Chapter 7: The Morning After the Locker Room
The mess hall at Sector Four had never been mistaken for a place of comfort, but in the early morning hours it felt particularly industrial. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a harsh white pallor across the cold metallic surfaces. A few officers dotted the room, hunched over trays of synthetic eggs and reconstituted bacon, their conversations low and desultory.
Stacy Chen slid onto the bench across from Keller and Vaughn, setting her tray down with a clatter. The protein bar in her hand was chalky and vaguely chocolate flavored, the kind of nutritionally complete but utterly joyless fare that the APC served when it wanted to remind you that you were on duty. She tore the wrapper with her teeth and took a bite, chewing thoughtfully.
Keller smirked at her from across the table. He was a wiry man with close-cropped hair and a perpetual look of knowing amusement. Vaughn sat beside him, broader in the shoulders, his dark skin gleaming under the harsh lights. Both of them watched her with an attention that bordered on theatrical.
"You're up early," Vaughn observed, his voice a low rumble.
"Couldn't sleep," Stacy said, which was a lie. She had slept like the dead, tangled in Marcus's sheets until the alarm had dragged her back to consciousness. But the dream had been vivid and strange. Iron Maiden. Great wings of corrupted steel. A green mechanical eye. She pushed the memory away.
Keller leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. His eyes tracked her face with an intensity that made her want to check for crumbs. "You know, when you left last night, you looked pretty satisfied. And I'm not just talking about the simulation."
Stacy felt heat rise in her cheeks. She had hoped that the locker room encounter might have remained, if not classified, then at least politely unmentioned. But the APC was a small community, and her reputation was evidently proceeding her. She put on a breezy smile. "Morale is part of the job, gentlemen."
"Is that what they teach at the Academy now?" Keller asked, his grin widening. His eyes flicked down to her mouth, and she realized with a start that his gaze was lingering on her lips. The taste of him, of all of them, was still faint on her tongue. It was a maddening thought, and she had the sudden urge to bite her protein bar harder just to spite him.
Vaughn snorted. "Interpersonal dynamics. She graduated top of her class."
"Naturally," Keller said. His tone was teasing, but there was an undercurrent of respect beneath it. "She knows exactly what she's doing."
Stacy took another bite, more to occupy her mouth than out of hunger. Before she could formulate a response, a familiar voice crackled over her comm, sharp and urgent.
"Chen, we've got a situation."
The humor drained from the table in an instant. Stacy's hand moved to her ear, pressing the comm. "Go ahead, Jamal."
"A hijacked cargo hauler just went dark in Sector Nine. Rostova's ordering you to launch in the Iron Maiden. Now."
Stacy was already on her feet, the protein bar forgotten on the tray. Sector Nine was industrial, a maze of container yards and automated factories. A hijacked cargo hauler there meant hostages, likely. It meant a ticking clock.
"On my way," she said, and broke into a run, leaving Keller and Vaughn staring after her. She wasn't sure if they were impressed or amused or merely unsurprised.
The hangar was a chaos of prep crews and warning klaxons. The Iron Maiden stood in her cradle, a massive silhouette in the dim light. Her hull was scarred from the diagnostic flight and the battle in Sector Seven, but she looked ready. Stacy vaulted up the access ladder, her boots ringing on the metal. She was barely aware of the techs clearing the hangar, their shouts lost in the mechanical roar of systems booting up.
Jamal's voice crackled over the comm as the cockpit sealed around her. "You've got full reactor and weapon loadouts. Rostova wants you at the hauler's last known coordinates, grid 7-4. The hauler is a class-M cargo tug, registered to Meridian Freight. It went dark two minutes ago."
Stacy strapped in, her hands flying across the controls. "Any word from the crew?"
"Nothing. We're assuming a takeover. Possibly a secondary crew with weapons, but the manifest is clean. just cargo containers."
Which meant the hijackers likely weren't interested in what was inside. They wanted the ship itself. Or they wanted to be seen taking it. Stacy's mind raced through possibilities as the Iron Maiden's reactor spun up, the cockpit filling with a warm amber glow.
"Module sync complete," she reported, her voice steady. "Launching."
The hangar doors groaned open, revealing the grey pre-dawn sky of Chicago. Stacy took a breath, feeling the familiar thrum of the Iron Maiden's systems, the weight of the machine settling around her like a second skin. She pushed the throttle forward, and the mech surged out of the hangar, its thrusters screaming.
The city passed below her in a blur of steel and glass. Sector Nine loomed ahead, a sprawling complex of industrial towers and cargo yards. Stacy kept the Iron Maiden low, weaving between the structures to avoid presenting a clean target.
"Rostova wants a live feed," Jamal said. "We could use your optics."
Stacy adjusted her sensors, zooming in on the coordinates he had given her. The hauler was where it was supposed to be, a hulking mass of a ship, its cargo doors open. She could see no signs of movement. No lights. Nothing.
"She's completely dark," Stacy reported. "Life support is nominal, but there's no communication. I'm reading a single heat signature on the bridge."
"That might be the crew, or it might be a trap."
"I'll find out." Stacy pivoted the Iron Maiden toward the hauler, her fingers resting on the controls for the mech's weapon systems. The hauler was massive, nearly a third the size of the Iron Maiden. She could set down on its hull, but that would leave her exposed. Better to approach from the side, where the crew would have less cover.
She guided the mech down, its feet coming to rest with a dull thud on the hauler's hull. The vibration rattled through her bones. She could feel the ship's skin beneath her. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the hauler's cargo doors began to open, a slow, deliberate movement that put Stacy on edge.
"Something's wrong," she murmured.
"Back off, Chen," Jamal warned. "I don't like this."
