"High Commander." The senior guard acknowledged her with the inverted-hands gesture, palms facing outward, fingers spread. His companion mirrored the motion.

  "Stand down," Sarxon said. "I'll be on the bridge."

  The guards broke formation, heading for their secondary stations elsewhere on the ship. With Sarxon aboard, the transfer chamber no longer required constant surveillance. Any attempt to use the effigy while she occupied her mirriform would simply fail—the quantum link couldn't simultaneously sustain two consciousnesses.

  She moved through the corridor toward the transit alcove, her boots clicking against the deck plates in a steady rhythm. The Möbius was vast, nearly four kilometers long if flattened into a straight line and almost a kilometer wide. Even though the bridge was close to the transfer chamber, walking it would still take nearly five minutes.

  But why walk, when you could shift?

  The transit alcove waited at the end of the corridor, a circular platform surrounded by a ring of crystalline emitters. Sarxon stepped onto it and touched the control surface, selecting her destination. The emitters hummed, reality blurred, and when her vision cleared, she stood in an identical alcove, mere steps from the bridge entrance.

  Spatial shifting. One of the many capabilities Möbius offered that modern science couldn't begin to replicate. The ship essentially folded the space between two points, allowing instantaneous travel within its own hull. Useful. Disorienting, if you weren't accustomed to it.

  The bridge doors parted as she approached.

  "High Commander on the bridge!" Commander Ashe's voice cut through the ambient hum of active systems.

  Every officer present rose from their stations, turning to face her with the inverted-hands gesture. The movement was synchronized, the product of years of discipline drilled into Umbral naval personnel.

  Sarxon briefly returned the gesture. "As you were."

  The bridge crew returned to their stations while Sarxon crossed to where Ashe stood near the command station, his gaunt features arranged in their perpetual expression of careful neutrality.

  "Report."

  "We're holding position just outside Thrax's gravity well, High Commander. All systems nominal. Fighter squadrons remain on standby, boarding teams prepared for deployment." Ashe's eyes moved to the tactical display that dominated the forward section of the bridge. "No sign of the target yet."

  Sarxon studied the projection. The barren world of Thrax hung in the display's center, a rust-colored sphere scarred by ancient devastation. A small icon at the system's edge marked the Möbius' position, directly along the vector from Deep Reach Station.

  "Time estimate?"

  "Based on the Ascendant's last recorded velocity and assuming no course changes, we project arrival within thirty minutes." Ashe paused. "Though that assumes standard propulsion. If Marshall has discovered how to⁠—"

  "He hasn't." Sarxon cut him off with more certainty than she felt. "Whatever the Ascendant uses for faster-than-light travel, it's undoubtedly not trivial to activate, especially without knowing the language. No, I'm confident he's still flying it like a surface vehicle, point and accelerate."

  "Of course, High Commander."

  Sarxon moved to the command station, and Ashe stepped aside without needing to be told. She settled into the seat, the interface surfaces responding to her presence with soft pulses of light. The tactical display shifted, centering on her position, giving her an unobstructed view of the surrounding space.

  Thirty minutes.

  They'd positioned the Möbius perfectly. A straight line from Deep Reach Station to Thrax, with her ship waiting at the terminus like a spider at the center of its web. When Marshall arrived, he would find the Möbius blocking his path. No escape. No clever maneuvers. Just surrender or capture.

  This time, she wouldn't hesitate. This time, she wouldn't give him the opportunity to⁠—

  "Contact!" Ensign Kessian's voice called from the tactical station. "New vessel emerging from jump space. Bearing zero-four-seven mark twelve, range two hundred thousand kilometers."

  Sarxon's pulse quickened. Already? The timing was almost too perfect. She turned toward the tactical display, expecting to see the distinctive silhouette of the Ascendant approaching at just under the speed of light, beginning its deceleration.

  Only the silhouette that appeared was wrong.

  "That's not the Ascendant," she said. "Kessian, who is it?"

