Immediately, the script branched. Three possible routes appeared, overlaid on the sector map like nerve endings. Route A: fast, exposed, through the Magellan debris field. Route B: slow, hidden, through the old comms tunnels—but those tunnels had collapsed last monsoon. Route C: a straight burn through the Torus gate, which required bribing a gatekeeper who had already blacklisted him.
Jax knew the rule by heart: At Komaru Hub, you never run a Risky Haul script without a backup.
“Script,” he muttered. “Re-roll risk calculation. Exclude Route B.”
But his backup, Dials, was three cycles late, and the cargo bay timer was already blinking red.
He opened a private channel to the Hub’s security AI—the one that wasn’t supposed to exist—and fed it the Risky Haul script’s hidden payload. The one designed not to move cargo, but to force a runner into either suicide or sabotage.
Three seconds later, the crimson prompt vanished.
Jax stared at the screen for a long moment. Then he smiled.
Sixty-seven percent. That wasn’t a gamble. That was a firing squad with a coin flip.
Jax unstrapped from the cradle and walked out. Behind him, the cargo bay timer stopped at 00:01 and never reached zero.
He could decline. The script allowed it. Three taps, and the haul would recycle to another runner. But his debt to the Hub wasn’t measured in credits anymore—it was measured in favors . And favors at Komaru Hub had teeth.