The silence after a battle always rang the loudest.
Ethan stood in the cockpit, his gaze calm but with a glint of excitement. His breath had returned to normal, his pulse slower than it had any right to be after a three-on-one ship skirmish. Still, he said nothing for a moment.
"Iris," he finally said, voice low. "Prep a pair of drones. Secure the cryo-pod and bring it aboard."
"Understood, Captain. Deploying retrieval units now. Estimated transit time: six minutes."
Ethan nodded and turned on his heel, exiting the cockpit through the central corridor. The bulkheads shifted silently as he passed, soft lights tracking his movement. The adrenaline was starting to fade, leaving behind a quiet ache in his back and a desire for fresh clothes. Battle was one thing, being stuck in a suit after it? That was another kind of hell.
He made his way to the personal quarters, stripped off the suit, and stepped into a quick sonic rinse. A fresh change of clothes followed, his usual wear: a graphite-toned merc jacket over a tactical undershirt, durable black trousers, reinforced boots. Familiar. Balanced. His uniform.
Just… Ethan.
By the time he returned to the central corridor, the Wraith had already integrated the incoming cargo. The cryo-pod was now resting inside the medical bay, secured, sealed, and hooked to the ship's med-drone diagnostics.
"Iris?" he asked.
"Stabilization is complete. Vital signs nominal. Subject is male, mid-sixties by biometric scan. Mild trauma to the right shoulder, signs of oxygen deprivation. Cryostasis was engaged manually, likely during the attack."
Ethan stepped into the medbay. The room was quiet, lined with sterile steel-white surfaces and gentle blue medical glows. The cryo-pod was a newer model, built for courier ships, compact but secure. The man inside floated in stillness, face pale but calm.
No ID had been pulled when Ethan first found him. But now, Iris' voice chimed in again.
"I ran his bio-tag through all standard networks. The tag was scrambled intentionally. However, deeper parsing has produced a match… under a restricted diplomatic clearance."
Ethan blinked. "Diplomatic?"
"Yes. Identity confirmed: Torus Norr-len. Rank and assignment redacted. But… courier-class status verified. This pod is registered to a sealed diplomatic channel under Federation Military Command. Classified, mid-level secure transit status."
Ethan stared through the glass at the unconscious man.
"So he's not a civilian."
"Correct. He was transporting something sensitive. Likely encrypted."
Ethan folded his arms and leaned slightly against the medbay wall. "Can we access it?"
"Technically, yes. But it would trigger an intrusion alert flagged to Federation Security. The encryption is military-grade. Unauthorized access would likely place this vessel on multiple watchlists."
Ethan didn't answer for a moment.
He looked at the man, fragile now, even with the protection of the pod. Whatever mission he'd been on, it had cost his crew their lives. The pirate ships hadn't come for the derelict by chance. They were tracking this vessel, maybe even hunting it specifically.
He weighed his options.
He could crack the encryption. See what secrets were worth killing for.
Or he could do what he should do. File the report, hand it off to someone higher up, and step out of the fire.
"How long until he wakes?" he asked.
"Unknown. Med drones predict no permanent damage, but neural recovery may take several days."
Ethan stepped away from the pod, exhaling slowly. "Alright. Let's not open the damn thing."
"Understood."
"I'll log the event and ping the nearest Federation military station," he added. "Let them deal with it. We've got our own journey to continue."
"Acknowledged, Captain. Transmitting a secure incident report. Priority code tagged: recovered courier vessel, survivor onboard, encrypted diplomatic content intact."
He turned on his heel and left the medbay, heading down the Wraith's central hall. His thoughts felt heavy now, not confused, but entangled. So much in this galaxy moved in shadows. So much weighed behind simple accidents. A drifting vessel. A single survivor. A courier with a message too valuable to die quietly.
The training chamber doors slid open at his presence. Cool lights blinked to life across the floor.
Inside, gravity-adjusted flooring hummed with quiet calibration. Reactive weights rose along the walls. Simulated terrain rigs, complete with kinetic feedback, projected nearby, waiting.
Ethan pulled off his jacket and stretched his shoulders. His muscles still remembered the tightness of the cockpit. He walked to the center of the room and rotated his neck with a sharp pop.
Then he moved.
A slow warm-up: elbow strikes, foot pivots, balance shifts. Then faster, kicks, turns, breathwork. He danced through movement with a controlled, measured flow. Not just to stay sharp.
But to stay grounded.
Fifteen minutes passed. Then twenty.
Afterwards, he sat in the middle of the padded floor, legs crossed, back straight. The Astral Slayer rested across his lap, inert but humming slightly to his psychic sense. He placed both hands on his knees, closed his eyes, and focused.
He let his breathing slow.
Let the battle replay, frame by frame.
Where his aim had faltered. Where his turns were too wide. When he'd hesitated during the second Corsair's loop. Each flaw, each imperfect decision, he embraced them. Not with shame.
But with precision.
Learn. Improve. Survive.
That was the mercenary's way.
That was his way.
Ten minutes passed in that silence before Iris's voice came back.
"Captain."
His eyes opened slowly.
"What is it?"
"A response has been received."
He stood, rolling his shoulders again, joints clicking with a muted stiffness that came more from deep focus than fatigue.
"That was fast," he said, his voice low but alert.
From the overhead speakers, Iris's voice responded, as calm and clipped as always. "The diplomatic tag embedded in the courier pod triggered an expedited response protocol. Based on the classification and clearance level embedded in the pod's encrypted manifest, a high-clearance Federation naval vessel has been dispatched from the nearest military station in this galactic system."
Ethan narrowed his eyes slightly. "So we lit up a beacon bigger than I thought."
"Correct," Iris replied. "This specific diplomatic chain is tied to Federation Naval Intelligence. Their jurisdiction includes emergency recovery, containment, and message safeguarding under wartime or high-sensitivity transport protocols. The moment the pod was logged on our system, it triggered the failsafe node."
He moved across the training room slowly, his footsteps quiet over the cushioned flooring. "And they're not sending a message this time?"
"No. They're coming in person."
He reached out to his jacket, running a hand down the reinforced seam at the shoulder. Then he took the Astral Slayer, resting in its silent black housing, and put it onto his side with a practiced motion that spoke to repetition and familiarity.
"ETA?" he asked, already tightening the cuffs of his sleeves.
"Approximately two hours," Iris said. "They are on direct approach at standard burn velocity. No deviation from protocol, no encrypted side-channel pings. By all indications, this is an official handoff, though their identity and manifest remain concealed."
"Of course it does," Ethan muttered.
He turned, gave the training room a long glance. The faint blue lights faded back to standby as he stepped through the doorway, the hiss of pressure equalization soft in the background. His boots landed with heavier weight now.
He wasn't sure what kind of personnel would arrive. Officers, intelligence handlers, maybe even black-ops couriers trained to collect without leaving a trace. But whoever they were, they'd want answers, and they'd come armed with more questions than he cared to answer.
Still… this was the right call. No opening sealed messages. No digging deeper.
Not this time.
He walked steadily toward the main corridor, backlit by the glow of the engine core pulsing quietly behind the bulkheads. The Wraith had earned its rest. And for now, so had he.
"All right," he murmured again, slower this time. Less of a comment, more of a quiet readiness.
"Let's see who they send."