Shadows Of Innocence

The spaceport on Elysara Prime smelled of ozone, fried street food, and the faint metallic tang of recycled air. Thousands of travelers streamed through the arrival gates families in bright vacation prints, off-duty miners with sun-bleached skin, corporate executives in tailored suits that cost more than most people earned in a year. I was just another face in the crowd, sunburned from three weeks on the resort beaches of the southern archipelago, dragging a single worn duffel and dreaming of nothing more complicated than a cold drink on the balcony of my usual cabana.

Customs waved me through the first scanner without a second glance. I’d been coming here every year for the last five; the automated system recognized my biometrics, my travel pattern, my harmless profile. Tourist. Mid-thirties. No criminal flags. No contraband history. Just someone who liked quiet beaches and didn’t cause trouble.

That should have been the end of it.

Instead, a uniformed officer stepped into my path just past the final checkpoint and gestured toward a side corridor. “Routine secondary screening, sir. This way.”

I almost laughed. “Again? I was here three weeks ago. Same resort, same cabana. You’ve got my records.”

The officer’s face stayed neutral. “Policy, sir. Please.”

Two more guards fell in behind me as we walked. My irritation grew with every step. I’d spent the morning in a cramped shuttle, the afternoon in a decontamination queue, and now this. All I wanted was to get to the mag-lev, ride the coastal line south, and collapse.

The holding room was small, windowless, and cold. Gray walls, a metal table bolted to the floor, two chairs. They took my duffel, set it on the table, and began unpacking it with deliberate slowness. Clothes, toiletries, a half-read paperback, the usual detritus of a solo vacation. I leaned against the wall, arms folded, and waited.

One of the guards lifted out a brushed-steel canister the length of my forearm. Matte finish, no markings except a faint serial etch along the seam. Heavy, from the way his wrist dipped when he set it down.

I stared at it. “That’s not mine.”

The senior officer an older woman with a severe bun and eyes like polished stone glanced up. “It was in your bag, sir. Nested inside your spare boots.”

“I don’t own that. I’ve never seen it before in my life.”

She didn’t answer. Instead she activated a handheld scanner and ran it over the canister. The device chirped once, sharply, then went silent. Her expression didn’t change, but the temperature in the room seemed to drop another five degrees.

“Open it,” she told the younger guard.

He hesitated. “Ma’am, protocol says”

“Now.”

He produced a tool and began working the sealed cap. I took an involuntary step forward. Whatever was inside, I wanted no part of it. My mind raced through possibilities drugs, biohazard, explosives but none of them explained how it had gotten into my luggage.

The cap loosened with a soft hiss. The guard tilted the canister toward the light.

Empty.

Just polished metal walls and a faint residue that caught the overhead fluorescents like dust.

The officer frowned. “Sealed vacuum?”

Before anyone could answer, the door exploded inward.

Not figuratively. The reinforced panel buckled under a single kick, hinges screaming as it slammed against the wall. A figure in matte-black tactical gear spun into the room low, fast, impossibly balanced. Female, from the lines of the suit and the way she moved. Face hidden behind a smooth, featureless mask that reflected the room in distorted shards.

The first guard went down before he could raise his stun baton, a precise strike to the neck dropping him like a switched-off light. The second managed half a shout before an elbow caught his temple. The senior officer reached for her sidearm, but the intruder was already inside her guard, twisting the wrist until the pistol clattered to the floor.

Three seconds. Maybe four. All three guards unconscious, none of them seriously hurt.

I hadn’t moved. Partly shock, partly the realization that any sudden motion might get me added to the pile.

The masked woman straightened, breathing steady, and turned toward me. The mask had no visible seams, no lenses I could see, yet I felt her eyes lock onto mine.

Then the backpack happened.

It unfolded.

Panels slid, joints extended, segments whirred into new configurations. In less than two seconds the pack became a sleek, multi-limbed construct that looked disturbingly like an oversized metallic spider. It scuttled down her back, legs clicking against the floor, snatched the canister in two delicate pincers, and climbed back up. The transformation reversed limbs folding, panels locking until it was once again an innocuous black backpack.

She tilted her head at me. The voice that emerged was filtered, genderless, calm.