  Kessian's fingers moved across his console. A pause that stretched too long. "Solmarch military design, High Commander. Patrol cruiser."

  Damn it. Sarxon's jaw tightened.

  "More contacts emerging," Kessian continued, his voice carefully controlled. "Same configuration as our previous encounter."

  Captain Veris. The same patrol group they'd crossed paths with before. Either he'd followed them here, or he'd come to the same conclusion about their quarry as she had, just not quite as quickly. Or perhaps the delay was because he had to await further orders from his superiors. Regardless, his presence complicated the situation.

  "Incoming hail, High Commander." Ensign Thrace looked up from the communications station. "The lead vessel is requesting contact."

  Of course he was. Sarxon took a breath, composing herself. She couldn't afford another diplomatic incident. But she also couldn't leave. Not when Marshall might arrive at any moment. "Put it through."

  The main viewscreen flickered, replacing the star field with Captain Veris's bridge. The Solmarch officer looked considerably less composed than during their previous exchange. His jaw was set, his eyes hard, his posture rigid with barely contained frustration.

  "High Commander Abrelle." His voice was clipped, formal, stripped of any pretense of courtesy. "We spoke less than five hours ago. I specifically requested that you not intrude further into Solmarch territory without proper diplomatic clearance. And yet here you are. In orbit around one of our worlds."

  "Captain Veris." Sarxon modulated her tone to project calm professionalism, though her insides churned with impatience. "I apologize for the continued intrusion. As I mentioned previously, we're tracking a fugitive vessel that fled from Umbral space. Our intelligence suggests this system is their destination."

  "A fugitive vessel." Veris's skepticism was palpable. "Heading for Thrax. A dead world with nothing on it but dust and scavengers."

  "Criminals often seek remote locations to avoid detection. Thrax fits that profile. Isn't that why you're here? Because you came to a similar conclusion?"

  Veris leaned forward slightly in his command chair. "Yes. And I'm not surprised to find you here. I'm going to be direct with you. The presence of a relic ship in our territory—any relic ship, for any reason—creates significant complications for my government. Your continued presence here, despite my explicit request for you to depart, suggests either a profound disregard for Solmarch sovereignty or a mission so critical that you're willing to risk diplomatic consequences." His eyes narrowed. "Which is it?"

  Sarxon held his gaze through the transmission. She could destroy his entire patrol group in seconds. But that wasn't the point, and they both knew it.

  "Captain, I understand your concerns. Truly. But the individual we're pursuing represents a significant threat to regional stability. Once we've apprehended them, we'll depart immediately." She paused, choosing her next words carefully. "The Umbral Empire would be deeply grateful for Solmarch's understanding in this matter. Such cooperation rarely goes unrewarded."

  The implication hung in the air between them. Political favors. Trade concessions. The kind of currency that moved between empires when one needed something from the other.

  Veris's expression shifted slightly. The anger remained, but something else flickered behind it. Calculation. The recognition that this situation, frustrating as it was, might be leveraged to Solmarch's advantage.

  "You're asking me to look the other way while a foreign relic ship operates in our space."

  "I'm asking for patience. A few hours at most. The fugitive we're tracking is expected to arrive shortly. Once we have him in custody, we'll be gone."

  A long pause. Veris glanced at something off-screen—probably his tactical display, showing the Möbius' position relative to his own vessels. He knew he couldn't force her to leave. The question was whether he wanted to escalate the situation or find a way to benefit from it.

  "Very well." The words came reluctantly. "I won't press the matter further. But I insist on remaining while this...apprehension...is conducted. My government will want a full accounting of what transpired here."

  Sarxon's stomach tightened. Having Solmarch witnesses when the Ascendant arrived was the last thing she wanted.

  "Captain, I assure you that's not necessary. This is a routine⁠—"

  "It's not a request, High Commander." Veris's tone hardened. "You're operating in our space without authorization. The minimum accommodation I'm willing to accept is direct observation. If that's unacceptable, we can discuss the matter with our respective governments. I'm certain they would both be interested in the details of this situation."

