[Kestris-9, Gliese 9043] – Year 2749

  The Black Fang dropped out of FTL just beyond Kestris-9’s outer orbital lanes, its hull humming as it adjusted to realspace. The planet loomed ahead, wrapped in a swirling haze of industrial smog and city lights that flickered like embers beneath the toxic cloud cover. Even from this distance, Kestris looked hostile.

  Fang kept one hand on the controls, the other flicking through incoming transmissions. “Still a nightmare,” she muttered. “Traffic control’s a mess, local security’s running random sweeps, and I’m picking up three different gang encryptions just on the public bands.”

  Gravel leaned against the bulkhead, arms crossed. “Sounds like home.”

  Hunter arched her brow. “If your home is an overcooked scrapyard where everything is either trying to rob you or stab you, sure.”

  Fang smirked. “Or both. Efficiency.”

  “I was an Earthling,” Gravel said. “Wasn’t far off.”

  Priest exhaled, shaking his head. “Every time we land on this rock, something explodes.”

  Gravel grinned. “That was one time.”

  Hunter shot him a look. “It was three times.”

  Fang tapped a few controls, bringing up their approach vector. “I dunno, Priest, maybe this time we’ll get lucky. I have more experience with landings now.”

  The ship suddenly shuddered as a garbled warning blared over comms—some half-baked security transmission.

  Priest sighed, saying nothing more.

  Fang winced. “Okay, that one wasn’t me.”

  Gravel pushed off the bulkhead and glanced at the flashing comms display. “Guess we’re getting the standard Kestris welcome package.”

  Hunter tilted her head, listening to the distorted transmission. “Sounds like they’re saying ‘unauthorized entry’ or ‘unidentified vessel’ or . . .” She frowned. “Possibly ‘prepare to be shot down.’”

  Fang rolled her eyes. “Same thing, really.”

  Priest pinched the bridge of his nose. “Great.”

  Gravel clapped a hand on his shoulder. “C’mon, where’s your sense of adventure?”

  Priest gave him a flat look. “Buried.”

  Fang cut in, her fingers flying across the console. “Relax, I’m sending the usual bribes—I mean, landing fees. We should be fine. Probably.”

  The comms crackled again, this time the voice slightly clearer.

  “—Black Fang, proceed to Docking Bay Twelve. Keep weapons powered down. No sudden moves.”

  Priest murmured, “I recognize this voice.”

  “Friend, or . . .” asked Hunter.

  Priest’s eyes narrowed as the voice stirred an old memory. “Neither,” he said finally. “But if it is who I think it is, we need to tread carefully.”

  Gravel’s smirk didn’t fade. “You always say that.”

  “And I am usually right,” Priest shot back.

  Fang guided the ship in, aligning with the designated docking coordinates. As the Black Fang descended through the thick smog, the landing bay came into view—a dimly lit industrial sprawl, its metal scaffolding lined with flickering neon signs; the one above the entrance flickered between ‘WELCOME’ and the illuminating ‘GO AWAY’ graffiti right underneath it, in cursive. Docking Bay Twelve wasn’t the worst Kestris had to offer, but it wasn’t far off.

  The moment the ship’s engines powered down, the hatch hissed open. Gravel stepped out first, and Fang quickly followed. Priest was next, acting a bit too hard to pretend that the city was too beneath him to be of any concern.

  Then came Hunter. She inched along the doorway, hand gripping the side. The backpack was strapped to her back, the same backpack she had worn the first time he met her on Haret. The only tool belonged to Strokas that she kept with her. Over the years, she’d tinkered with the tech and stripped away any trace of the Strokas logo, refining it piece by piece until it was almost unrecognizable from the original design. Now, it was more compact, lighter, and streamlined for efficiency. But its capabilities had expanded far beyond what it once was.

  Now, it housed a set of whip-fast, articulated mechanical limbs, capable of unfolding in an instant. The segmented appendages could extend deep into machinery, their precision tools adjusting dainty components or wrenching apart corroded panels with equal ease. When not in use, they retracted into the pack, hiding their presence behind shifting plates. Also, a built-in scanner pulsed in low frequencies. He had seen her use it to map out structural weaknesses in ship hulls or identify faulty circuits at a glance. The vent-like structures now served as miniature exhaust ports, capable of dispersing bursts of ionized gas to clear out debris or even provide a last-second stabilizer if she ever lost her footing in zero-G.

