Into the next station

The dock trembled.

Federation boots thundered across the station’s halls. Officers barked orders. Drones buzzed through the air like hornets. The alarm screamed red. Over the intercom, a voice shouted:

“SECTOR 3-B: INITIATE FULL SHIP SCAN.”

“ALL DEPARTURES ARE FROZEN UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.”

Inside the disguised undead destroyer, it was dead silent.

Vermond stood still in the bridge, his hands resting on the glowing interface as the advanced map pulsed under his fingertips. The ship had already cut its external signal, disguising its registry as an old ore hauler. It looked legit. But the Federation wasn’t stupid.

“They’re coming this way,” Erie muttered, peering through the bridge viewport. Seven soldiers in exo-armor were inspecting each ship with portable scanners, getting closer with each breath.

Vermond’s eyes twitched. His soul-count shimmered faintly at 68. “We wait... and then we fly.”

“Are you crazy?!” Erie whispered. “The entire station’s on red lockdown. If we launch now—”

“They’ll never see us coming,” Vermond cut him off.

Behind them, the undead crew stood by—motionless in their patched space suits. Their fingers gripped the controls. Even the salvager drone hovered near the reactor, ready to boost energy where needed.

The Federation patrol stopped just outside their hull.

One of them turned to his scanner—his brows furrowed.

Erie cursed under his breath. “He’s picking something up—”

BANG!

The hatch to the destroyer slammed open—but nothing came out.

The soldier stepped closer, flashlight raised.

Inside, all the lights were off. Just a silent, dark interior. No movement. The scanner whined uncertainly, glitching.

“What the—?”

Suddenly, a surge of black smoke burst from the ship’s rear vent—an engineered coolant purge the undead had timed perfectly. Steam filled the bay. Visibility dropped to zero.

“NOW!” Vermond shouted.

The destroyer roared to life.

The engines screamed, not with fire, but with eerie silence—the necro-core spun in reverse, sending the ship into a slide across the dock without any warning. A gravity ripple blew over the guards, knocking them to their knees.

BOOM!

The side thrusters burst to life. The destroyer twisted its way out of the dock, skimming dangerously close to the metal walls, scraping sparks into the void.

Federation turrets rotated.

“Unauthorized vessel moving!”

“Fire control, prepare to lock!”

The ship darted forward.

Erie clung to a handle. “This thing isn’t even made for this—”

Vermond’s eyes glowed faintly.

“Fly like a ghost,” he muttered.

A wave of black mist engulfed the destroyer mid-flight.

For a heartbeat, it vanished—no engine flare, no signal, no trace.

“Where’d it go?!” the officer shouted.

BOOM-BOOM!

Turrets fired—missiles whistled—but they struck only air and smoke.

From a safe distance, behind a cargo ring, the destroyer reappeared, hidden by the station’s blind zone. The undead were already re-routing heat signatures, simulating debris. They moved like shadows through systems designed for life.

Inside the bridge, Vermond grinned. Erie fell into the couch, breathing hard.

“That’s how we leave a station,” Vermond said calmly.

“I think I just saw death wave at me,” Erie muttered.

Outside, the ship accelerated. The Federation mother ship loomed in the distance—its vast hull glowing like a god—but the undead destroyer dove into the dark void, vanishing from all sensors.

Destination set: The Black Spire.

Time to find the cloak that would make them truly invisible.

And in the silence of the bridge, far in the back of Vermond’s mind…

The Watcher chuckled.

The silence of space wrapped the ship like a heavy blanket.

Inside the bridge, the lighting dimmed to a low blue glow. Systems cooled. Steam hissed out of the floor vents. The undead returned to their stations, each one moving without a sound, their space suits still on, now worn like second skin.

Erie dropped into the couch with a long exhale, head back, arms sprawled. "Okay. I officially hate space stations."

