Private Nothing to Declare But Trouble

[Raedon Averlon]

The Hollow Victory dropped into Naboo space on a streak of blue ion flame and worn patience. Raedon leaned back in the pilot’s chair, boots propped on the console, a half-finished cup of stim in hand—when the comm crackled to life.

“Unidentified vessel, registry Hollow Victory, you are flagged for mandatory inspection. Reduce speed and prepare for docking at Port Authority Station 7-A.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose. Of course they were going to make this difficult.

“This is Hollow Victory. I’m not unloading cargo. Just here to top off the tanks, stretch the legs, maybe buy a coffee that doesn’t taste like recycled coolant. Then I’m gone. No need for any of this inspection nonsense.”

“Hollow Victory, your vessel’s last registered jump was from Skynara sector space. You’ve been marked for secondary clearance. Please comply.”

Raedon sat up, already annoyed.

“Skynara’s not a crime, last I checked. You got a lot of traffic flagged just for flying through bad neighborhoods?”

“Please comply or your clearance request will be denied and your ship will be impounded.”

“Stars, fine. Victory out.”

He killed the comm and muttered to himself, dragging a hand down his face.

“Hope your inspectors are fast. And polite. But mostly fast.”

| TAG: Lyra Vane |​

 

[Lyra Vane]

The Port Authority Hangar wasn't glamorous, but it was efficient wide open, and smelling faintly of coolant and repulsorlift exhaust. Yellow hazard lines glowed faintly on the polished deck, guiding inbound traffic to their assigned berths with mechanical precision. Overhead, service droids floated between ships, running diagnostics, refueling lines, and cargo scans.

The Hollow Victory touched down with a thrum of engines and a hiss of landing struts. The kind of freighter that looked one calibration away from falling apart meaning it was probably faster than it had any right to be.

At the edge of the bay, Lyra stood with her hands on her hips, already regretting this part of her job. Her duster was unbuttoned, the familiar weight of her sidearm at her hip a comforting presence. A thin inspection tablet was clipped to her wrist, already pulling registration data from the Victory's transponder.

She blew out a sigh and muttered under her breath.

As the ramp hissed open and extended with the slow groan of old hydraulics, Lyra was already walking boots striking the durasteel with confident, unhurried steps. She didn't wait for a greeting. Smugglers didn't offer them. She knew. She used to be one.

"Nice landing, Captain," she said, voice smooth but dry of meaning. "Little wide on the approach, but hey least you stuck it."

Her violet eyes swept the interior as she stepped into the hold. A practiced glance at corners, bulkhead seams, floor panels. Not just looking scanning. She knew every kind of false crate, every bolt-on panel that could hide spice canisters or hot tech. The Skynara sector didn't just have a contraband problem it was a growing system in the spice trade. And no one passed through it by accident.

She stopped a few paces in, tilting her head toward Raedon.

"Skynara's not illegal," she said, "but it sure isn't boring. Half the ships out of there are packing spice like it's festival season on Zeltros."

She held up her scanner, still idle.

"So unless you want this to take all afternoon, you're gonna walk me through the hold, and the maintenance access under the deck plate. I'll also be popping your smuggler's panel on the port wall yeah, the one you think I don't know about."

A beat passed.

"And don't try the charm routine. I've seen better smiles on wanted posters. Believe me."

She smirked faintly as she stepped forward, already heading toward the cargo section.

"Let's make this quick, Captain. I hate playing cop almost as much as you hate getting stopped."

TAG: Raedon Averlon

 

[Raedon Averlon]

Raedon stood just inside the cargo hold, arms crossed loosely over his chest, boots planted, mouth fixed in the kind of smile that only existed to keep his jaw from grinding. The Hollow Victory groaned somewhere behind him, like it too disapproved of being poked at.

“Well,” he drawled, voice dust-dry and not quite bored, “nothing like being welcomed home with suspicion and government-issued sarcasm.”

He turned slightly and motioned down the hold.

“You wanna start with the access panel, be my guest. It hasn’t been smugglin’ anything but regrets for a good while now.”

He moved aside with a gesture that was polite enough, but edged with resignation.

“Deck plates are loose, not rigged. You’ll find a few tools, a busted hydrospanner I keep lying to myself about fixing, and the world's most disappointing ration bar.”

