The ocular interface lit up with a cold flicker:
MISSION – DATA EXTRACTION.
Ship: Alliance Frigate Eclipse Black.
Crew: 47.
Corridors: 12-Alpha to 18-Beta.
Night cycle, Node 117.
The objective burned into her retinas like an indelible code: administrative module — a nest of files that reeked of treason and power.
Nebula rose, her body responding before her mind.
Her hands sealed the harness with surgical precision, fingers moving on their own, guided by a muscle memory forged across hundreds of identical operations.
The inner hatch closed with a prolonged metallic groan, releasing a gust of recycled air that reeked of stale sweat and burnt oil, sticking to her throat like toxic fog.
She fastened her helmet.
Waited for the procedure to complete.
When the hatch opened, she launched into the void.
The absolute silence of space swallowed her whole.
All that remained was the sound of her own heartbeat — mechanical, like a drum wrapped in borrowed flesh.
The magnetic boots gripped the outer hull of the frigate with an exact clank, and for an instant, the metal vibrated beneath her feet with an almost familiar hum.
The access hatch was already open, as if someone had anticipated her.
A metal maw that shouldn’t be welcoming her.
The pressure shifted. A hiss accompanied her entry, the sound crawling across her skin like a cold shiver, and Nebula’s breathing paused for half a second before resuming.
A pause.
Internal error.
The corridor lights blinked lazily, perfectly synchronized, illuminating the cold, worn metal, shadows folding into the corners like patient predators.
She crossed into the crew quarters.
Cryo-pods lined the lateral hall.
Sleeping crew, breathing regulated by machines, pale faces behind fogged plexiglass.
Nebula didn’t stop. She ignored them, guided by an invisible map.
She found the archive door, which yielded to an intuitive hack.
Reached the access panel for Node 117.
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Entered the sequence without hesitation: 1-9-8-8-Martios.
Right after pressing the last key, a spike shot through her skull.
One instant.
A déjà vu, like a shorted circuit.
—I’ve done this.
—I’ve already done this.
Memory glitch.
—It’s just mission fatigue.
Inside the archive, the data banks emitted a uniform hum.
The main terminal powered on before she touched anything.
Screens showing classified files.
Hidden transactions. Illegal antimatter movements. Fleet reassignments with no registry.
Names.
Faces.
Seals that should not exist.
One showed up too many times.
More than once.
CORVEN.
Priority: Biological Preservation.
The phrase had no context.
The download began, files compressing into her cranial implant with an internal buzz.
The automatism deepened: hands operating like extensions of the machine, eyes scanning without a blink, every movement a solved equation before it fully formed in her mind.
A structural groan ran through the hull, a whisper amplified through her inner ear.
Nebula turned, slipping into the shadows.
A guard appeared in the adjacent corridor, flashlight shaking in his gloved hand, its beam slicing the darkness like an unstable blade.
She pulled the knife with a soft click — the cut was clean: blade into jugular, cartilage cracking like plastic under pressure.
Blood surged in a pulsing arc, warm against the cold metal tiles.
The body collapsed with a dull thud, glazed eyes fixed on the ceiling, and the operation continued as if nothing had happened.
Distant alarms began, muffled beeps echoing like voices inside her skull.
She froze.
Listened.
— No patrols in this sector.
— No battle.
— Nothing.
Ignored it.
With the files secured and the mission only halfway complete, she began moving toward the exit.
But the interface snapped.
Text over text, flickering erratically:
ABORT MISSION
ABORT MISSION
[ERROR]
ABORT NOW!
In the corridor — an officer blocked the way.
Tall, ceremonial uniform, medals rattling under sterile white light, a face identical to the profiles in the archive.
Exactly the type of person she was trained to confront, interrogate, or eliminate.
The typical target.
She drew her pistol, aiming at the vulnerable gap between collar and helmet. Her fingers tensed.
The officer froze — then recoiled, eyes wide.
The pistol just slipped from her fingers, spinning out of reach.
— Intruder! Administrative sector! Right here!
Her legs gave out.
Knees hit steel, the impact echoing down the hall.
Nebula lay paralyzed, a crackling buzz burning at the base of her skull, like someone was driving a high-voltage betrayal into her spine.
Boots.
Boots pounding in from both sides. The metal trembled beneath them.
A hoarse voice barked from behind her:
— Don’t move, bitch
An armored arm swung for her neck.
She pivoted just enough — knife flashing — blade splitting the guard’s forearm from wrist to elbow.
Flesh parted.
Blood sprayed hot across the corridor.
The man roared.
Rifle butt to the back of her skull.
White explosion.
The world tilted.
— Get her out of here, now!
The words rang in her ears — disjointed, wrong.
Hands grabbed her like dead weight. Rough gloves hooked under her arms, dragging her away. Magnetic boots sparking uselessly against the metal.
— I’ve got her. I’ve got her
The voice echoed strangely, distorted.
The corridor spun.
Red strobe lights.
Alarms drilling into her skull.
She tried to scream.
Nothing came out.
Only a broken gasp.
Darkness.
Total darkness.