We relaxed for a while as we steered towards the highport, with a number of hours before our arrival. I kept an eye on the sensors and the comms. Traffic was very light in the system, though there were half a dozen other defence squadron boats stationed at the likely jump points, perhaps to escort visitors such as us. Our boat was keeping a discreet distance, but following us nonetheless.

We were on final approach to the highport, only an hour or so out and holding a steady course with the defence squadron boat still accompanying us as escort. The inward journey had been uneventful — apart from the tension of being under close observation, their hull holding just off our port bow like a warning more than a welcome.

Then, without warning, the boat lit its reaction drives and accelerated away at full burn, veering sharply away. Otto barely had time to adjust our trim to avoid the worst of their wake. The manoeuvre was aggressive, precise, and sudden. It wasn't a patrol pattern — it was a launch.

A brief, clipped comms message followed immediately. The boat was breaking off and transferring us to customs authority at the highport. We were to continue directly to Docking Bay 7 as originally scheduled, without deviation.

That was all.

With no more instructions and no escort, we held to our inbound course. I confirmed our status with approach control and received standard docking clearance. The highport traffic system adjusted us into the short queue without comment, as if nothing unusual had happened.

Annie, calm but wary, resumed preparations for passenger transfer. Otto double-checked the drives and hull sensors, but found no indication that the boat's wake had triggered anything. Whatever drew the boat away, and why it fired its reaction drives and not just used the M-drive, was odd. Perhaps it was something external.

There was a little anxiety approaching Wochiers, given their strict customs regime. But there was also something else — an absence, a silence where oversight had been. It felt like walking into a room where someone had just shouted and left.

We dock in just under ten minutes. The customs team is scheduled to meet us on arrival. I have no idea if they know what happened above them, or if they were told anything at all.

For now, we proceed as ordered.

#0001 — 049-1106 @ 1900 to 050-1106 @ 0400 IST Ω

The stars shimmered cold and steady as we closed in on orbit, our vector drawn clean and quiet through the dark above Wochiers. Below us, the planet was shrouded in layers of thick chemical haze, a blue-grey mass veined with sun-glints where light caught the upper atmosphere. Even from this distance, Wochiers looked severe — beautiful in a way, but not welcoming. I could already imagine the weight of that air pressing down like a vice, and I felt grateful once again that our first port of call would be the highport far above it.

Then the station came into view.

Wochiers Highport floated starkly above the planet like a wheel of steel and purpose. No grand arrival arches or gleaming welcome beacons — just the hard-edged outline of a circular superstructure encased within a larger disc. A long, ribbed protrusion extended outward from its side, speckled with docking clamps and freight cradles, bristling with gantries and extruded modules like the spine of some titanic sea creature.

Atop the central disc sat a dome packed with antennas, dish arrays, and rotating sensors — the brain of the operation, no doubt, where customs monitors and orbital logistics kept tight control. Even the outer ring, where I expected shuttle bays and passenger terminals, seemed subdued and workmanlike. A few tiny craft were docked — tugs or highliners — but there were no pleasure vessels, no elegant cruisers. Just ships that worked for a living.

I brought the Kalitá into alignment on the vector provided by the Defence Squadron patrol. Our course had been precise, and I hadn't strayed so much as a half-degree from their assigned corridor. I didn't need to ask why, you could feel the discipline in the airwaves, even without the terse comms. These weren't the kind of officials to laugh off a late transponder ping.

As we slowed for the final approach I noticed how well the ship had handled the precise instructions — Otto's repairs on the thrusters had done wonders. From the viewport, I could now make out the highport's functional details: reinforced framework, open cable trenches, utility struts covered in warning stripes, heavy automated airlocks, and sensor booms that scanned every approach like spears pointed at the stars.

Annie was already prepping passenger data for the inspection. James sat calmly in the medbay, one leg crossed over the other, reading again, though I caught him glancing out the port more than once. We all knew this stop would be tight — the law here was suffocating, even in orbit.

Still, I felt calm. We'd declared our manifests accurately, our cargo was sealed and logged, and our passengers seemed mostly in order. This wasn't like down at Moughas, dodging storms and pulling people out of submersibles. This was a different kind of challenge: making everything seem normal, professional, unimpeachable.

The docking light on my panel blinked amber. In a few minutes, we'd be secured and under inspection. I just hoped the officials would be satisfied with our records and not feel the need to dig too deeply.

After all, we had nothing to hide.

#0002 — 050-1106 @ 0400 to 050-1106 @ 1400 IST Ω

With our assigned vector locked in and orbital drift minimised, I handed primary control over to the docking autopilot, though I kept my hands on the override just in case. James had already begun waking the low berth passengers, his voice calm and steady over comms as he guided them gently out of freeze.

One was a little confused — they usually are — but nothing unexpected. Annie popped down briefly to check on them, offering a warm smile and some hot broth while Jamese did his checks. Between the two of them, the whole process looked almost… humane.