She passed him without a word. He didn’t stop her.

“You want charm, try me after I’ve refueled and haven't been threatened with impoundment.”

He followed her with a slow, measured pace, boots thudding against old metal.

“But yeah, let's make it quick. I’m not allergic to rules, just have a strong... intolerance.”

| TAG: Lyra Vane |​

 

[Lyra Vane]

Lyra knelt by the smuggler’s panel without looking at him, fingers already working the edge with a small tool drawn from her belt. The screws gave way with a practiced click-click-click, and she pried the cover loose like someone who’d done this more times than she could count.

“Well,” she said, glancing up at Raedon, “you’re doing better than most at least you remember where your smuggler’s panel is. Half the captains I check play dumb until I start tapping bulkheads like I’m chasing womp rats.”

She leaned in, flashlight beam sweeping over a tangle of wiring, a busted hydrospanner, and a crumbling ration bar that looked like it belonged in a museum. Nothing dangerous. Nothing hidden.

She pulled back and stood, brushing her gloves off against her thighs.

“You’re not wrong. Most ships out of Skynara are hauling spice or someone else’s mess. You? So far, just dust and regrets.”

But she didn’t stop there.

She walked the corridor with purpose now, knuckles tapping the bulkhead. A half-meter down, a muffled thunk caught her ear shallow cavity, off-center framing. Her smirk returned, sharper this time.

“Let’s keep going,” she said coolly.

The wall panel popped free under her hand, revealing a stim dispenser, a bundle of outdated wiring, and what looked like a very sad shirt. No big deal. Still clean.

She kept walking toward the rear bulkhead, fingers brushing the durasteel as her eyes narrowed at the seams. She crouched. Popped the panel. Nothing again.

Just as she was about to stand, she froze.

Something was… off.

The thermal blanket stored behind the panel looked too neatly folded. Not forgotten but placed. Her brow creased. She reached in, slowly, carefully peeling it back. A faint tap of plastoid echoed behind it.

Her fingers closed around a small case, matte black, the size of a medkit. Unmarked. Magnetically sealed.

Lyra’s expression went cold.

She opened it with a practiced flick.

Inside: four sealed vials of compressed spice, red dust variant. Potent. Very Illegal in most systems. The kind traffickers liked to sneak in med crates or bolt into coolant lines.

She turned the case toward Raedon without a word at first, violet eyes fixed on his.

Then, flatly:

“You wanna tell me why there’s spice tucked behind your rear thermal shielding?”

She studied his face, gauging his reactions as she tapped a button her scanner, a magnetic clamp was engaged locking the ship in place. And armed security was in route.

TAG: Raedon Averlon

 

[Raedon Averlon]

Raedon trailed behind her with all the enthusiasm of someone waiting in line at customs. His arms folded across his chest, his eyes fixed somewhere just above Lyra’s head, and the occasional sigh slipped free like pressure from a slow leak.

“Yeah,” he muttered as she popped the first panel. “That’s the famous ration bar. Don’t eat it. Pretty sure it’s older than the war.”

She moved on. He rolled his eyes.

“Shirt’s clean. Not mine.”

Tap, tap, tap. Panels gave way. Nothing. Just old wiring and sad clutter.

“Had a mechanic in the Outer Rim mess with that access port,” he added idly. “Guy owed me a favor. Rewired some junctions, ran diagnostics near the thermal lines. Worked near there.”

Then she froze.

Raedon saw the change in her stance before he saw what she held.

The black case. The snap of the seal. The silence that followed.

His expression flattened, the breath leaving him in a slow, measured drag. Not panic. Just the long, tired look of a man watching his day collapse on schedule.

“That’s not mine.”

He didn’t move.

“I don’t even run red dust. Never have.”

He looked past her to the case, then to the scanner as it chirped. The soft clamp-lock of the docking hold engaged.

A bitter laugh ghosted out of him.

“Course it’s today.”

| TAG: Lyra Vane |​

 

[Lyra Vane]

Lyra’s eyes stayed locked on him, searching she was always good at reading people, but unfortunately for Raedon, it didn't mean she could just trust her gut..

She looked down at the case again, thumb resting near the latch. She snapped it closed before standing then turned on her heel without another word.