Vermond didn’t respond immediately. He stood at the center of the bridge, one hand resting on the advanced holographic map. His eyes were fixed on the sprawling sectors and empires lighting up the galaxy.

“Sixty-eight souls,” he muttered.

Erie cracked open one eye. “Still thinking about the poor bastards back there?”

“No,” Vermond said quietly. “I’m thinking about the ones ahead of us.”

The salvager drone floated past, depositing a crate of supplies near the console. One of the undead walked over and quietly unpacked it, sorting cans and packets without emotion.

“...You think we’ll be able to keep doing this?” Erie asked.

Vermond finally turned, the faint soul-number glowing softly in his eyes. “I think we’ve already crossed the point of no return.”

Erie stared at him. Then smirked. “Guess that makes us the villains now, huh?”

Vermond leaned on the railing, face unreadable. “Villains... don’t build couches for their bridge.”

They both looked over at the worn, soft couch now stained with a bit of grease. One of the undead was sitting perfectly still on one side of it. Just sitting. Not moving. As if trying to imitate a living crew member.

Erie blinked. “...Is that guy chilling?”

Vermond raised an eyebrow. “He might’ve died doing paperwork.”

A brief pause.

They both burst out laughing. Not a loud laugh—just a tired, surreal chuckle shared between two people who had barely survived death, again.

Erie wiped his eyes. “Alright. Next stop. Cloaking device.”

Vermond’s face turned serious again. He nodded toward the glowing map. “The Black Spire. One of the most corrupt trading capitals in this part of the galaxy. If anyone’s got it, they do.”

Behind them, the undead placed the Federation map carefully into a sealed display on the bridge. It pulsed slowly, as if aware it didn’t belong here. As if watching.

As if...

The faint echo of a voice slid through Vermond’s mind once again.

“Keep going... You're becoming something greater.”

He said nothing.

Just watched the stars ahead. The ship moved forward in silence.

And the dark path continued.

Vermond leaned over the glowing projection of the Federation’s advanced holographic map. The entire bridge was bathed in its shifting blues and reds, like veins pulsing through the galaxy itself. His fingers danced over several sectors, zooming into trade routes, hostile zones, hidden lanes, and blacklisted regions no normal map ever dared display.

Behind him, Erie leaned against the railing, sipping from a lukewarm drink they'd salvaged before the escape.

"Hey," Erie said, breaking the quiet hum of the ship. "That thing’s worth more than a hundred million credits. We could live like kings. Why not sell it?"

Vermond didn’t turn around. His voice was low. Steady. “Because it’s not meant to be sold.”

Erie blinked. “Not meant to be—Vermond, you do realize we’ve got the galaxy's most illegal treasure bolted to the center of our bridge, right?”

“I know.”

“So…?” Erie gestured, frustrated but curious. “You could fund a fleet. Ten fleets. You could build an empire. You could buy a damn moon!”

Vermond slowly zoomed into an unnamed stretch of space. Then another. Dozens. Hidden salvage routes, dead civilizations, lost empires swallowed by darkness. All of them lit up—all waiting.

“This map,” he finally said, “shows what no one wants the galaxy to see. Places that were erased, rewritten, buried.”

He turned to Erie, eyes glowing faintly, the number 68 still sharp within them.

“I’m not interested in selling secrets. I’m interested in finding them.”

Erie stared at him. The room felt colder for a moment. The undead crewmembers stood frozen, waiting. Listening.

Then Erie sighed, cracking a tired grin. “You’ve got that look again. The ‘I’m gonna poke the gods with a stick’ look.”

Vermond looked back at the map. “Maybe I will.”

“And what happens when the Federation realizes we’re the ones who took it?”

Vermond smirked. “Then they’ll chase ghosts.”

Outside the viewport, stars blurred. The undead destroyer slid deeper into the black—unseen, untraceable… and now, holding knowledge worth entire wars.