But Stacy was already moving, her optics scanning the interior of the cargo bay. The containers were stacked in neat rows, all of them sealed. At the far end of the bay, she saw it. A shape, indistinct but unmistakable. A mech, hunched and waiting.
"Contact," she said, her voice flat. "There's a mech in the hold."
The words had barely left her mouth when the hauler's hull lurched beneath her. The Iron Maiden's gyros compensated automatically, but Stacy felt the machine shift. The hauler was moving, its engines firing without warning. She was being carried away from the safety of the city.
"Chen, get clear!" Jamal shouted.
Stacy wrestled with the controls, trying to lift off, but the hauler's cargo bay was closing around her, its doors sliding shut with a metallic clang that echoed through the Iron Maiden's frame. She was sealed in. The cargo bay lights flickered on, revealing the enemy mech in full. It was a salvaged industrial frame, like the rogue she had destroyed, but modified with weapons she didn't recognize.
Stacy reached for her weapon controls, but the hauler's hull shuddered again, a powerful vibration that sent her stumbling backward. She slammed against the far wall of the cargo bay, her head cracking against the console. For a moment, red static filled her vision.
The enemy mech moved. It raised one arm, and a barrel emerged from its forearm. Stacy's heart slammed in her throat as she realized what it was. A plasma cutter, industrial grade. Designed to slice through hull panels. Capable of doing the same to her.
She dove to the side, and the cutter lashed out, scoring a glowing line across the cargo bay floor. The heat washed over her cockpit, and she felt the Iron Maiden's systems temporarily scramble. She fired her thrusters blindly, rocketing toward the cargo bay doors.
The doors were closed, but they were massive, sized for cargo, not for a departing mech. Stacy had seconds at most. She reached for her primary weapon, the same cannon she had used in Sector Seven, and vented excess reactor power into it. The barrel glowed as it charged.
She fired. The blast smashed into the cargo doors, buckling them with a sound like thunder. Air rushed out in a roaring vortex, dragging her toward the gap. The cargo bay decompressed, and Stacy shot through the shattered doors into the open sky, tumbling out of control.
The enemy mech exploded behind her, hurled into the void by the pressure difference. Stacy spun wildly, her thrusters firing in reactive bursts as she struggled to stabilize. The hauler's engines flared, and the ship began to pull away.
"Chen, report!" Jamal's voice was frantic in her ear.
"I'm clear," she gasped, her hands steadying the controls. The Iron Maiden finally stopped tumbling, its gyros locking in. "But the hauler's getting away. I need a vector."
"Locking onto its engines. Rostova's ordering you to pursue. Do not let it reach the city."
Stacy did not need to be told twice. She shoved the throttle forward, ignoring the warning lights that flickered across her console. The Iron Maiden was damaged. Her armor was compromised in a dozen places, and her reactor was running at danger levels. But she was still faster than a cargo hauler.
She closed the distance, firing her primary weapon in short bursts to disable the hauler's engines. The ship lurched, its engines sputtering, but it did not stop. Stacy could feel the heat building in her cockpit, the smell of ozone filling the air.
She was going to lose it. She was going to lose the hauler, the crew, the mission. Rostova would ground her. The Iron Maiden would be scrapped.
And then her comm crackled again. It was not Jamal's voice. It was steady, calm, with a hint of amusement. A woman's voice.
"Nice flying, rookie."
Stacy blinked. "Who is this?"
"You can call me Oracle. I'm the one who hacked the hauler's systems before the hijackers took over. I've been watching the whole thing from orbit." A pause. "Do you want to save that crew, or do you want to lose the hauler?"
Stacy's jaw tightened. "What do you think?"
"Then stop shooting at the engines. The hauler's AI has been compromised. There's a relay node on the bridge, a small black box wired into the navigation computer. Destroy that, and the ship will stop."
Stacy looked at her sensor display. There was a faint heat signature on the bridge, just where she had seen the single crew member earlier. Now she understood what that signature was. The hijackers had left a drone or an automated system running the ship from the bridge.
She adjusted her targeting parameters and fired. The plasma bolt arced across the sky and struck the bridge, punching through the hull. A moment later, the hauler's engines cut out, and the ship began to coast.
Stacy let out a long breath, her body trembling with adrenaline as she guided the Iron Maiden into a controlled descent alongside the hauler, ready to assist the rescue crews that were already inbound. The immediate danger was over. But her mind was already racing ahead, past the mission and the damage report and the inevitable debrief with Rostova. She replayed the unknown voice, its calm confidence, its familiarity with the hijackers' equipment.
"Who is she?" Stacy murmured to herself, not realizing she had spoken aloud.
Jamal's voice crackled back, tinged with uncertainty. "I don't know. No registered ID matching that voice. She came into our channel like it was nothing, but I can't trace her. Whoever she is, and whatever She sold you, just don't get used to mysterious helpers."
"Nope. Definitely not used to it," Stacy said, but she gave one last scan of the sky as she settled the Iron Maiden onto the nearest landing pad. The woman, whoever she was, had left her with more questions than answers. And those questions cut through the lingering rush of adrenaline like a cold blade.
She let that thought settle for a moment, the hum of the Iron Maiden's damaged systems filling the cockpit. She had saved the crew. She had completed the mission. But something told her that the attack on the Meridian hauler had not been a random act of piracy. It had been a test, a probe. And somehow, at the center of it all, there was a woman called Oracle.
Stacy powered down her main systems and sat in the quiet dark of the cockpit for a long moment. Outside, the APC's rescue crews were flooding toward the hauler, their lights cutting through the pre-dawn gloom. She should help. She should report to Rostova.
Instead, she sat and thought about the voice in her ear, the casual power it had wielded over the hauler's systems, and the way it had spoken her name like she was an old friend. Oracle. The name tasted strange in her mouth, full of portents she could not yet interpret.