Down the ramp, her boots echoed against the hangar deck. The security team was already shifting into position three officers moving with quiet purpose, not drawing weapons, but closing the net around the Hollow Victory with practiced choreography. Their hands stayed near holsters, but no one moved aggressively.

As she reached the base of the ramp, one of them approached her standard inspection armor, helmet tucked under one arm.

She handed the case over without breaking stride.

“Full workup,” she said. “Thermal, biological, chemical. I want every set of prints pulled. Prioritize the latch and edges. My gloves are clean. The pilot’s likely aren’t on it either.”

The officer nodded and peeled away toward the forensics lab without question.

Only then did Lyra glance over her shoulder at Raedon.

“Walk with me.”

She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to.

He would follow. Not because he had to, but because they both knew the alternatives would be worse.

As they moved through the corridor beyond the hangar, Lyra kept her eyes forward, her voice low.

“Red dust like that doesn’t get left behind by accident. It’s worth more than your ship. And it’s dangerous enough to get you locked up for transport alone even if you didn’t know it was there.”

She keyed open a secured door off the admin deck. Interview Room 3. Plain durasteel walls. Table, two chairs. No restraints. No surveillance not yet.

She nodded for him to enter.

As he stepped inside, she followed, door sliding shut behind them with a soft hiss. She didn’t lock it. She didn’t sit yet either.

“Standard protocol means they’ll sweep the ship top to bottom. Inventory everything, match residue samples, track cargo logs. Your hold’s frozen until they’re done. Fueling’s paused.”

Now she sat across from him, posture relaxed but centered.

“You said you had a mechanic rerouting wiring near the thermal lines. That’s not where spice gets stored. Too risky. But if someone wanted to use your ship as a drop point? It’s perfect. Hidden, hot enough to avoid casual scans, and just out of reach if you’re not looking.”

She let the silence hang for a breath. Then:

“Give me a name. Anyone who had unsupervised access. Crewmates. Repair techs. Loaders. You help me connect this case to the right hands, I’ll make sure the report reflects that.”

No threats. No sympathy either. Just the weight of experience behind her eyes, and the promise that she’d seen this dance before.

And that she knew how it ended unless Raedon made the next step count.

TAG: Raedon Averlon

 

[Raedon Averlon]

Raedon settled into the chair with a sigh that carried the weight of someone who’d sat in rooms like this before. Not often, but enough to know the shape of them. The silence between Lyra’s words stretched, and he let it. Let it settle.

When she finally finished, he nodded—once—without breaking eye contact.

“You’re good at this,” he said evenly. “Not the bark-and-blaster type. You watch. Think. I respect that.”

He leaned back, arms resting loosely on the sides of the chair.

“But if I start handing out names, I make noise. And noise carries in the places I do business.”

His brow furrowed further.

“That said... maybe there’s a way I can help you without all the paperwork.”

He glanced toward the closed door, then back to her.

“There’s movement in the Skynara routes. I’ve seen it. New players, old cargo. Someone’s building lanes where there shouldn’t be any.”

There was another pause. Not dramatic. Just measured.

“Give me a little leash. I find out who used my ship without my say-so—and maybe point your people toward something bigger than four vials of bad luck.”

He tilted his head slightly.

“Up to you. I can sit here, wait for someone to read me my rights... or I can work. And I’m a lot more useful out there than I am under a light bulb.”

| TAG: Lyra Vane |​

 

[Lyra Vane]

Lyra sat in silence as Raedon spoke, her expression unreadable but not cold. The case was still on her mind, the implications heavy, but his offer... it wasn't bluster. She could feel that. It wasn't self-preservation driving it, not entirely. It was someone trying to turn a bad hand into a live one.

When he finished, she let the quiet linger a moment longer. Then she gave a faint exhale—less a sigh, more an easing of tension—and leaned forward, forearms resting lightly on the table.

"You're not wrong," she said, voice softer now. "I'm not a bark-and-blaster type. Mostly because I spent too many years on the other end of that. I know how it feels to have everything come down on your head when all you did was let the wrong person aboard."

She paused, a wry smile tugging at the edge of her mouth.

"I used to run spice. Nothing big border world stuff, low risk, until it wasn't. Got out before it buried me, but... yeah. I recognize the moves. The silences. The bad luck."

Her fingers tapped idly once against the table, then stilled.