As the stars slipped past the viewport in streams of light, the hum of the undead destroyer carried a strange stillness. Vermond stood alone on the bridge, watching the newly mounted map pulse softly like a living thing. Erie had gone to rest. The undead manned their posts in silence. Everything felt calm—almost too calm.

Then it came.

A voice. Soft. Familiar.

"Big brother..."

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Vermond froze. His eyes widened.

"I can't wait to see you... when you're stronger."

It echoed within him—not like the watcher’s voice. This one was warm. Gentle. Human.

“Kiana...?” he whispered aloud, his voice trembling just slightly.

There was no response. Just the quiet, and the soft pulse of the orb embedded in his chest. It glowed faintly—green, like her eyes.

“Kiana... is that you?” he asked again, a whisper nearly drowned by the hum of the engines.

Silence followed.

Vermond took a step back, placing a hand over his chest. His mind raced. She was the girl he saw on the planet… the one with green eyes… the one who became the orb… the one who he saved when he was a salvager..

But now—she spoke. Clear. Real. Not a memory.

His breath caught.

“She’s not gone…” he muttered. “She’s... still here?”

The orb pulsed again—once.

Vermond stared at it in disbelief. What does she mean by stronger? Was she waiting for him to unlock something? Or had she been guiding him this whole time, watching silently from within?

A shiver ran down his spine, but not from fear.

Hope.

“Kiana…” he whispered again, “I’ll get stronger. Just wait for me.”

And from deep within the silent corridors of the ship, the green lights of the orb flickered once more—like a heartbeat.

The destroyer sailed silently through the velvet of deep space, stars streaking past in glimmers of gold and white. On the bridge, Vermond stood with arms crossed, lost in thought, the soft green pulse of the orb keeping rhythm with the hum of the engines.

Erie, slouched in one of the auxiliary seats, groaned and stretched. “Ugh, this is taking forever. How long until we reach that trade capital?”

Vermond didn’t answer. He was still thinking about the voice—Kiana.

With a sigh, Erie stood up and wandered toward the glowing, high-definition map suspended in the center of the bridge. It hovered slightly above the platform, a rotating 3D galaxy view sprawling with hundreds of thousands of sectors.

He tapped one corner. Nothing.

Then another.

“Huh,” Erie muttered, eyes narrowing as he noticed a faint blue button blinking near the top right corner of the map. “What are you...?”

He tapped it.

BOOM.

The map shifted.

Suddenly, bright light flared across the center. The galactic display reconfigured and projected a live news broadcast—right in the middle of the bridge.

Vermond jumped slightly and turned, hand instinctively brushing his blaster. “What did you do?”

“I—I didn’t know! I just touched this!” Erie stepped back as the broadcast volume rose.

A professional-looking news anchor appeared, the Federation logo behind her, her voice clear and panicked:

> “Breaking news— the advanced Federation Sector Map has been stolen. Sources say the item was worth over 100 million credits and vital to high-command fleet operations. Surveillance shows the culprits fled aboard what appears to be a modified salvage-class destroyer, partially cloaked in scavenged hull pieces and listed as a decommissioned cargo hauler.”

The image cut to a blurred frame—a dark ship. Their ship.

Erie whistled. “Wow. We made the news.”

Vermond blinked, watching the feed, arms slowly folding again. “Did they just call our ship... a cargo hauler?”

“Yeah,” Erie grinned. “Guess those old hull pieces we slapped on really fooled ‘em.”

Then, on the broadcast, a second anchor chimed in:

> “—And with tensions rising between the Federation and the Folako Empire, authorities fear the map could end up in the wrong hands. If you see a suspicious salvager or a dark destroyer-class vessel, report immediately.”

Erie raised an eyebrow and slowly turned to Vermond. “So... we’re officially galactic criminals now?”

Vermond gave him a flat stare, then smirked. “We were never officially not.”

They both stared at the hovering display.

“I’m keeping this map,” Vermond muttered. “They’ll never get it back.”

Erie nodded, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Guess we just became... legends.”

