[Gridpoint Theta-92, Xyphos-219] – Year 2749

  Hunter emerged from her chamber, carrying a little pouch slung across her shoulder and a limited-edition drink in her hand—Brak Silver from the city of Brak, a port city in the planet F’fala. She cracked the can open as she walked, and the hiss of carbonation macerated under the weight of the atmosphere, like any disappointing drink that was way past its prime would.

  Gravel, leaning against the cushion he’d always leaned against, raised an eyebrow. “Huh. Thought you’d never drink that. Is it even drinkable now?” A holo-map was pulled up in front of him. The mode was the Scorpius-Tran Galaxical, a once-popular map tracking system now mostly phased out for newer, more intuitive interfaces. Instead of a smooth, seamless zoom function, this map required manual adjustments, each movement stuttering as if the program had forgotten how to keep up with time.

  He was checking the distance between themselves and their destination, a relay station. The map was centered on the Black Fang's current location, with the star systems branching out like a web of interconnected points. It was zoomed out to a scale that allowed him to view a wide swath of the star systems in their immediate vicinity, covering a distance of approximately 250 light-years. It wasn’t enough to span the entire galaxy, but it provided a good overview of the sectors they were currently operating in.

  Each star system was marked with a bright, pulsating dot, indicating the location of a star around which planets orbited. Lines connected some of these planets, representing well-traveled routes or trade lanes. A few of the planets appeared to be on the fringes of the systems, with a faint glow that suggested either developing colonies or smaller, less explored worlds. There were 18 habitable planets within this radius, their own icons representing major landmasses or notable features, such as cities or colony settlements. Nearest to them was Enzo, a planet with cities inside giant biodomes. His landing was pleasant last time on Enzo, unlike the dusty, desolate planet with a small settlement carved into its rocky surface called Grithon. Probably because the place was inhabited by Zvevans, who, despite their lack of technological innovation, still were inexplicably vehement about their genetic superiority over humans. They looked barely any different from humans, and Gravel was sure they were biologically adjacent too.

  Gravel’s gaze lingered over the dots representing the habitable planets. Of the 18, about 80% were marked in a warm shade of amber—those were the planets known to have intelligent life. Of those, he estimated that 80% of those 80% had populations that could be traced back to Earthlings or Zvevans. The legacy of Earth’s descendants still spanned across countless worlds, either through colonization or as the result of vast migration waves centuries ago.

  “It’s canned,” Hunter said. “They never expire.”

  Gravel snorted. “You say that, but I’m not the one who ended up on antibiotics last time on J’Agur. You collect soda cans, that’s cool. But some collectibles should stay collectibles.”

  “I did not get an infection from soda, Gravel. It was from you thinking eating a mooing rostlock was a good idea.”

  “Well I felt fine after that meal.” He pointed at her pouch. “Are there any lipsticks in there or just wrenches and pliers?”

  She patted the pouch. “Cosmetics and mechanical tools. Essentials.”

  Gravel’s brows furrowed. “That why you’re lugging that thing around? In the common room?”

  Hunter took a slow sip, unfazed. “Yeah, well, you never know when I’ll need to fix a reactor or my eyeliner.”

  Gravel shook his head with a smirk but said nothing more.

  “I take that your back’s feeling better now that you’re grinning like an idiot?” Hunter asked with a brow raised.

  “To tell you the truth, I can’t feel shit. But it’s better than rolling around in pain, I guess.” He looked at her for a solid second. She returned his stare, saying nothing. He then said, “Now that we have time to spare, maybe you can talk about why you think we shouldn’t have accepted—”

  She walked away.

  Of course.

  The relay station at Gridpoint Theta-92 emerged from the void, a solitary construct floating at the edge of space. Its patchwork hull looked like it had been assembled by a drunk engineer with a deep hatred against symmetry. It was a sprawling array of antennae and docking spires, built from a patchwork of reinforced plating that had clearly seen its share of rough encounters. The station’s lights pulsed faintly, a quiet beacon in the dark—no fanfare, no welcoming signals, just the cold, functional glow of automated systems waiting for the next transient crew.

  Beyond it, the nearest star loomed—Sarnath-Delta, a red giant nearing the end of its life. Its surface roiled with slow, molten currents, sending out arcs of dying plasma that flickered like distant storms. The light it cast was weak, diluted, painting the relay station in a dim, rust-colored glow. A lonely outpost watching over a graveyard sun.

  Fang guided the ship in, aligning with the docking coordinates. A brief transmission crackled through the comms—automated clearance, no human voice. There should’ve been a real human greeting them at the dock. At least last time they were here, there was.

  Fang frowned. “Automated response. No live check-in.”

  Priest’s hands hovered over his console. “Normal for a relay this remote.” Then he swiped to another document. “Remember, Gravel. There is a hazard clause in the contract.”

  “I got it.” Gravel nodded. “Garnash should be here waiting.”

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  Hunter checked her weapon’s charge. “Maybe he’s late. Maybe he’s dead. Maybe he went to shave that ugly beard of his.”

  Fang frowned. “I just picked up a suspicious encrypted message. It’d take time to decipher it; time we don’t have right now. Don’t know why they bothered encrypting it.”

  “Means somebody’s here, at least,” Gravel said. “Or maybe it’s the super-duper galactic entity communicating in a frequency we just happen to be able to pick up.”

  The docking clamps engaged with a mechanical hiss, locking the ship into place. No fanfare. No welcome party. Outside, the access corridor extended toward them, but no one stood waiting at the airlock. Just the quiet hum of station power, the dull flicker of warning lights casting long shadows against the metal walls.

  Fang narrowed her eyes at the empty reception. “Alright, now I know something’s up.”

