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Empire Reforged
Chapter 23: When the Beacon Flickers
Location: System SC-4209, Outer Scillan Corridor
Date: BBY 8 – 0920 Hours, Day 2 of Patrol Deployment
"Emergency beacon. Civilian grade. Old signal compression."
Valk's voice cut through the soft hum of the Silver Lance's bridge. Lucan turned slowly toward her station.
"Coordinates?"
"Edge of system SC-4209," she replied. "Freighter registry… fragmented. Looks like a Dromon-class hauler. No transponder ping. Just the beacon and a looping distress log."
Lucan crossed the deck to her console.
"Replay it."
The bridge filled with static, followed by a broken, tinny voice:
> "...systems failing… this is Farside Courier, requesting any vessel in range… fuel ruptured… cargo holds venting… two injured crew… minimal oxygen. Repeat—"
The message cut.
Tarris turned in his seat. "We're over thirty minutes out at full sublight. It's right on the corridor's edge. If they drift too far into the dust ring, we'll lose them."
Lucan nodded. "Plot intercept. Engines to one-half. Let's not rush in blind."
Darran stood beside him. "You want to respond to a decades-old freighter in disputed space?"
"They called for help," Lucan said simply.
She frowned. "We're an intelligence-rated vessel now. Our mission is clean lanes and threat hunting. This is clutter."
"No," Lucan said. "This is opportunity."
He turned to the crew.
"If they're legitimate, we set precedent: Silver Lance responds faster than sector command. If it's bait — we expose the trap on our terms."
Holtz's voice crackled in from Engineering. "Pushing engines to 65% burn. You'll have full thrust in ninety seconds. Minor recalibration needed mid-course, but we'll get there."
Lucan gave a short nod.
"Understood."
—
They reached the Farside Courier forty minutes later.
The freighter tumbled slowly, one engine nacelle blackened from a containment failure. Hull fractures scarred its midsection, and a long gash vented gas from what had once been cargo hold 3.
"No weapon burns," Darran said. "Damage looks internal — mechanical failure."
"Any response to hails?" Lucan asked.
Valk shook her head. "Nothing."
"Deploy a boarding team," Lucan ordered. "Corren, you lead. Medical team on standby. Keep weapons ready, but not raised. I want scans live the entire sweep."
"Copy that," Corren said over comms. "Moving now."
Lucan watched the tactical screen as a single shuttle detached from the Silver Lance and coasted toward the disabled freighter.
"This is the second time we've answered a beacon," Darran said.
Lucan glanced at her. "And it won't be the last."
She studied his expression.
"You ever drift like that? No help coming?"
Lucan didn't answer.
Not right away.
Then: "Not in space. But close."
—
Twenty minutes later, Corren's voice came through.
> "We've secured the freighter. Two crew alive — both suffering oxygen deprivation and minor trauma. Confirmed accident: ruptured fuel line. One casualty already deceased. Engines dead. Flight log suggests no foul play."
"Any cargo?"
> "Spare parts, relay coils, fuel canisters. Legitimate. Manifest matches."
Lucan exhaled softly.
"Transfer survivors aboard. Secure the ship. We'll tow it to the nearest dockyard."
"Aye, sir."
—
Later, in the medbay, Lucan stood by the bacta chamber. The younger of the two survivors — maybe twenty — blinked blearily as the fluid cleaned his lungs and stabilized pressure.
"You weren't expecting help," Lucan said.
The survivor gave a faint, lopsided smile.
"Didn't think anyone flew Scillan anymore. Last ship I saw was a survey probe… six months ago."
Lucan didn't smile.
"You got lucky."
The young man's voice cracked. "Did I?"
Lucan stepped out.
—
Darran caught up to him in the corridor.
"They'll log this," she said. "A commander in charge of a light cruiser stopping to rescue a dead freighter?"
"Let them log it," Lucan said. "I'm not here to impress analysts."
She tilted her head. "So what are you here for?"
He paused.
"Reminding the galaxy that not all Imperial ships look the other way."
—
In the dark corners of space, rumors spread faster than patrol routes.
And somewhere — long before the next relay came online — someone heard that the Silver Lance responded.
And started asking: Why?