face. “Funny. When I was in uniform, that speech sounded reasonable.”

Stent glanced at him. “Experience alters comprehension.”

“Guess that’s one way to say it.”

Fuel gauges crept upward, one sluggish percentage point at a time. Eli watched them like a man watching sand fall through an hourglass.

The comm crackled with static, then a voice far too chipper for the setting. “Dock Thirty-Four, confirm payment authorization.”

Eli keyed in the code, tone flat. “Authorization confirmed.”

“Imperial surcharge applied,” the voice said sweetly. “Thank you for your contribution to galactic stability.”

The line cut.

Eli stared at the empty channel. “Galactic stability,” he repeated, under his breath. “Guess we’re philanthropists now.”

Stent didn’t reply. He was studying the sensor data, one brow furrowing ever so slightly.

“What?” Eli asked.

“There is increased patrol presence along our projected route,” Stent said. “Eight vessels, all Imperial, none civilian.”

Eli leaned forward. “You think it’s about us?”

“Statistically improbable. But correlation exists.”

“That’s comforting.”

The refueling meters clicked to full.

Eli disconnected the docking clamps manually, eager for the sound of release. The ship shuddered as she pulled free, engines thrumming back to full life.

“Course?” Stent asked.

“Anywhere that isn’t here.” Eli sighed “Let’s check the hyperlane status and decide our route. But first let’s get out of the way.”

The Faded Glory turned away from the depot’s pale light and slid back into the dark, engines burning soft blue.