  Priest adjusted his grip on the drive case. “No sign of Garnash?”

  Gravel exhaled, already stepping toward the airlock controls. “We’re about to find out.”

  The airlock cycled open with a deep clunk. The moment the doors slid apart, a wall of armed bodies came into view—half a dozen mercs in patchwork armor, weapons raised, standing in a loose formation inside the corridor. At their center, a broad-shouldered figure stepped forward, eyes locking onto the crew.

  Garnash.

  The old warlord looked genuinely surprised. His reptilian features twitched, sharp teeth parting slightly in what could almost be called an amused snarl. His scales, a dull bronze under the station’s dim lights, caught the flicker of the warning strips along the corridor. He was taller than most of his hired guns, his heavy coat draped over a chest plate that had clearly seen battle.

  “Well, I will be damned. You lot truly return.” He rumbled with a thickly-accented dialect of the International Space Language (ISL), the language everybody with a standardized laryngeal structure should learn if they wished to do business anywhere outside of their home planet. This was also why ISL was so popular—80% of species (the magic number) across planets had similar laryngeal structure to either Earthlings or Zvevans, who were also remarkably human-like. It was no secret that Earthlings and Zvevans terraformed planets as they arrived there, burning all primitive local flora and fauna to a crisp and replaced with their own, resulting in planets having more or less similar ecosystems.

  Hunter cocked an eyebrow. “Oh? You weren’t expecting us?”

  Garnash tilted his head, looking them over, eyes lingering on the drive case in Priest’s hands. “Let us say I had . . . contingencies. If you did not.” He gestured around at his men with an easy, almost casual motion.

  Gravel’s fingers twitched near his weapon, but he didn’t draw. Not yet. “That why you brought a welcoming committee?”

  Garnash let out a short, barking laugh. “One cannot be too careful. You went dark too long. Thought Republic eat you alive.” His gaze flicked between them.

  Hunter exhaled sharply. “You tell us, Garnash. Because we had one hell of a time down there.”

  The warlord let out a deep chuckle. “Then we all have stories to share.” He extended a clawed hand. “But first—the drive.”

  Priest stepped forward, case in hand, ready to hand it over. But then he hesitated. His gaze flickered to Hunter, to Gravel, to Fang still at the ship’s controls. The tension in their eyes said it all.

  Something wasn’t right.

  Before he could speak, Gravel took a step ahead of him. “Garnash.” Gravel’s voice was even but sharp. “You sent us into something way nastier than a simple retrieval job. You wanna explain why?”

  Garnash’s smirk twitched, but he didn’t lose his composure. Instead, he spread his hands in mock innocence. “No need for dramatics.” His tail flicked behind him, a restless movement. “You have the drive, yes? You are alive. McPherson always pay on success.”

  Hunter muttered, moreso to herself. “Who knows what that ‘success’ means.”

  Gravel watched Garnash’s tail flick, the way his smirk tightened at the edges. He was not quite irritated, but not quite relaxed either. He had an opening. Time to push.

  Gravel didn’t move. “You knew what was down there.”

  Priest’s voice was lower. “The hazard clause said we are entitled to another twenty millions.”

  “But given what we’ve been through, don’t you think we should get a bit more?” Gravel asked.

  Garnash’s smirk faded. His slit-pupiled eyes locked onto Priest. “Not the deal. Do you give back coin when the job easier than expected?”

  Gravel took a half step forward, just enough to let the guards know they weren’t backing down. “The clause says we’re entitled to more if we run into an ambush, a kill squad, or that walking war crime of a mech. If you want this drive, you tell us exactly what’s on it.”

  For the first time since they arrived, Garnash hesitated. It was quick—just a fraction of a second—but Gravel caught it.

  Fang’s voice crackled over comms from the ship. “So . . . are we doing business, or do I need to warm up the engines?”

  Garnash exhaled, then heaved, his tail flicking once. He turned to another replite humanoid beside him and spoke in a sharp, clipped language, characterized by short, rapid bursts of sound. The other reptilian, much more hatchling-faced and marked by a uniform number plate that read #3994 on their chest and a mechanical arm that looked like a beefed-up version of Priest’s, replied with rolling consonants and even throatier growls. Then Garnash turned back to Gravel and let out a slow, measured chuckle. “Fine. You have nerve. And have my respect.”

  Hunter crossed her arms. “And?”

  Garnash’s smirk returned, but this time it was so tight it sealed his mouth shut like a zipped crocodile leather wallet. “An extra thirty million. No more.”

  “Thirty-five.”

  “Thirty-two.”

  Gravel glanced at Priest, then at Hunter. Fang was silent on the comms, but he knew she was listening. They had pushed their luck enough—pressing further would get them shot.

  Priest gave a slow nod. “We will take the thirty-two. And we walk away clean.”

  Garnash’s claws drummed against his vambrace before he gestured to one of his people. A moment later, the transfer confirmation pinged on Priest’s wrist display.

  “Done. McPherson never break word.” Garnash held out his hand. “Now, the drive.”

  Priest hesitated again, but this time, he handed it over.

  Garnash took it, weighing it in his palm before tucking it away inside his armored coat. His gaze lingered on them for a beat too long. “You are smart enough to not ask questions. Keep it that way.”

  Gravel snorted. “We’ll try. But no promises. We’re not exactly known for our self-control.”

  “Hey, don’t speak for us,” Hunter retorted.

  Fang’s voice cut in through the comms. “Engines are primed. Can we go before lizard-boy changes his mind?”

  Gravel jerked his head toward the ship. “Let’s move.”

  No one turned their backs to Garnash’s men as they walked away.

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