  Those were the only functions of the backpacks he had seen in all those years working together with her, alongside some signal jammers. Possibly the reason why she didn’t bring it along on their first ground mission. He didn’t know why she bothered carrying it with her now.

  Gravel locked eyes with her until she caught up. Weird. She wasn’t this slow before.

  When Hunter finally moved past him, she didn’t look back. She just shrugged and muttered, “Spaced out.” After they had had a staring contest.

  Half a minute after the landing struts engaged, a squad of armed enforcers stepped into view. At their center stood a figure in a long, polished coat if not slightly wrinkled around the collars, her stance rigid, her face cast in shadow beneath the overhead lights. She stood with sharp, angular features, her cheekbones a bit too high, too pronounced, her posture a bit too confident, too rehearsed. She looked human, as with most residents on Kestris-9. But they had biologically engineered themselves enough after hundreds of years on this planet to call themselves an entire new race, the Mensch. Aside from a strong resistance against poison, Gravel didn’t know if the Daskari were any different from Earthlings.

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  Priest cursed under his breath.

  Hunter glanced at him. “Okay, so not a friend, then. You could’ve told us.”

  “I didn’t know she was in a position of power now,” he replied.

  The comms crackled one last time, but this time the voice came through loud and clear.

  “Black Fang, welcome back to Kestris.” A pause, then a humorless chuckle. “Dakarai. It’s been a long time.”

  Priest exhaled slowly. “Too long.”

  Gravel’s grin widened as he checked out Priest’s expression (or a lack thereof). “Dakarai? Oh, this is gonna be fun.”

  The ship’s ramp lowered with a hiss of pressurized air. The thick, humid atmosphere of Kestris-9 got Fang to cough so uncontrollably that she had to slap herself on the cheek to stop coughing. The armed enforcers stood in formation, weapons holstered but within easy reach. The woman at the center stepped forward, her coat shifting slightly with the movement.

  Priest squared his shoulders and stepped off the ramp first, Gravel, Hunter, and Fang close behind.

  The woman smirked, tilting her head. “Still carrying yourself like you’ve got a badge, Dakarai? Or should I say, Priest?”

  Gravel shot him a sidelong glance, but Priest didn’t react. He just held the woman’s gaze in silence. “Didn’t realize you’d traded street work for command, Sloan.”

  Sloan spread her hands. “Time changes things. People move up. Some disappear.” Her eyes flicked to the rest of the crew, assessing. “You’ve been busy.”

  “Not as busy as you, apparently,” Priest said evenly.

  Gravel cut in with a casual grin. “What’s the deal with the monocle, Sloan? On your way to a fashion show?”

  “You caught me at a weird moment. I usually wear sunglasses.”

  “Oh, I didn’t expect you to actually answer that one.” Gravel’s grin got wider. “This reunion is heartwarming, really, but we’re on a bit of a schedule. You called us in. What do you want?”

  Sloan’s smirk faded slightly. “That depends. What brings you back to my city, Priest?”

  Hunter crossed her arms. “Didn’t realize Orkash belonged to you.” Orkash was the name of this city.

  Sloan ignored her. “I don’t like surprises. And your ship dropping into my airspace unannounced is definitely a surprise.”

  Fang shifted her weight, suppressing her coughs. “We’re here for a business meeting. Is that a problem?”

  Sloan’s eyes lingered on Priest for a moment longer before she let out a breath, rolling her shoulders. “Depends on who the meeting’s with.”

  Priest hesitated. Lying outright wouldn’t help them. But the truth? That was just as dangerous.

  Gravel, ever the smooth talker, stepped in. “Just an old friend. Nothing that concerns you.”

  Sloan chuckled, low and knowing. “On Kestris? Everything concerns me.” She looked back at her enforcers, then at Priest. “You’re clear—for now. Just because we have history, Dakarai. But don’t push your luck. I’ll be watching.”

