The Component Exchange Core loomed like a blackened spine on the far end of Docking Sector 17-Delta. An ancient Federation orbital weapon array, long since gutted and hollowed out. Now, it was a trade hub the size of a city block, buzzing with lights, languages, and the quiet tension of deals made in back rooms and shadowed alcoves.
Ethan stepped through the reinforced blast doors, and the world changed.
The air inside was drier, denser. The scent of soldered metal and recycled air fought for dominance with engine grease and synthetic incense. Spiral ramps curved upward along the interior walls of the silo, connected by levitating lifts and narrow catwalks. Traders and tech-hands bustled along every surface, some shouting over the roar of moving cargo, others whispering beneath the hum of suppressor fields.
Signs blinked in ten different scripts. A few he recognized. Most he didn't.
This, Ethan thought, is the kind of place you don't survive without watching your step.
He checked the info tablet strapped to his wrist. Three materials. One mission. And about 1.1 million credits to his name.
He started at the outer ring, where the smaller, legitimate booths were, and worked his way inward.
The optics specialist's stall was wedged into a hexagonal alcove under a corroded maintenance beam. A pale blue canopy flickered overhead, bearing a faded logo Ethan didn't recognize. The woman running the place was mid-forties, lean, with an augmented left eye and a hacking scar trailing from the base of her neck into her collar.
"Looking for glass-thread," Ethan said, stepping into her booth.
She didn't look up. "Raw or refined?"
"Refined. Optical grade. No synthetic blends."
Now she looked up. Her eye clicked softly as it adjusted to his face. "You're either building something very fragile… or very precise."
"Bit of both."
She studied him for another few seconds, then ducked behind the counter. A moment later, she returned with a slim, matte case and set it down with both hands.
She opened it.
Inside, coiled like strands of starlight, lay five meters of refined Tolarian glass-thread. The threads shimmered faintly under the light, each filament thinner than a human hair and laced with microscopic etchings.
"Straight from Erethal. Verified by Avenos Guild Registry," she said flatly. "You won't find cleaner stock on this station."
Ethan kept his expression neutral. "Price?"
"Three hundred thousand."
He let the number hang between them. It was high, not extortion, but no room to haggle. Still, this wasn't the place to insult a seller, especially one who looked like she had a plasma filament embedded in her wrist.
"Done," he said, transferring the credits from his tablet.
She handed him the case, sealed and magnet-locked. As he turned to go, he noticed her glance, not at him, but past him. Her expression had shifted, just slightly.
"You expecting someone?" he asked quietly.
She didn't answer. But her posture told him enough.
He nodded once. "Appreciate the product."
Then he left.
The inner tiers of the silo were different. More subdued. The lighting was dimmer, the tech cleaner. No open signs here, just glowing runes etched into door frames, and attendants who stared too long when you walked past.
Iris fed him a path to The Arc Coils through secure relays. Ethan followed it down a side corridor marked with old hazard sigils and newer ones scratched over with stylized arcs.
A rep met him at the entry, a wiry Ghoryan with copper implants along his jawline, dressed in a matte-black jacket with neon circuitry stitched into the seams. His eyes lingered a moment too long on Ethan's boots. Then the Mercenary Guild tag.
"You walk in with an ID like that," the man said, voice quiet, "you either don't know where you are, or you're very confident."
"I'm looking for triple-phase dampener mesh," Ethan said, holding his ground. "Only supplier on Proteus is the Coils."
"Triple-phase's not a retail good."
"I'm not a tourist."
The rep tilted his head. "Let me guess. You want a clean strip? Power-insulated? Dual-layer?"
"Federation-grade, if possible."
Now the man laughed. Once, sharp and dry.
"Low-Rank Mercs don't ask for Fed-grade. They just buy knockoffs and hope they don't fry themselves the first time they run stealth."
Ethan didn't flinch. "I'm not most mercs."
The man looked him over again, this time slower. Ethan felt a flicker of tension and focused, just slightly, channeling the barest edge of psychic suggestion: lowered heart rate, mirrored breathing, softened posture. Not domination, just... trust.
It was a nifty trick he had learned from his meditation sessions with the Astral Slayer.
The shift worked. The rep's stance relaxed.
"Alright," he muttered, tapping something on his sleeve. "Wait here."
A few minutes passed. Then he returned with a narrow containment tube, layered in composite plating.
"Markings are clean. Half-used strip, but still holds 85% integrity. Tested it myself." He held it out, then paused. "One-time deal. Seven hundred and fifty thousand. Non-negotiable."
Ethan made the transfer. The man handed it over without another word.
As Ethan turned to go, the rep's voice stopped him.
"You flash that mesh on the wrong scanner, and the wrong people'll ask questions," he said. "Not everyone forgets where these come from."
Ethan nodded without looking back. "Neither do I."
By the time Ethan circled back to the upper tier, his head buzzed faintly from recycled air and high-frequency com traffic.
Two items down.
Only the Gryllex shard remained.
And it was proving elusive.
Iris filtered dozens of vendor tags and backdoor listings, but every result led to dead ends, outdated auctions, or private caches that had long since changed hands.
Then, buried in an encrypted feed, Iris found a name: Brion Dynamics. A mega corp defense contractor with a reputation for classified R&D and questionable ethics.
"The shard is scheduled to appear at a closed-door auction," Iris reported. "Invite-only. Hosted by Brion Dynamics. Time: three days. Location: undisclosed yet."
"Can we get in?" Ethan asked.
"I am tracing forged credential paths now. You will require a sponsor or a credible alias to gain access."
Ethan exhaled slowly, pocketing the tablet. The worst part wasn't the price. It was the access.
That shard might be the hardest thing he'd ever try to not steal.