“How long have you had the canister?”

“I told them it’s not mine. I’ve never seen it.”

“Who packed your bag?”

“I did. Alone. At the resort.” My voice sounded thin even to me. “Look, I’m just a tourist. I come here every year for the beaches. That thing was planted.”

She stepped closer. The mask was close enough now that I could see micro-scratches across its surface, the faint heat shimmer of active electronics.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“Someone who just saved your life. And possibly complicated it.”

Behind her, one of the guards groaned and stirred. She glanced down, then back at me.

“We don’t have time. They’ll send reinforcements in ninety seconds. You’re coming with me.”

“I’m not going anywhere. I didn’t do anything.”

“You’re carrying a Class-One prohibited device through interstellar customs. Even if you didn’t know which I believe you’re looking at twenty years in a labor colony. Minimum.”

She reached behind her back and produced a compact pistol, not pointed at me, just present. A reminder.

“I’m not going to shoot you,” she said, reading my flinch. “But I can’t leave you here to be questioned. You know too much now.”

“I know nothing!”

“You know what the canister looks like. You know someone used you to smuggle it. That’s enough.”

Alarms began to wail in the distance distant enough that we still had a window, close enough that it was shrinking fast.

She moved to the door, checked the corridor, then looked back. “Last chance. Come willingly or I carry you.”

I looked at the unconscious guards, at my scattered belongings, at the life I’d built quiet, solitary, safe—slipping away like sand. Vacation fantasies evaporated. The cabana, the cold drink, the sound of waves at night. Gone.

I exhaled once, slowly.

“Lead the way.”

We moved fast.

She knew the port’s layout better than I did, even though I’d been coming here for years. We ducked through service corridors, past maintenance hatches, down stairwells marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. Every few seconds she paused, head cocked as if listening to something I couldn’t hear. Once, she yanked me into an alcove just before a squad of armored security trotted past.

Her grip on my wrist was iron.

We emerged onto a loading dock behind the terminal, where cargo drones hummed and conveyor belts rattled. The air smelled of fuel and hot tarmac. Beyond the fence lay the sprawl of the port city, and beyond that the mag-lev lines, the resorts, the ocean.

She pulled me toward a nondescript utility skimmer parked among delivery vans. Matte gray, no markings. The kind of vehicle that belonged to a thousand different companies and none in particular.

Inside, the cabin was stripped down manual controls, no auto-nav, seats worn soft from use. She shoved me into the passenger side and slid behind the controls. The engine started with a low growl.

As we lifted off the pad, thrusters kicking up dust, I finally found my voice again.

“Who are you?”

“Name’s not important yet.”

“What was in the canister?”

“Something that shouldn’t exist.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you get right now.”

We cleared the dock and banked hard over the port rooftops. Behind us, emergency lights strobed across the customs building. Ahead, the city lights glittered like scattered jewels against the dark.

I rubbed my wrist where she’d gripped it. “You said someone used me as a mule.”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“People I used to work with. People who don’t like loose ends.”

“And now?”

“Now you’re a loose end.”

The skimmer accelerated, weaving between taller buildings. I watched the coastline recede the beaches I’d walked yesterday, the resort lights twinkling like a promise I’d never collect on.

“Why not just kill me?” I asked quietly. “You knocked out three armed guards without breaking a sweat. One unarmed tourist wouldn’t be hard.”

She was silent long enough that I thought she wouldn’t answer.

“I’ve killed enough innocents,” she said finally. “And you… you remind me of someone I couldn’t save.”

The admission hung between us, raw and unexpected.

I looked at her profile the smooth mask reflecting city lights, the steady hands on the controls—and realized I was in far deeper than I’d imagined. This wasn’t about a misplaced canister or bad luck at customs. This was something that could make a trained operative hesitate before pulling the trigger on a stranger.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“Somewhere safe. For tonight. Tomorrow we figure out how deep you’re in and whether we can get you out.”

“And if we can’t?”

She didn’t answer. Just banked the skimmer toward the dark hills beyond the city, where the resort lights gave way to wilderness.

I leaned back against the seat and closed my eyes. The engines thrummed beneath us, carrying me away from everything familiar.

My vacation was over.

Something much worse had just begun.