  Sloan let the moment stretch before turning sharply on her heel. Her enforcers followed, boots clanking against the worn metal decking as they disappeared into the docking bay’s shadows.

  Hunter exhaled. “That could’ve gone a lot worse.”

  Fang was already checking her datapad. “She’s got her hooks in deep. Whatever Sloan’s running here, it’s big.”

  Gravel clapped a hand on Priest’s shoulder, grinning. “Dakarai, huh? So what’s your deal with a corp officer?”

  Priest’s eyes were still fixed on the docking bay entrance where Sloan had disappeared. “It’s not a deal,” he said finally. “It’s history.”

  Gravel chuckled. “History that knows your real name. That’s the interesting kind.”

  Priest ignored him and started walking. “Let’s move.”

  The others followed, stepping out of the docking bay and into the streets of Kestris-9. The city hit them like a punch to the gut—smog-thick air, the scent of rust and fuel, the din of a thousand different deals happening in the shadows. The towering skyline was a mess of neon and decay, corporations looming above while the undercity festered below.

  Hunter kept her voice low. “So, Slogan.”

  “Sloan,” Priest corrected.

  “Sloan, right. You two got a past or what?”

  Priest’s jaw tightened. “She used to be a regulator. Back when Kestris still pretended to have laws. I worked security for a logistics firm. Thought I was doing an honest job—keeping shipments moving, making sure contracts were honored. Turns out, the company had other priorities.”

  Fang glanced up from her datapad. “Let me guess. You got played.”

  Priest exhaled. “More like set up. I dug too deep, asked too many questions.”

  Hunter was waiting for him to share more of his story, but he didn’t say a word after that.

  Gravel glanced at Priest, then at Hunter, then shrugged. “Well, that’s ominous.”

  Priest didn’t bite. He just kept walking, his eyes scanning the streets, cataloging threats the way he always did. The undercity had a rhythm—one he hadn’t forgotten. The way people moved, the way eyes flicked toward them and then away, gauging whether they were predators or prey.

  Gravel, ever the opportunist, grinned. “You know, the more you avoid telling us, the more I assume it’s something juicy. Maybe an old flame? A long-lost sibling? Oh—did you run a cult? Please tell me you ran a cult.”

  Priest gave him a sidelong look. “I hate you.”

  Gravel chuckled, unbothered. “That’s pretty unfair considering Hunter was the one who asked in the first place, but alright.”

  Ahead, the street funneled into a narrower passage, the flickering neon signs overhead casting uneven light on the damp pavement. The undercity was alive in its usual way—hushed conversations, occasional shouts, and all eyes on them.

  Fang tapped on her datapad. “We’re close. Vanje’s holed up in The Hollow.” She kept coughing her lungs out.

  Hunter sighed. “Because of course he is.”

  Gravel raised an eyebrow to Fang. “You need a mask, kid?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe allergic to the air here. Maybe allergic to this planet in general.”

  “Say it quietly,” Hunter elbowed her lightly.

  “I’m sure the residents here share the sentiment,” Fang replied.

  “Hold on,” Gravel rolled his eyes and reached into one of his jacket’s inner pockets, fishing out a compact, sleek air filter mask. He tossed it to Fang. “Here. High-grade filtration. Got it off some smugglers who swore it could block out anything short of a toxic gas leak.”

  “Oh. I have one of that too.” Hunter whistled.

  “And you didn’t care to give it to the kid?” Gravel asked.

  “I was about to.”

  Fang inspected it. “This isn’t, like, repurposed from some shady black-market rebreather, right?”

  Gravel grinned. “Of course it is.”

  Fang turned to Hunter. “Can I borrow yours, then?”

  “Mine’s also a rebreather. These aren’t cheap, y’know.”

  Fang groaned but slipped it on anyway. She took an experimental breath, then gave a slow nod. “Okay, fine. This actually works.” Then she took in the longest breath imaginable.

  Gravel patted his chest, but before he was able to say anything, Hunter glanced ahead. “Alright, enough chit-chat. The Hollow’s not gonna find itself.”

  “Yes, Mom,” said Fang, her voice through the mask sounded like the hisses of an Earthling rattlesnake.