The hangar lights burned pale and cold when Greg returned. At least he'd gotten some sleep—if two hours of half-conscious drifting counted.
Alan was exactly where he'd left him— half-buried in a nest of cables, humming off-key while sparks danced around his boots. The smell of scorched metal and coolant hit Greg like a wall.
"You're early," Alan called without looking up. "Didn't expect you back till the next century."
Greg grunted. "Didn't feel like waiting."
Alan snorted and finally glanced over. "What's that look? You get mugged or married?"
Greg shook his head. "No. Met a nasty fellow named Mends. I think he needs mending."
Alan looked up fully this time, one brow arched. "Mends? That sounds like a scam artist or a ghost story."
"Could be both," Greg muttered, tossing his coat onto a crate. He hesitated. Alan was unpredictable. If he showed him the energy core, there was a fair chance he'd never see it again.
Better to keep that secret buried —for now.
He crossed the hangar, watching Alan stuff a tangle of cables back into a console and weld the plates shut.
"You owe me a hundred taps," Alan said, straightening up and wiping his gloves on his coverall.
Greg nodded. "Just need my commpad."
He climbed into the Runner. The cockpit felt different—too still, too quiet, like someone else's ship. He slid into the seat and pulled up his commpad, scrolling through transaction logs until he found Alan's tag. A few quick taps and the transfer was done.
Then something caught his eye.
A notice pulsed faintly at the top of the display.
ESC PRIORITY MESSAGE
Five hours to deliver Xilvi haul.
Greg's stomach dropped.
"Shit." He shoved the commpad back into its slot and powered the ship's systems. "I need to move now."
Alan looked up as the Runner's engines began to whine. "What's the rush? Didn't you just get back?"
Greg hesitated at the hatch, forcing a smirk. "Deadlines. ESC wants their Xilvi sooner than planned."
Alan frowned. "You look like you've seen a ghost, Greg."
"Maybe I have." He sealed the hatch before Alan could say another word.
Inside the Runner, the hum of the systems steadied his nerves. He pulled the core from his pocket, feeling its faint pulse through his gloves. For a moment, he considered telling Alan—sharing the risk, maybe even the payout.
But Alan wasn't the type to keep quiet, especially when something could make him rich.
Greg shoved the thought away and slid the core back into the coat lining. "Not yet," he muttered. "Not him."
He flicked the switches across the control panel. The Runner's engines coughed once, then roared awake, shaking the hangar dust loose. Lights rippled along the wings as the thrusters warmed.
Within minutes, he lifted off—breaking through the reddish haze above Galu's outpost station, the hangar shrinking into a dot below. The refinery loomed ahead, faint trails of toxic smoke pumping from its stacks into the crimson sky.
The refinery's comms crackled alive.
"Runner-312, identify," a gruff voice barked.
"Runner-312, pilot Hale," Greg replied. "Pickup order for Xilvi haul. ESC dispatch."
There was a pause, then a reluctant sigh. "Copy that. Dock at bay five. Don't touch anything you're not supposed to."
The refinery's docking clamps extended as he approached, guiding the Runner into place. The hiss of hydraulic locks echoed as the landing gear met steel.
Outside, the air shimmered with heat and dust. Workers in sealed suits moved like ghosts through the smog, their visors glinting faintly in the crimson light. Cranes swung overhead, lowering crates filled with refined Xilvi—the faint golden-green sheen visible even beneath the containment glass.
Greg descended the ramp, the metallic clang echoing under his boots. A miner waved him over, his voice muffled behind a cracked breather mask.
"You Hale? Good. You're late."
Greg forced a smile. Good thing they didn't know he'd snuck in earlier. Looks like that kid hadn't ratted him out after all. "You and everyone else's clock must be broken."
The miner grunted and motioned to two others. Together, they rolled the containment crates up the ramp and into the Runner's hold. Each one thudded into place, locking onto magnetic clamps with a low hum. The faint vibration of the ore made the air tingle faintly—like standing too close to a power grid.
"You sure your ship can handle this load?" the miner asked.
Greg ran a quick diagnostic on his commpad. "She's old, but she still bites."
The miner gave a short laugh, clearly unconvinced, then turned away. "You're cleared. ESC'll want that processed within the cycle."
Greg sealed the cargo hold and leaned against the door, exhaling slowly. The hum of the energy core pressed faintly against his ribs, as if it could fel the Xilvi's presence.
Five hours. That wasn't much time.
He climbed back to the cockpit, checked the coordinates for the delivery site, and set the Runner to launch sequence. The engines built to a steady growl, lifting them free of the refinery platform.
As Galu's surface fell away beneath him, Greg's mind drifted back to the Kasman — Edin Hiomes.
The name still itched like a splinter. Whatever he wanted, it wasn't going to be simple.
A faint metallic hiss broke through the cabin.
"What the—" Greg twisted around.
The hatch to the rear lounge slid open.
Edin stood there, silent and immovable, his hood brushing the low ceiling. The dim light caught the faint shimmer of his eyes.
"Not planning to leave me here, were you?"
Greg's throat went dry. "How the hell did you—" He stopped himself. No point asking.
"Got limited time to transport this cargo," he muttered instead.
Edin stepped in calmly, strapping himself into the seat as though this had been his ship all along.
Greg sighed, shaking his head. This guy's a damn ghost.
Finally—after twenty-three long, cursed hours on Galu—he was leaving.
He set his jaw, tightened his grip on the controls, and pushed the throttle.
The Runner tore into the blood-red sky.