A comms ping confirmed that our passenger manifest had cleared security crosscheck. No flagged names, no outstanding warrants, and all identities matched biometrics from embarkation. That was a relief.

The cargo manifest came through clean as well — at least on paper. Declared freight, speculative metals, and sealed containers all logged and matched to what we'd transmitted. The inbound customs node didn't question anything further, but I reminded myself that Wochiers regulations demanded a physical inspection. Paperwork wasn't enough here.

Eventually, the Kalitá docked smooth and slow into the assigned bay — Docking Spindle 7L — a long, narrow corridor with just enough clearance for our size. Magnetic clamps locked us into place with a reassuring thunk. All systems shifted to port maintenance status. My console lit green. We were down.

And now, of course, the real scrutiny would begin.

The airlock cycled with a sharp hiss and a pressurised clunk, and in came the customs team. Three of them: two in dark uniforms with data slates, and a third carrying a small sensor pack shaped like a beehive. Their leader, a man with a precise moustache and an even more precise voice, introduced the team as Enforcement Group A2 and requested immediate access to all staterooms, common areas, and bridge-level records.

We obliged. I walked them through the Kalitá myself, answering their questions as briefly and clearly as I could. Annie had already assembled the passengers in the lounge, where the customs officers set up portable scanners. Each passenger and member of the crew was scanned, had their documents checked against orbital records, and submitted a quick biometric sweep. A couple grumbled at the intrusion — one muttered something about "paranoia" — but Annie smoothed things over with a practiced smile and a tone that brooked no argument.

One officer lingered a moment at Erwien's identification, but it passed verification. Nothing triggered. I caught Annie's glance — calm, but sharp. She didn't miss anything.

After thirty minutes of bureaucratic theatre, the passengers were declared clear to disembark. We had already set a time and place with Erwien and Hagar to meet, so Annie led the passengers to the exit corridor with a steward's poise, while I signed the final verification for the customs team. They were courteous, efficient, and utterly uninterested in conversation.

We had cleared phase one. Now came the part that made me more nervous: the hold.

No more than five minutes after the first inspection team had left, the second arrived. Four this time — two in light exo-inspection suits, their chest rigs bristling with instruments, and two more carrying external spectral scanners and a mobile mass-anomaly detector. These weren't here to ask questions. They were here to find problems.

I met them at the cargo bay entrance with the manifest and my transponder-linked cargo index. Otto stood just behind me, arms crossed, a thin smear of grease still on his sleeve from earlier. He greeted the inspectors with a nod and followed as we stepped into the hold.

They began with the speculative cargo: the crates of Moughan crystals and polymers. Scans flicked across each container, overlays displaying elemental signatures and density distributions. One officer paused briefly over the crystal shipment — Wochiers has its own refining operations, after all — but moved on when the readings matched declared specifications.

Then came the freight. Pallets of refined ferrous metals. Pneumatics. Components. Each container was tagged and sealed from Moughas, and all locks remained intact. That didn't stop the inspection team from running high-resolution mass scans, tapping on crate walls, and using those long sensor wands to pass across edges and corners. Their instruments hummed softly as data flowed in real-time to the tablet their team lead carried.

At one point, one of the inspectors frowned slightly. The wand slowed over one of the ferrous metal crates. There was a murmur between two of the officers. I stepped a little closer — not too close — and asked if something was amiss.

I was told they were 'recalibrating'. A slight irregularity in mass signature, potentially packing density, they suggested. They marked the crate with a temporary inspection tag and moved on, continuing their scan across the rest of the hold. I felt my pulse rise just a little. But nothing further was said.

If there's anything more to it, I suppose we'll find out soon.

#0003 — 050-1106 @ 1400 to 050-1106 @ 1800 IST Ω

After the moment with the tagged crate, the inspection team continued with the rest of the cargo. They were just as meticulous as before, scanning each container with their spectral sensors and checking serials and transponder logs against their own records. Otto and I followed them down each aisle, answering the occasional quiet question or pointing out details where they asked. There was no sense of urgency from them, only an unflinching focus — methodical, tireless, as if they had all the time in the world.

At the end of their inspection, the lead officer handed me a document — crisp, embossed, and far too formal. It bore the crest of Wochiers Highport Security Services and declared that one container from our manifest had been placed under temporary detainment status for "secondary compliance verification and review under Subsection 42.8b of the Strategic Imports Charter". I held it carefully as if it might go off. It even had a detachable duplicate copy for our ship's records. Everything was so official and coldly mechanical.

As they left, I expected we'd be able to move on with final cargo checks and disembark, but another message arrived almost immediately. Until further notice, the Kalitá was to remain locked in its assigned bay. The system flagged our docking status with a large red "HOLD" and the portside umbilicals flashed yellow for restricted access. That was the worst moment — when I realised we weren't just helping with inspection anymore. We were now under observation.