  A threat wrapped in diplomatic language. Veris was smarter than she'd given him credit for.

  Sarxon weighed her options. She could refuse, but that would escalate the confrontation. She could leave, but that would mean abandoning the intercept. Neither choice was acceptable.

  "Very well," she said finally. "You're welcome to observe. Though I must insist your vessels maintain a safe distance during the apprehension. The fugitive may attempt evasive action, and I wouldn't want any...misunderstandings...about our intent."

  "Understood." Veris's expression remained stiff. "We'll hold position and watch. Nothing more."

  "Thank you for your cooperation, Captain. I'll ensure your government is informed of your professionalism in this matter."

  The transmission ended, the viewscreen reverting to the star field beyond the hull. Sarxon stared at the distant points of light for a long moment, her mind racing through the implications of what had just transpired.

  "High Commander." Ashe's voice was quiet, pitched for her ears alone. He'd moved closer during the exchange, standing just behind her left shoulder. "When Captain Veris sees the Ascendant, things are going to become even more complicated."

  "I know."

  "If he realizes what we're actually pursuing, he'll report it immediately. The situation will escalate beyond⁠—"

  "I know." Sarxon turned to face him, her expression hard. "I'm not a politician, Commander. I'm a military officer with a mission. My orders are to capture the Ascendant. Everything else—the diplomatic consequences, the political fallout, the questions I'll have to answer afterward—comes after the mission is complete."

  Ashe held her gaze for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Understood, High Commander."

  "If this creates another incident..." Sarxon let out a breath that was almost a laugh, though there was no humor in it. "They can't execute me twice."

  She rose from the command station and moved to the center of the bridge, her posture straightening as she prepared to address the crew.

  "Open a channel. Shipwide."

  Thrace's fingers moved across her console. "Channel open, High Commander."

  Sarxon's voice would carry across every deck of the Möbius, reaching crew quarters and engineering bays, fighter hangars and boarding team staging areas. Every soul aboard the impossible vessel would hear her words.

  "All hands, this is the High Commander. Prepare for imminent action. Our target is expected to arrive within the next thirty minutes. Fighter squadrons maintain launch readiness. Boarding teams stand by for deployment. All stations report combat status to the bridge." She paused, letting the weight of the moment settle over her crew. "This is what we've been waiting for. Execute your duties with precision, and we will succeed. Abrelle out."

  The channel closed. Around her, the bridge crew bent to their tasks with renewed focus. Status reports began flowing in from across the ship—weapons systems armed, shields at full capacity, fighter pilots strapped into their cockpits and waiting for the launch order.

  Sarxon returned to the command station and settled into the seat, her eyes fixed on the tactical display.

  Marshall was coming. And this time, she was ready.

  28

  Adam led Evan through a corridor he hadn't seen during the tour, branching off from the main operations center. The walls here were the same reinforced concrete as the rest of the facility, but the lighting was dimmer, the air carrying a faint chill that suggested less traffic through this section.

  "Where are we going?" Evan asked.

  "Somewhere secure." Adam's pace didn't slow. "You said you wanted to feel safe during the transfer. I figured the safest spot we have would put your mind at ease."

  They passed through a heavy door that required Adam's keycard and a six-digit code. The tunnel beyond stretched ahead of them, the same reinforced concrete as the rest of the facility, lit by recessed fixtures at regular intervals.

  "This section is separated from the main complex," Adam explained as they walked. "Extra layer of security. The only access is through this tunnel."

  The tunnel curved slightly, a second metal door blocking their path. Adam entered another six-digit code and the lock cleared with an echoing thunk. He pushed the door open, revealing the contents.

  "Are you serious?" Evan reacted.

  Three cells occupied the far wall. Steel bars, concrete floors, metal cots bolted in place. A toilet and sink in each corner. The kind of spartan setup you'd find in countless lockups, built for function rather than comfort.

