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1. A Steel Thoroughbred, or: A Cold Suppression
The outer edge of Subaru Station's range. A heavily armored transport vessel moving at speed through open space.
The Iron Horse — property of Alnilam Heavy Industries.
Someone had learned from last time. The hull carried military-adjacent anti-aircraft turrets that had no business being on a civilian ship, installed in quantity, as though the number of guns was itself a message.
The Iron Horse's radar picked up a single incoming contact at an abnormal closing speed.
The Luna Geist.
"Warning. This vessel is under direct Alnilam Heavy Industries authority. Alter your course immediately. Further approach will be treated as a hostile act and met with all available force. Repeat—"
Mail Noa cut the channel without looking at it. Her fingers moved to the combat trigger in a single unhurried motion.
The Iron Horse opened fire.
High-output laser sweeps. Missiles, filling space. A spread of anti-aircraft fire dense enough to constitute a wall. The Iron Horse threw itself into evasive maneuvering and poured everything it had at the approaching silver ship.
Mail's silver eyes had already mapped the gaps.
The Luna Geist moved through the barrage in sharp cuts and hard stops that did not correspond to any normal reading of what a ship could do — every strike missed by fractions, explosion after explosion blooming behind it. She closed to directly above the Iron Horse in an interval that left no time to respond.
Mail pulled the trigger.
Not a destructive round. What she fired was a military-grade electromagnetic jamming shell — designed to pass through hull without marking it and detonate inside, collapsing every circuit it reached. A single precise shot into the Iron Horse's primary drive.
Every light on the vessel went out. It stopped, motionless, in the dark.
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2. A Sealed Box, or: Anesthetic Rounds
Mail came through the hatch the moment it opened.
The hacking device took seconds. The lock gave. The seal broke with a pressure release — and the inside of the ship opened fire immediately, multiple weapons, at close range.
She raised the compact electromagnetic shield mounted on her left forearm. Rounds sparked off it.
"There."
Her eyes moved. Her right hand fired. The specialized anesthetic round found the gap in the guard's armor at the neck and hit. A second guard moving from cover — she had already turned, already fired, before the movement completed. The second body hit the floor.
She moved through the smoke-filled corridor to the VIP room at the end.
Inside: Lumie Alnilam, trembling against the far wall. And in front of her, a large pilot with the stance of someone who had decided.
"You're not touching her—!"
He came fast. The speed and weight behind it were not civilian. Someone had chosen this person carefully.
Mail had no interest in a direct exchange. She slipped into the narrow space under his extended arm as he reached for her, pressed the muzzle against the gap in his armor at the ribs, and fired at contact range.
"...Gh—"
The body went down.
The room was quiet.
Mail turned her silver eyes to Lumie.
"Lumie Alnilam. I need you to come with me."
Lumie, unable to do otherwise, nodded.
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3. A Ghost's Rock Field, or: The Shadow of Vizalde
Deep in a sector of overlapping indigo asteroids where radar returned nothing useful, a hidden base sat in a cavity of rock — modified extensively, invisibly, over time.
The Luna Geist slipped into the dock.
Mail stepped out. Behind her, Lumie, hands bound, followed.
They moved through the facility to a room at its center. Waiting there: the one-eyed man. Temperance. He looked at Lumie and let his satisfaction show.
"Well done, Mail Noa. The skill hasn't left you."
Then: footsteps from deeper in the base. Slow. Deliberate. Too quiet for the weight they carried.
An old woman emerged in a heavy fur coat, deep lines in her face, eyes that belonged to someone who had made a long career of cold decisions.
"Hmph... so this is the Alnilam girl..."
"Yes, Lady Essel. As requested."
Temperance inclined his head.
Mail watched without expression. Inside the disguise skin's integrated sensor array, she ran a quiet process — retinal pattern, skeletal data, cross-referenced against the classified archive she had taken from the organization years ago.
Match confirmed: Director of the Vizalde Arms Administration, Essel Bowler.
A name that would return nothing through standard network queries. A name that only appeared when checked against the Central Audit Bureau's highest classification level. A name belonging to a senior figure in the shadow operations of the neighboring allied state, Vizalde.
(Why is the Director of Vizalde's Arms Administration here.)
She said nothing.
"Wonderful work, Temperance. Bring the girl to me."
Essel's satisfaction was visible.
Mail placed one hand lightly on Lumie's back and nudged her forward. One step. Then another. The girl moved toward the old woman with her fear still visible.
Mail watched her go. Then she turned to Temperance.
"My obligation is fulfilled. I brought her here. 'In whatever condition,' as specified. No complaints."
"None at all. Excellent work."
Temperance's expression did not change.
"It's a shame, really. This is where our arrangement ends. The contract is complete." A pause. "Goodbye, Mail Noa. I doubt we'll meet again."
The words had barely finished crossing the dock when the explosion hit.
The sound was enormous — the kind that doesn't leave room for anything else. The entire base lurched, the asteroid around it shifting, and then the ceiling was raining metal and rock and the emergency alarms were going off in every direction at once.