Roughly twenty minutes later, another team arrived. This group wore heavier utility harnesses and brought two silent grav lifters with them. They didn't speak to me directly, but produced a matching copy of the detainment order. I stepped aside and watched them secure the marked crate, lifting it with care and guiding it slowly toward the lift bay. Otto lingered nearby and gave me a look — he didn't say anything, but I could tell he was running through every engineering fix he could think of in case this ended badly.

When they disappeared down the cargo lift, I stared after them for longer than I needed to. One crate, one tag, one moment of silence — and now we wait. I don't even know what they expect to find.

#0004 — 050-1106 @ 1800 to 050-1106 @ 1900 IST Ω

We were left alone on the Kalitá for some time, though it was likely that we were being observed at all points. None of us could think of a reason for the problems with the freight, so I went back to look at the shipping manifests. I had chartered the freight from Seadragon and after helping them with the tribulations on the submarine I did not see any reason why they would want to put anything in the freight that would get us into trouble.

After looking through the manifest, however, and double checking with Otto, it was plain to see that the crate's destination was a small subsidiary branch of Seadragon here on Wochiers. I'd gone back and started looking at all of the other manifest details.

I was still at the bridge console when the comm panel lit up again — another high-priority notification, this one sealed with the Highport Administrative seal. The message was brief and extremely formal, notifying us that a security liaison team would be arriving to follow up on a matter connected to the earlier inspection. We were to remain docked and available for discussion. It was very late by now — or early — and none of us had really slept since yesterday. My eyes were burning, and I felt slow, like my thoughts were wrapped in gauze.

The new inspection team arrived just as I was finishing double-checking the last of the manifest entries. The team were not the same group that had come to the Kalitá before. Their uniforms were darker, and everything about them was quieter, more deliberate. One of them asked to speak with the captain — me — and I led them to the crew lounge, grateful to sit down, even if my heart was pounding.

Annie was with me, and Otto and James hovered nearby, alert despite the weariness that lined all our faces. The officials explained that one of the crates from our freight bay — the one that had been marked earlier — contained an unregistered data cassette. They had accessed the contents as part of their protocol and were continuing to review them. From what I understood, the contents did not match anything dangerous in a conventional sense, but the existence of an undeclared data cache was a clear breach of Wochiers trade regulation. Even unintentional breaches had consequences.

I wanted to ask a hundred questions but found it hard to form them. My hands felt clumsy and my thoughts moved too slowly. What I did manage to take in was that the data appeared to originate from Phoenix Enterprises, and so a corporate representative had already been notified. Erwien McClure, the Erwien we knew, was apparently being brought into the loop. They mentioned that he would contact us directly soon.

The Kalitá was issued a formal retention notice — and we were not to attempt to leave the system by any other transport — complete with stamps and codes I could barely focus on by that point. There were no accusations made, and no indication that we were in any kind of direct trouble, but the tone was very clear. This was no minor matter.

After they left, the lounge was quiet for a long time. I think I was still clutching the printed document. Otto asked if we should check the cargo bay again, and I agreed, though it was more habit than hope. Annie made us strong tea, and I promised myself I would rest soon.

The silence didn't last long. Erwien arrived at the Kalitá with two Phoenix liaisons not long after the security team had departed. His expression was unreadable, but I noticed he looked as tired as we felt. Annie let him in, and the crew gathered in the common room, heavy-eyed and low on energy but too uneasy to rest.

Erwien got straight to the point. He had been given access to the data cache that customs had recovered from the crate. The officials hadn't known what they were looking at, but he had. The cache contained internal Phoenix personnel files — the redacted kind they issue to contractors — but someone had gone through them and written notes in the margins. Words like "unreliable”, "leak suspect”, "compromised”. We all sat up a little straighter at that.

He asked where the crate had come from, and I told him about our pickup from Seadragon Transport back on Moughas. I saw him process that, typing something into his handcomp. His mind was clearly moving faster than mine. The room felt very still, the ship humming softly beneath us.

He didn't blame us. In fact, he seemed to believe that we had simply transported something we didn't know about — which was true. But it was also clear that he now believed this wasn't random. Someone had wanted the cache moved. Perhaps to get it into the open. Perhaps to trigger an investigation. Maybe to silence someone.

He didn't ask us for anything more right then. He suggested we all get some rest as we would be meeting the next day. I was a little surprised that we were still allowed to progress with the job we had accepted, but Erwien assured us that he had already discussed this with the inspection teams. Then he left us to our thoughts, and probably went off to rest himself.

As for us, I made a note to try again to get some sleep, but the adrenaline was still there, holding off exhaustion even as my limbs ached and my eyes stung. I think we've stumbled into something much bigger than any of us expected.

#0005 — 050-1106 @ 1900 to 050-1106 @ 2000 IST Ω