Helix One: The Silence, #1

By Stacey Osvett

Two fugitives. One ancient prison. Billions of lives hanging in the balance.Prepare to dive into a relentless space thriller where redemption and rebellion collide. If you crave pulse-pounding space opera, complex characters, and high-stakes cosmic intrigue, Helix One is your next galactic obse

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stacey Osvett
• Release date: Jun 11, 2025
• ISBN: 9798230651901

Book preview

1 ASH AND CUSTOMS SCANNERS

The clatter of grav-sled wheels echoed down Docking Concourse Seven, a metallic rattle nearly lost beneath Calypsa Station’s endless drone of creaking bulkheads and vender-hawked obscenities. Captain Mara Eljin kept her shoulders square and her stride unhurried, as though pushing six crates of contraband medical stims was part of the day’s authorized freight schedule. Hot hydraulic vapor hissed from a ruptured pipe overhead, curling around guttering neon runes that read, in four languages, WELCOME TRADERS—SUBMIT TO INSPECTION.

Mara tugged her jacket collar higher. The cracked brass insignia of Nyxos-3’s colonial defense fleet—once bright, now scorched charcoal—caught the light when she shifted her grip. Instinctively, her thumb brushed the pitted metal. Ash like snow, piling on flight decks. She shoved the memory aside. Business first, ghosts later.

The checkpoint squatted ahead: twin scanning gantries projecting a blue lattice across the corridor, overseen by a single Customs Inspector in a rumpled gray uniform. He swiveled as she approached, heavy-lidded eyes sharpening the way carrion birds studied wounded animals.

Manifest, he droned, hand out.

Mara slapped a fiber-paper sheet against his palm—ink still drying—and nudged the sled forward until the lead crate kissed the scan line. Priority pharmaceuticals. Humanitarian aid, Outer Rim clinics, she said. The practiced cadence rolled off her tongue with naval crispness.

The inspector’s gaze drifted from the manifest to the crates and back again. Funny. Humanitarian shipments usually run through Bay Two. His fingers danced over a console; scanners pulsed, painting her body in cold blue. The Nyxos insignia warmed beneath her jacket like a coal.

He looked up. Open one box.

Of course. Mara popped the crate’s seal. Vials of lilac liquid, stamped with false Ministry of Health barcodes, gleamed under fluorescent strips.

The man sniffed. Stims, subtype Beta-M. War zone triage packs. He paused just long enough to enjoy the discomfort he expected to see. You realize Beta-M requires a level-three license to move through Imperial space?

Mara met his gaze without blinking. Level-three license code Kappa-Delta-One-Six. She tapped her wrist-comp and projected a forged clearance tag between them.

Sweat darkened the inspector’s collar. Authority or no, Calypsa’s customs staff lived and died on bribes, not principles. His lips pressed thin. There’s also the matter of an expedited inspection fee.

There it is. She palmed a fingernail-sized credit-chip and the forged transponder slug, then slid both—manifest still sandwiched between her fingers—into his waiting hand. Happy to facilitate station efficiency.

He weighed the chip’s heft through latex gloves. Generous captain. A buried scanner alarm chirped—one final power play—but he thumbed it silent. Proceed.

Mara sealed the crate, nudged the sled over the threshold, and willed her pulse to slow. Behind her, the inspector pocketed the chip and shouted for the next hauler.

Two hundred paces later, crowds swallowed her: incense hawkers waving jade beads, pilgrims lighting floating prayer-lanterns, jittery refugees clutching visa slips. A pair of white-and-navy Imperial troopers marched through the throng, helmets blank as moonrock. Conversations faltered in their wake, then restarted in urgent whispers.

Mara ducked into a service alcove, keyed a locker, and shoved the grav-sled inside. Delivery arranged. Refuel, resupply, gone in four hours.

Coffee first.

She crossed to a vending pillar that extruded steaming cups from its side like ammunition casings. The brew scalded her tongue—burnt and over-spiced—but she welcomed the bite. While she drank, she scanned maintenance readouts scrolling along her wrist-comp: Wayfarer’s Mercy still on standby in Hangar Forty-Six, cargo bay half-empty, reactor hungry for isotope slurry she could no longer afford.

Fifty thousand credits on today’s drop. Not terrible. Still three weeks of protein packs left. And the Empire tightens its fist while we ration breakfast.

A collision of footsteps jarred her mug. A man skidded to a halt, thin coat snapping behind him, breath ragged. Tall, all elbows, hair askew like he’d slept on a data bundle.

Captain Eljin? he blurted.

Mara measured him: cracked smart-lenses, trembling fingers locked around a black-glass cube cuffed to his palm. Trouble, gift-wrapped.

Depends who’s asking.

Dr. Keiran Solari. He shoved a shaking hand forward, realized the mag-cuff restricted him, and settled for a frantic nod. Xeno-archaeology. I need passage off-world. Quiet passage.

Flights leave hourly, Mara said, turning.

Not to where I’m going. He kept pace beside her, voice pitched low. Twenty-four hours’ jump from here. Thalos Rift.

The name snagged her attention. Mara stopped, eyes narrowing. The Rift’s gravitational storms chewed ships like ration bars. Imperial patrol routes skirted its edges but never entered—at least not openly.

Hazard premiums start high, doctor. She sipped coffee. And I’m choosy about my passengers.

I’ll pay. He lifted the obsidian core, and under the station’s neon wash, pale glyphs pulsed across its surface—curving tripled spirals unlike any human script. Five hundred thousand on delivery. Fifty today. He thumbed a credit stick free and offered it.

Half a million. Her crew could eat real food for a year, overhaul the Mercy’s tired drives, maybe upgrade hull plating. Or⁠—

A chance to strike the Empire where it hurts.

What’s in the box? she asked.

Keiran glanced left and right before leaning in. Proof of the oldest construct in known space. It’s out there, Captain. I found it—no, I rediscovered it—and certain parties want it buried. Help me publish, and every armory in the galaxy loses its ace. He swallowed. I can’t say more here.

Great. Secrets, conspiracies, and a data-core that screams classified. Exactly the cargo that earns a destroyer up my tail. She studied him—sincere eyes, but desperation warred with excitement. He believed every word.

Mara rolled her shoulders, the flight jacket creaking. Medical freight just cleared my books. I lift in one hour. Fuel allotment triples, you pay docking fees, and you follow every protocol I give you.

Yes, yes, done. Relief flooded his face. He pressed the 50 k stick into her hand; the metal felt warm despite station chill.

From the ceiling speakers, a new tone thrummed—deep, official, unmistakable. Attention, Calypsa Station occupants. Imperial Naval vessel Resolute has translated to system coordinates. All docking clamps now engaged for routine security inspection.

The concourse froze. Neon reflections danced across a thousand wide eyes. Shops shuttered with metallic clangs; pilgrims