They stared at the transponder in silence.
The little light had died. The ping was sent. The hum was gone. But something heavy lingered in the air—like the echo of a bell they couldn't unring.
Mira paced, muttering. "Someone's tracking that frequency."
Toren crouched by the unit, examining the casing. "Yeah. It was tied to a beacon relay, not a ship ID. Someone wanted to be found if they didn't report in."
"Trade Federation doesn't just send couriers out here for fun, Vale."
"I know."
She turned sharply. "Then why aren't you freaking out?"
Toren stood. His face was calm. Too calm.
"Because freaking out doesn't help."
"They could send a skiff. A cruiser. A battalion—"
"No, they won't send a battalion," he said, almost to himself. "Not yet. Not for a ping like that. They'll send scouts first. Low profile. Two or three agents, maybe droids. Just enough to sniff."
Mira blinked. "You're talking like you've dealt with them before."
He paused.
Then: "I've read a lot of old files."
That wasn't a lie. Not entirely.
Mira exhaled, rubbing her temple. "So what's the plan?"
Toren looked around the broken cargo bay. "We take what's useful. We bury what isn't. Then we vanish the site."
"You think we can hide this crash?"
"Not completely. But I can give them something else to see."
Mira looked at him like she wanted to argue. But then she caught the expression on his face—too steady, too calculating for someone who had only ever been a quiet village kid before all this started.
"…What did you become, Vale?"
Toren didn't answer.
Instead, he turned to the cargo hatch and stepped out into the clearing, the wind whipping past his face.
Above them, the clouds churned—thickening faster than normal. Heat haze shimmered across the sky.
Something was coming.
And he needed time.