Page 45 of Rogue Starfighter

“Position locked,” she said.

“Beginning scans.”

The first data arrived slowly. Passive sensors collected whatever radiation, engine heat, and reflected light reached us. No signal left the Wraith. We were listening to the enemy breathe from behind a door.

“Yard one,” I said. “Four capital hulls under construction. Twelve support frames.”

Priya entered the count. “Intelligence expected two capital hulls total.”

“Correct. Yard two. Seven destroyers in final assembly.”

“That’s not rebuilding. That’s mass production.”

“Yes.”

“Where are they getting the material?”

“That is why we are here.”

We worked through the yards one by one. Fourteen active construction sites. Three orbital foundries that our intelligence believed had been destroyed. Forty-one military hulls in various stages of completion. Supply traffic moved between them in constant streams. Priya enlarged one of the passive images. “Those freighters don’t match the others.”

“Explain.”

“The Xandraxian ships stay in assigned lanes. Same spacing, same speed, clean handoffs. Those six came in together, crossed two lanes without clearance, and every local ship moved out of their way.”

I reviewed the track. She was right.

“No transponders,” I said.

“Friends don’t usually need to hide who they are.”

“They do if the friendship violates half the treaties in the Alliance.”

I redirected the recording array. The unidentified freighters were too far away for a hull match, but their engine signatures and approach vectors would give intelligence something to trace.

“Good catch, Scout.”

“Say it like you mean it.”

“This is not the sim bay.”

“Coward.”

“Focused coward.”

Her smile flashed in the dark. We remained in position for four hours. Deep reconnaissance is not the constant danger civilians imagine. Most of it is waiting without moving. The cockpit grew cold as every nonessential system remained shut down. The canopy chilled first, then the deck, then the controls beneath our gloves. Priya flexed her fingers between entries to keep them responsive.

“Cold?” I asked.

“No. I’m doing hand exercises for fun.”

I reached under the console, retrieved the emergency thermal layer, and handed it to her.

“What about you?”

“I am Velerion.”

“Does that make you weatherproof?”