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KAIRON

F uckin’ hate waiting.

The black's too quiet tonight—like space itself knows I’m about to slit its throat. I lean against the console, arms crossed, and stare through the cloaked feed, watching the IHC convoy slip through the dark like a prize pig unaware of the butcher’s hook.

Three escorts flanked the center hauler, a lumbering behemoth that seemed to drift through the blackness of space like a great, slow-moving leviathan.

It was full of secrets, a treasure trove of untapped potential just waiting to be uncovered.

But the one in the middle—that's the prize I’m after.

Not for its hull or the cargo it carries, but for the very bones of its design.

It houses a deep system AI, an intricate web of computational brilliance, and a Precursor trail map hardwired into its navigational systems. Such advanced technology doesn’t just fall into the hands of someone like me; it’s something I have to seize, to rip from the clutches of those who think they can keep it.

“Convoy holding vector,” Nyra calls from the ops chair, her eyes glued to the myriad of screens before her, flickering with data and holographic projections.

Her voice is clipped, sharp with focus, nothing more than business.

“ETA three minutes to intercept. If we don’t move now, we lose our angle. ”

I grunt in response, noncommittal, deliberately letting her sweat under the pressure of anticipation.

The tension in the air is palpable, thick enough to slice through, and it hums across the deck like a war drum—tight, twitchy, electric.

I can feel it vibrating through the floor, resonating in my bones as I stand tall, arms crossed over my chest, cold and calculating.

I don’t need to look behind me to feel my crew vibrating with that same energy.

Their restlessness is a tangible thing, a collective anxiety that’s been building for far too long between jobs.

They’re coiled tight, like springs ready to snap, and this one—this heist—is big enough to bite, to claw its way into our legacy.

Especially for Renn. He’s been itching for action, driven by ambition and a hunger for the kind of power that comes from wielding technology that others can only dream of.

I can already hear him thinking of the glory, the spoils, the legacy he craves.

But I know better. This isn’t just a job—it’s a game of survival, and the stakes are higher than anything he’s ever faced before.

“You draggin’ your dick for a reason, boss?” he calls out from across the hold, flipping a knife in one hand like he’s already bored. “That convoy’s ripe. We could gut it in twenty seconds and be balls-deep in loot before they even blink.”

I cut him a look over my shoulder. That shit-eating grin on his face? It's the same one he wore last time he blew a coolant line in a mining freighter and nearly cooked us alive.

“Patience, Dravik,” I say, cool as ice. “I like my meals warm.”

“Warm’s overrated. I say we punch straight through and take what we want.”

Nyra doesn’t even glance at him. “Straight through means triggering the convoy's backup transponders. Which means the IHC warships will be on our asses in minutes. You gonna fistfight a cruiser, Dravik?”

“Hell,” Renn shrugs, “I’ll try anything once.”

Idiots. The both of them.

I shove off the console and stalk toward the main hold, the deck humming under my boots like it's holding its breath. The crew straightens without being told. No one wants to meet my eyes. Smart.

“This isn’t about loot,” I say loud enough for every bastard in the room to hear. “This is about leverage. Navigation-grade AI hardwired into a deep-system explorer. That kind of tech? It's a fuckin’ map to the gods.”

Renn’s smirk twitches like he’s trying not to laugh. “Could’ve just said you wanted a GPS.”

“Could’ve just punched you in the teeth.” I stop a breath from his face. “But we’re saving violence for the real prize.”

He shrugs, all cocky muscle and bad impulse. “I’m just sayin’. We’re out here creeping through vacuum for a damn computer. No gold? No smuggled plasma rifles? Not even a sex bot?”

Nyra snorts from ops. “You’d need a brain to work one of those, Dravik.”

“Don’t need brains when you got?—”

“Enough,” I growl, slicing the air with one hand. “This AI leads to something older. Precursor pathing. You think those ruins just sprout up outta the ground by accident? This system’s off-grid. Unmapped. But something’s out here. Something big.”

Now I’ve got their attention.

Nyra turns from her console, arms folded, chin lifted. “You want to chase ghost tech? That’s your call. But you better be damn sure we can breach and bounce before that convoy blinks.”

I nod. “Which is why we don’t touch the hauler’s core systems. Just the nav vault. We go quiet. We go fast. We get out.”

“And if the convoy fights back?” Renn asks, voice low with promise.

“Then we put 'em down.”

Simple.

Final.

I scan the room. No one argues. Good. I don’t have time for fear or morality or whining about IHC protocols. We’re not breaking laws out here—we’re writing our own.

The feed flickers. The convoy drifts into final intercept range.

“Lock in approach vector,” I command, voice flat. “Prep for breach on my mark.”

It’s not about tech or maps. It’s about power. Because power’s the only freedom worth dying for.

I suit up in silence. The reinforced harness clamps around my chest, each piece clicking into place with a sound like a countdown. I flex my fingers as the gloves seal. No ceremony. No speeches. Just metal and breath and blood warming in my veins.

Nyra meets me at the hatch. Her expression’s carved from stone.

“Last chance to abort,” she says, and she doesn’t mean it.

I grin, baring teeth. “Tell me you’re not getting wet from the tension.”

She rolls her eyes and slaps the final seal on the breach pack. “You’re disgusting.”

“And you’re still here.”

She hands me the charge detonator. Our fingers brush. Nothing lingers.

Renn steps up next, locking in behind me with a sound like a gun cocking. “Ready to rip and run, boss.”

He’s got that look. The one he gets before a massacre. I could leash him, but what would be the point? Better to aim him at the right throat and let nature do the rest.

“Stick to the plan,” I say without looking back. “Nav vault only. We get what we came for, then ghost out.”

The red light over the breach door starts to blink. My pulse doesn’t change, but my breath deepens. The void outside is black and endless—our kind of dark. The feed shows the IHC ship’s underbelly, gleaming like a fat fish begging to be gutted.

“On my mark,” I say, voice like stone cracking.

One second.

Two.

The hatch hisses open.

We jump.