The soft hum of the destroyer’s engines was the only sound on the bridge, aside from the low chatter of the holographic news feed still playing in the background. Vermond leaned against the railing, arms folded, staring blankly into the star-specked void. Then, his stomach growled—loudly.

"...Ugh," he muttered, hand over his gut. "I could eat a whole asteroid right now."

Almost instantly, without a word or even a shuffle, one of the undead in a patched-up space suit silently approached from behind and extended a tray—freshly heated ration packs, a steaming drink, and a fork. The food didn’t look great, but it was edible. And it was hot.

Vermond blinked. “...Thanks?”

The undead gave no reply. It simply turned and glided away like it had just served a king.

Meanwhile, Erie was sprawled on the couch near the bridge console, flipping through the news on the massive holographic map.

“Hey, look,” he said, pointing. “The Federation’s blaming the Folako Empire for three more destroyed outposts. And Folako says they have no idea what’s going on.”

Vermond took a bite and sat down. “That’s what they always say before everything blows up.”

Just then, out the viewing window, a frigate glided across their path—not Federation, not Folako either. Probably a trader or an independent patrol.

And then—

BOOM.

It exploded mid-drift, no warning, no weapon signature. A blinding flare of white and orange fire flashed across the darkness, the shockwave rippling past the destroyer like a cosmic roar.

Erie stood up, eyes wide. “...Did you just see that?!”

Vermond dropped his fork. “Someone really doesn’t like frigates.”

Before they could say more, they saw them—a fleet appearing from behind a derelict moon:

Rusty haulers. Mining ships. Refitted industrial vessels—all armed.

Painted symbols on their hulls glowed with makeshift rebellion. Cannons bolted onto former cargo mounts. Even one mining drill ship had a giant plasma spear sticking out the front like it meant business.

A broadcast crackled through:

> "This is the Free Miner Union! We are no longer tools of the Federation! All military assets, leave this sector or face the wrath of the workforce!"

Erie’s jaw dropped. “Oh no... the miners unionized with explosives.”

Vermond stood, eyes narrowing. “And they look like they haven’t eaten or slept in months.”

One rebel hauler passed by the destroyer, the pilot inside holding a giant mug of something suspiciously not coffee, screaming, “FOR OVERTIME PAY!”

“...This is serious,” Erie whispered.

“But also... a little impressive,” Vermond admitted.

They both watched as the rebel miners began blockading the region, scattering nearby ships. Alarms on the Federation news feed began flashing red.

> “New Threat Detected: The Free Miner Union—Status: Armed and Explosively Motivated.”

Vermond turned toward the helm, eyes locked on the chaos. “Looks like we’re not the only ones flipping the board.”

Erie nodded. “Rebellion, explosions, galactic war... and here we are—just two guys with a haunted ship, undead in space suits, and an illegal map.”

Vermond smirked. “Let’s not miss our turn in the storm.”

The stars around them flickered—space rippling like water—as something massive tore through the fabric of the void.

BOOM.

A Federation battleship warped in, blotting out a portion of the stars with its sheer size. Its hull glimmered with polished steel, rows upon rows of heavy turrets locked and tracking every rebellious miner vessel. It was so big, it made Vermond’s destroyer feel like a lifeboat in comparison.

Erie stood frozen, staring at the behemoth through the window. “That’s not just any ship. That’s a class-omega suppression ship…”

Vermond raised an eyebrow. “Looks like someone called in the hammer.”

The battleship’s external speakers boomed, a cold mechanical voice echoing across the system—so loud it almost made the glass panels tremble.

> “TO ALL UNAUTHORIZED ARMED CIVILIAN VESSELS: THIS IS THE FEDERATION ENFORCER JUDICATOR. YOU ARE ILLEGALLY OPERATING MILITARY-GRADE SYSTEMS. STAND DOWN. DISABLE YOUR ENGINES. PREPARE FOR IMMEDIATE DETAINMENT.”

