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Empire Reforged
Chapter 33: Threads Through the Fire
Location: ISV Silver Lance, Outer Mid Rim — Corridor V-17
Date: BBY 8 – Day 40 Post-Centares
There was no official name for the space they drifted through now.
No beacon. No buoy. No updated chart entry.
Just a long curve of navigational silence that wound through six systems and twelve relay shadows — gaps in the Empire's net that were too small for attention, too wide for coincidence.
Lucan stood beside Tarris at the helm, watching the holomap slowly update in real time.
"Course correction plotted," Tarris said. "These lanes feel… intentional."
"They are," Lucan replied. "Whoever charted this wasn't avoiding obstacles. They were shaping distance."
Valk's voice cut in. "Intermittent ping ahead. Small vessel — transponder partially active. Imperial origin signature… but the coding's twenty years out of date."
Darran raised an eyebrow. "Ghost ship?"
Lucan shook his head. "No. Ghost pilot."
He stepped to the command chair. "Bring us to intercept vector. Launch recon drone."
Tarris keyed the burn, and the Silver Lance arced into the blind corridor's heart.
—
The vessel was small. Ugly. A gunboat by classification, but stripped down to frame and engine. No standard livery. The hull plating was mismatched, scorched in places, welded crudely in others.
But it was fast. Faster than it should be.
It tried to run.
Lucan didn't let it.
One ion burst clipped its starboard wing and sent it tumbling.
Valk spoke flatly. "Engine shutdown. No return fire. Comms cycling — someone's trying to wipe the nav log."
Lucan nodded once. "Corren. Secure the pilot."
"Already moving," came the reply.
—
Fifteen minutes later, the man sat in the Silver Lance's secondary briefing room. He was older than expected — early 40s, lean, with mechanic's hands and a sunburned face.
He wore no uniform. No insignia.
But Lucan knew the look.
Veteran.
Drifter.
Intelligent.
"You're not a pirate," Lucan said.
"No," the man replied calmly. "But you hit me like I was one."
"You ran."
"Because people like you don't ask questions when they see people like me."
Lucan folded his arms. "You were running a Cold Corridor ghost lane. Tracking data packets on a repurposed Navy band. That's not smuggling. That's mapping."
The man gave a slight nod.
"So what if it is?"
Darran watched from the shadows.
Lucan leaned in.
"Tell me who you're working with."
"No one."
"That's a lie."
The man shrugged. "I haven't met anyone. Doesn't mean I'm not working with them."
Lucan narrowed his eyes.
"They gave you a route."
"They gave me a task," the man said. "Record blind zones. Mark where Empire scans drop. Don't ask questions. Don't touch anything. And never double back."
He smiled.
"I broke that last rule when I saw your ship."
Lucan didn't smile back.
"Why?"
"Because you're the first one flying like the war already started."
—
Lucan stood alone in the observation deck hours later, watching the pilot's ship drift in secured tractor lock outside the starboard viewport.
Darran joined him.
"He wasn't lying," she said. "His gear's patchwork, but his nav computer had encryption tied to one of the relay codes we saw on that derelict station. Same formatting. Same predictive model."
Lucan stared out into the void.
"Someone's feeding him information."
Darran nodded. "And using him as a test. If he gets caught, he knows nothing."
Lucan clenched his jaw.
"He knew enough to find us."
—
Back on the bridge, Valk turned in her seat.
"We finished decrypting the backup logs from his nav path."
Lucan approached.
"Show me."
A new map displayed — overlaying the corridor paths across the Mid Rim.
But now, something was different.
A secondary layer appeared — faint, curved, like invisible ink blooming on old paper.
Darran's eyes narrowed. "That's… alignment data."
Valk nodded. "Star drift patterns. Temporal decay. They're using old deep-scan data to model gravitational safe zones decades ahead."
Lucan's voice was quiet.
"They're not building a smuggler lane."
He turned.
"They're building an invasion route."
---
That night, he didn't log a report.
He stared at the map until every curve, every drift, every ripple in gravity felt like a blade pressing against Imperial skin.
And for the first time…
He wondered who would strike first.