"You want to work this from the outside? I believe you. But I'm not about to just wave you out the door unsupervised and hope that faith holds."

She tilted her head slightly, eyes searching his—not for lies, but for his read on her.

"So here's what I'm offering. You go back out. Quiet. Unflagged—for now. I'll say the inspection's pending while the sweep finishes. But I'm coming with you."

She held up a hand before he could object.

"Not as your shadow. Not to babysit. Just... another set of eyes. Someone who can walk into a port and know the look of a bad deal before it closes. You want to keep noise down? Fine. But two heads looking is better than one."

She leaned back again, more relaxed this time.

"Besides. You're right. There's movement in Skynara. I've heard the whispers too. If someone's laying down new lanes, that's bigger than you and bigger than four vials tucked behind a bulkhead."

Lyra stood, but not with authority. Just readiness.

"You in?" she asked, brow raised. "Or do we both sit here waiting for someone with a badge to turn this into paperwork we don't walk away from?"

TAG: Raedon Averlon

 

[Raedon Averlon]

Raedon didn’t answer immediately.

Not out of uncertainty—no, the decision came quick—but out of the sheer weight of it. Internally, the gears turned fast, running calculations, cutting angles.

First thought: scrap the Ord Talrex delivery. The crates were already too hot, and the buyer had a reputation for folding when pressed. He’d need to reroute the payout through one of the ghost accounts before someone got nervous.

Second: the hardware swap in Eiram sector. He’d promised a transponder shell to an old contact near Morrax Outpost, but that deal hinged on anonymity. Showing up flagged would crater trust—and trust was the only thing that kept credits moving in places like that.

Third: alerts. He’d need to send quiet pings out to four Outer Rim handlers—just enough to say he was “on ice,” not burned. No details. The smart ones would know what it meant. The reckless ones might test it anyway.

He’d already started drafting the lies in his head.

Temporary hitch. Nothing serious. Lying low. Ship under mod review. Keep the lanes warm.

It irritated him—no, it rankled—to lose momentum. He’d spent weeks threading together a chain of quiet jobs, the kind that didn’t ask questions and paid in silence. Now? All ash in the wind. One crate tucked where it shouldn’t be, and the whole game resets.

And now he had a passenger.

He didn’t hate the idea. But he didn’t like it, either. Lyra was sharp, and sharp cut both ways. If she saw too much—heard the wrong comms, read between the lines—she could take this partnership and turn it into a cage.

Still.

He looked up, expression shifting with effort, settling into something lighter. Not sincere, exactly, but close enough to pass in dim light.

“Well,” he said, rising from the chair with a slow roll of his shoulders, “I’ve always wanted a co-pilot with a badge and a better moral compass.”

He extended a hand, the kind of handshake that could mean deal or delay, depending on how long you held it.

“Welcome aboard the Hollow Victory.”

OUTFIT: Smile equipped, trust pending. | TAG: Lyra Vane | EQUIPMENT: One derailed life plan.​

 

[Lyra Vane]

Lyra didn't smile, not exactly. But something in her expression thawed like the tension eased half a degree, the edge pulling back just enough to show the steel beneath wasn't aimed at him.

She took his hand, firm but not testing, and met his gaze without flinching.

"Appreciate the vote of confidence," she said dryly. "Though you might want to hold off on calling me the moral compass. Mine just happens to point toward not letting syndicates turn people into collateral damage."

She released his hand, stepped back, and gave a faint nod—not of authority, but of shared understanding.

"I'll keep my name off the logs," she added. "No uniforms, no questions in the ports unless you want them. You run the ship.."

Her eyes narrowed slightly, thoughtful now.

"And I'll need access to your nav records. Just the last two weeks. Anything encrypted, I won't touch without your say-so. But if we're going to sniff out who used your ship, we need to follow more than just your fuel trail."

She walked to the door, pausing just before it opened.

"I don't care what you've run. I've seen worse. Hell, I've been worse. Just don't lie to me while I've got your back. Fair?"

She glanced over her shoulder, violet eyes sharp but steady.

"Because if this is going to work, Raedon... I need to know where the real lines are."

Click.

The door slid open, spilling sterile corridor light across the floor.

"Let's get out of here. We've got a syndicate to track and I've got a feeling your bad luck's about to lead us somewhere interesting."

TAG: Raedon Averlon