The miner fleet hesitated. Then, on an open channel, a dozen voices crackled through. They weren’t shouting anymore—they were begging.

> “Please—we didn’t mean harm. We just wanted to be heard…”

> “We haven’t been paid in cycles… we had no food, no fuel—”

> “Don’t shoot. Please. We surrender. Just—don’t shoot…”

A single tear ran down Erie’s cheek. “...They’re just desperate.”

The Federation ship gave no reply—its weapons slowly lowering. Small dropships began launching, dozens of them, swarming like black flies from the belly of the Judicator. Each one locked onto a miner vessel.

Then came more audio—

> “I don’t want to be arrested, I have a kid on Ephra-7!”

> “I was just flying escort, please—!”

> “...we never stood a chance, I regret exploding that frigate.. but that bastard started it!.”

Vermond clenched his jaw.

> The battleship didn’t fire.

But it swallowed the miner fleet whole, capturing their ships one by one in tractor beams, disabling their engines, and dragging them into holding bays. The miners cried, not from pain—but from the weight of failure.

Erie turned away from the window.

“...We could’ve been like them, you know,” he whispered. “Lost. Broken. Turned into nothing.”

Vermond nodded, silent. “But we weren’t, we're not idiots like them.”

He turned back to the console, eyes fixed on the map.

“Let’s go before the Judicator decides to notice us.”

The engines hummed to life, and the undead silently took their places. The destroyer, disguised and cloaked in the salvaged hull, slipped away into the dark once more—ghostlike—leaving behind the echoes of rebellion and the cries of forgotten workers.

The disguised destroyer glided past the last Federation patrol line, silent and cloaked beneath layers of salvaged hull plating. The tension of the last encounter slowly faded—replaced now by curiosity.

Ahead, glowing like a neon mirage, was a space bar, anchored between two hollow asteroids. Flickering holograms danced above its curved exterior, the name barely legible:

“The Driftin’ Core.”

Vermond narrowed his eyes. “A bar… here?”

Erie leaned forward, staring at the chaotic docking bay. “Looks like it's open to everyone. Salvagers, miners, mercs…”

“Perfect,” Vermond muttered, tapping a few controls. “Time for a drink.”

They docked quietly, surrounded by ships in all states—patched haulers, bullet-ridden mining rigs, even a cruiser made entirely from welded junk. The smell of burnt fuel and alcohol drifted through the airlock as they stepped out, passing under a buzzing neon sign that read:

“No Shooting. No Selling Organs. No Trouble.”

(Then beneath it, scratched in with a knife: "Unless they started it.")

The bar was packed.

Miners laughed over cheap rum, salvagers bragged about stolen thrusters, and a bounty hunter arm-wrestled a robot with hydraulic arms. Music played through half-broken speakers. An old TV screen floated above the bar showing war news on mute—Federation fleets moving like swarms of hornets, the Folako Empire banners burning in the background.

Vermond and Erie exchanged a glance and found a corner booth. The moment they sat, a grumpy bartender drone floated over.

> “Drinks?”

“Two coffees,” Vermond said.

Erie raised a brow. “In a bar?”

“We’re fugitives, not drunkards,” Vermond replied.

As the coffees clanked onto the table, a group of miners nearby laughed loud—one holding up a Federation helmet like a trophy. Another mimed a Federation officer tripping over a crate and getting stuck in a waste chute.

Vermond leaned back, scanning the room.

Here, no one cared who you were. Just how long you survived, how many parts you had in your cargo, and how well you could bluff in a game of dice.

For once… it felt normal.

Erie sipped his drink. “Think we could find a contact here?”

“Maybe,” Vermond said. “But let’s not rush. I want to listen first.”

The orb in his chest flickered gently—quiet, resting.

But he knew better.

The calm never lasted forever.

The bar stayed deathly quiet as the seven cloaked figures entered. Even the background music stuttered for a moment, as if the station itself recognized authority stepping in.