  The cells were empty.

  "A prison?" Evan turned to Adam, confusion evident in his voice. "You want me to transfer from inside a cell?"

  "Think about it." Adam moved to the nearest cell, his hand resting on the bars. "Nobody can reach you in here. The door's solid steel, the lock is mechanical, no electronics to hack. You'll have the only key." He went over to a metal desk in the corner, opened the drawer, and picked out a single key on a plain metal ring. "You lock yourself in, do what you need to do, and let yourself out when you're done. Simple. You can stay in the cell as long as you want."

  "And if something happens while I'm transferred? If my body needs to move?"

  "That's what the guards are for." Adam gestured toward the tunnel they'd come through. "I'll station two people here the entire time you're under. They can monitor you, make sure nothing happens to your physical body. But they can't get to you unless you let them in."

  Evan studied the cell, turning the idea over in his mind. It felt confining. Excessive. But after everything he'd been through—the betrayals, the ambushes, the constant sense that enemies were everywhere—excessive might be exactly what he needed.

  "And if someone gets past your guards?" he asked. "If the factions find this place somehow?"

  Adam smiled. "You're wearing a Maker forcefield on your wrist. Anything they throw at you short of a grenade gets deflected. And if they're throwing grenades in here, we've got bigger problems than your transfer session."

  The logic was sound. A locked door. Armed guards. The personal shield. Layers of protection that would have to fail simultaneously for anything to reach him.

  It still felt strange, locking himself in a cage. But strange didn't mean wrong.

  "Okay." Evan held out his hand. "Give me the key."

  Adam dropped the key into his palm. The metal was cool, heavier than it looked. Evan turned it over, examining the simple design—nothing fancy, nothing electronic, just a basic physical lock that had been securing doors for centuries.

  He stepped into the cell. Adam pushed the door closed behind him. Evan turned around, reached through the bars, and stuck the key in the lock, turning it.

  "I'm sure faction operatives can pick a lock, though," he said, a new wave of concern passing over him.

  Adam pulled on the door, checking it was sealed. "Honestly, if they make it through the facility, the two secured blast doors, and the guards, you're probably screwed anyway. But this lock is pick resistant."

  "Good to know." Evan moved to the cot, placed his backpack on it, and sat down. "Have you held a lot of prisoners down here?"

  Adam leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed. "Not many. A few over the years. People who needed to be contained temporarily while we figured out their intentions."

  "Faction operatives?"

  "Sometimes." Adam's expression grew thoughtful. "Mostly new defectors, actually. People who claimed they wanted to join us but hadn't proven themselves yet. We'd bring them here, keep them comfortable but contained, until we were sure they could be trusted with what we know. Can't exactly let someone walk around headquarters if they might be a plant."

  Evan nodded slowly. "Makes sense."

  Adam straightened from the doorframe. "I'll get your guards stationed and leave you to it. Take whatever time you need."

  He turned and disappeared down the tunnel, his footsteps fading until silence settled over the small prison.

  Evan sat alone for several minutes, letting his mind settle into the strange reality of his situation. A few weeks ago, he'd been working at a furniture shop in Montana, going through the motions of a life that felt increasingly empty. Now he was sitting in an underground prison cell, preparing to transfer his consciousness across galaxies to pilot an ancient alien starship.

  Footsteps echoed from the tunnel. Two sets, measured and professional.

  Evan rose from the cot as two figures emerged into the prison area. The first was a woman, maybe late twenties, with auburn hair pulled back in a tight braid and the kind of athletic build that suggested serious combat training. The second was a man closer to Evan's age, broad-shouldered and thick-necked, with a shaved head that gleamed under the overhead lights.

  "Mr. Marshall." The woman stopped at a respectful distance from his cell, her posture alert but non-threatening. "I'm Halsey. This is Sikes. Adam assigned us to your detail."