Their cloaks bore the faint insignia of the Folako Empire, though mostly hidden. They moved like trained wolves—quiet, aware, and not to be provoked.

Vermond and Erie sat in the corner with two cups of something steaming. Erie leaned in, whispering,

"That badge—right side of the front one. Folako."

Vermond’s eyes tracked the group as they took their seats at a private booth. With casual movements, he stood and approached, settling just one table away. He kept his posture loose, ears sharp. The Folako soldiers were already speaking in low, precise voices—well-trained for secrecy, but not enough to escape Vermond’s tuned hearing.

Agent 1 (Leader):

“…Federation is moving too fast. Their mothership’s warp signature was confirmed near the Saelin Belt.”

Agent 2:

“Already? That’s within three jumps of the Eastern Folako colonies.”

Agent 3:

“Do we have authorization for full mobilization?”

Leader: (shakes head slightly)

“Not yet. High Command wants confirmation if the Federation is provoking war or bluffing again.”

Agent 2:

“That wasn’t a bluff.”

Agent 4: (leans in)

“There’s chatter about Carlos De Fallen. They say he went rogue… destroyed a Corvette unprovoked.”

Leader: (cold)

“Then it’s a matter of time. The Folako will not wait to be provoked again. We strike when they step out of line—once.”

Vermond took a sip from his cup. The conversation was tense, military. Not just soldiers—strategists. It was clear now:

Folako wasn’t waiting for war.

They were already moving.

Then came something that made Vermond’s fingers still:

Agent 2:

“…one more thing. Intelligence picked up a signal spike from a restricted map core. Station Theta-9. Someone stole a high-level Federation star map.”

Agent 3:

“Any leads?”

Leader:

“No visuals. Just that it wasn’t Federation. They called it… a hauler. That’s all we got.”

Agent 2:

“A hauler? Who in the void steals a map like that with a hauler?”

Leader: (quiet)

“Someone smart… or someone dangerous.”

Vermond slowly exhaled and leaned back from the edge of his seat, returning to Erie with a calm expression but racing thoughts.

“They’re onto the map,” he muttered.

Erie gave him a half-panicked look.

“How bad?”

“Federation already knows we took it. And now Folako does too.”

Erie glanced at the cloaked men.

“…so what now?”

Vermond’s eyes turned toward the exit, a flicker of amusement crossing his face.

“Now we finish our drinks and disappear.”

The orb in his chest pulsed lightly. Like it agreed.

As the cold silence settled once more in the bar, Vermond and Erie lifted their cups and downed the last of the warm drink. No one spoke. No one dared. The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife.

Without a word, they stood.

Vermond gave the cloaked Folako agents one last glance—sharp, unreadable—before walking toward the exit. Erie followed close, his steps just slightly faster.

Once the bar doors hissed open behind them, Erie exhaled like he had been holding his breath for minutes.

“I don’t like those guys,” he muttered.

Vermond smirked faintly. “You’re not supposed to.”

They crossed the docking bay with the Federation patrols still roaming nearby, but none stopped them. No one suspected that the quiet, dark vessel parked along the far bay wall—its surface now patched and disguised—was anything more than an old salvager ship.

Inside, the undead destroyer hummed like a sleeping beast. The moment they entered, the doors sealed tight, and the undead standing nearby gave a slight, respectful bow.

The bridge glowed with eerie blue light as the advanced holographic map hovered in place—still pulsing with power it shouldn’t possess. The undead had already finished carefully 'fully' installing it at the center of the bridge.

Vermond took his seat, nodding to the drone hovering silently beside the command console. Erie dropped into the soft couch, sighing.

“Back into the void,” Vermond said.

With a low rumble, the destroyer lifted and drifted from the station’s gravity grip. The stars widened before them—an ocean of endless destinations, endless danger, and endless opportunity.

Their journey continued.

And somewhere deep in the dark—

the watcher smiled again.

The undead destroyer cruised steadily through space, the stars stretching in the distance. Vermond leaned over the bridge console, studying the advanced holographic map, while Erie lounged nearby, flipping through menus out of boredom.

Then the radar pinged.

A soft alert.

Then another.

Then faster.

Vermond looked up. The radar flashed—Unidentified Signature – High Velocity – No IFF Code.

Erie leaned in. “Another ship?”

Vermond nodded. “Coming in hot.”

The radar view zoomed in.

One ship. Sleek. Small. Its engine signature matched nothing recent. But Vermond knew that silhouette.

A Cleanser.

Erie sat up fully. “That’s Federation tech, right?”

“No,” Vermond said darkly. “That’s something worse.”

The ship suddenly stopped. It floated dead in space, its engine glowing a low purple hue. No comms. No lights inside.

Then the radar screen distorted, briefly overtaken by static.

A few seconds later, an image forced itself onto the screen. A figure. Its body wrapped in tight black armor, its helmet fused to its head. Vermond recognized the pattern—a Cleanser exosuit, old model. Forgotten class.

Erie whispered, “It’s one of them…”

The Cleanser raised its hand. Not in a greeting—just showing something.

A chain of severed fingers—uniformed fingers. Federation officer ranks.

Then the transmission cut.

The radar pulsed faster.

The Cleanser ship moved. Straight at them.

Erie stiffened. “What do we do?”

Vermond’s eyes narrowed. “We end it.”

Behind them, the undead crew moved in sync, dragging old weapons and heavy plating toward the airlocks. The destroyer thrummed with tension.

This wasn’t just an attack. It was a message.

The Federation might

not be hunting him yet.

But the Cleanser was.

The Cleanser ship hovered. Motionless now. Silent. A predator in the dark void.

Erie looked over at Vermond, voice low. “It’s not backing off.”

Vermond’s eyes gleamed with a dangerous calm. “Let it in.”

“What?”

“We’ll capture it,” Vermond said, his voice steady. “Like the last one. Maybe someone out there wants another Cleanser corpse.”

Erie stared at him, uneasy. “You’re serious?”

“I’m always serious when it comes to souls... and profit.”

Vermond moved to the console. The undead destroyer's systems flickered—a docking bay opened at the ship's underside, exposed like a hungry mouth.

The Cleanser ship responded, almost instantly. It shifted. Turned. Then crept forward like it wanted to be let in.

A perfect trap.

Erie watched through the bridge window. “This is insane.”

“No,” Vermond murmured. “This is business.”

As the Cleanser ship docked, the undead were already moving—ten of them, armed and armored with salvaged weapons. Their movements were eerily silent, coordinated by Vermond’s will. Two others positioned at the airlock, ready to seal it once the Cleanser entered.

The lights dimmed across the docking bay. Shadows grew long.

Inside, that singular Cleanser remained still. Motionless. Like a corpse... until its head twitched.

Vermond’s hand hovered over the control to vent the bay, just in case.

“Let’s see what you’re worth,” he whispered.

The moment the Cleanser stepped into the docking bay… it was already too late.

It stood still, head slowly turning, sensing something was wrong. The flickering red emergency lights cast long shadows—and then they moved.

From every corner of the bay, behind crates, hanging from scaffolds, and walking calmly down the corridor—hundreds of undead soldiers emerged. All armored. All silent. All watching.

The Cleanser snapped into action, blades unfolding from its arms. It lunged at the nearest undead.

CRACK!

The first undead's skull was split open—head gone in a clean slice.

But that didn’t stop them. It didn’t matter.

Five more piled on. Then ten. Then twenty.

The Cleanser spun, roaring like a distorted machine. Limbs slashed through the air, slicing through armor and bone. Yet they kept coming.

Erie flinched from the bridge, watching it unfold on the monitor. “That thing’s a beast!”

Vermond’s expression remained calm. Cold. Focused.

“She’s outnumbered,” he said. “And outplayed.”

The undead began sacrificing their bodies—latching onto her arms and legs, even as they were torn apart. One shoved a metal pike through the Cleanser’s leg. Another smashed its helmet with a salvaged hammer.

And then—a chain flew out from the ceiling, wrapped around the Cleanser’s neck.

Pulled tight.

She dropped to one knee.

Ten undead pinned her down.

Then twenty.

Then thirty.

She shrieked one last time—a static, otherworldly scream—before the last hammer fell and she was dragged, limp and defeated, into the destroyer's prison cell.

The gates slammed shut.

The cell sealed.

The light turned red.

Vermond leaned back in his command seat, the soft couch beneath him now almost ironic in its comfort.

“That’s the second one,” he said.

Erie looked over. “You’re building a collection?”

Vermond’s eyes glinted. “A market.”

Inside the prison chamber, the Cleanser hung by its arms—bound in reinforced chains forged from salvaged alloys and ancient tech.

Red lights pulsed in the chamber. Cold mist seeped from the vents. Two undead stood guard in silence, motionless as statues.

For hours, the Cleanser remained still—until Vermond entered.

He stepped into the chamber, Erie behind him. The door sealed with a low hiss.

Vermond stared.

The Cleanser slowly raised its head, visor cracked, one eye lens still glowing dim red.

Then—it spoke.

A garbled, hollow voice slithered through the intercom.

“You think this ends with me?”

Erie flinched. Vermond narrowed his eyes.

“You think the others won’t hear the silence I leave behind?”

Vermond stepped closer, shadows from the hallway behind him dancing on the walls.

“Others?” he asked coldly.

The Cleanser let out a broken, static-laced chuckle.

“I was one of many, Necromancer. A whisper. A feeler.

You’ve made noise… and they’ve turned their heads.”

Vermond stayed quiet, watching.

“They don’t sleep. They don’t stop. When they come…”

The Cleanser's head tilted unnaturally.

“…your undead will scream.”

Erie’s grip tightened on the blaster hanging from his hip.

Vermond didn’t flinch. Instead, he turned to Erie.

“We'll need to upgrade the prison.”

Then, he looked back at the Cleanser.

“And when your friends come,” Vermond said coldly,

“I’ll collect them too.”

The Cleanser didn't reply. Only that low, garbled breathing remained… like a machine dreaming of blood.

The undead destroyer aligned its course, the eerie groan of its engines syncing with the low hum of the salvaged systems. Vermond tapped on the holographic map and slid his fingers across the glowing surface—pinpointing a familiar region now illuminated in rich detail.

Coordinates: 198.34 - 52.9 - 102.08

Destination: The Black Spire.

He leaned back on the couch near the command seat, crossing his arms as he stared ahead.

“Heading now?” Erie asked, glancing at the map.

Vermond gave a faint nod. “We need that cloaking device. And The Black Spire… it’s still our best shot.”

With a silent command, the jump engines charged.

Outside, the last of the undead returned to their stations. The map, now embedded into the bridge's center, flickered as sectors re-aligned. Then—

A blue rift tore through space.

The destroyer vanished into the fold.

Moments later, the stars realigned. The Black Spire loomed ahead.

Still the same—a twisted architectural marvel floating in space, layers upon layers of docks, towers, and markets lit by flickering neon and exhaust. The distant glow of warships surrounded it, patrols circling tighter now, more tense since the Federation’s war had escalated.

Docking requests beeped.

Vermond didn’t need to say a word—the ship responded, sending false credentials. A beat of silence, then—

DOCKING APPROVED - SECTOR 4B.

Erie smirked. “Home sweet hideout.”

The destroyer slowly descended toward the station, already drawing curious eyes from traders, mercs, and black-market vendors. Its appearance—now partially disguised by salvaged hull—masked its true horror… barely.