The rec lounge was barely more than an open space with a few battered chairs, a dented table, and a flickball setup mounted into the bulkhead. There was a billiards table at the corner too, although disassembled. The game flickball itself was simple enough—two players, a hovering energy disc, and a goal on either side. The goal moved. The disc moved faster. It was as much reflex as it was strategy, and right now, Gravel was losing.

  “Four-three,” Hunter announced, twirling the paddle in her hand. “Set point.”

  Gravel scoffed, bouncing the energy disc against his paddle. “You realize I’m just warming up, right?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  He smacked the disc, sending it flying toward the goal. The moment it got close, the goal shifted to the right, just barely dodging it.

  Hunter grinned. “Predictable.” She returned the shot at a sharper angle, forcing Gravel to lunge. He caught it just in time, twisting his wrist to send it bouncing off the side wall. The disc wobbled midair before zooming straight toward Hunter’s goal.

  She reacted fast—too fast. Her paddle hit at the wrong angle, sending the disc ricocheting wildly off the ceiling. It shot down toward the floor, where it barely skimmed the edge of the playing field before hovering back into place.

  Gravel grinned. “Still predictable?”

  Hunter rolled her shoulders. “Fluke.”

  They reset, both of them gripping their paddles in anticipation. The next serve would decide it. Gravel was about to launch it when the comm crackled.

  Fang’s voice cut through, urgent and sharp. “We might have a problem.”

  Gravel groaned, lowering his paddle. “Yeah, so do I. One point down, and you’re killing my momentum.”

  Fang ignored him. “Old pop, get on sensors. I think we’re being followed. And by ‘think,’ I mean ‘I can see them.’”

  Hunter and Gravel exchanged looks before setting their paddles down.

  Hunter sighed. “And here I was, about to win.”

  Gravel scoffed, already heading for the door. “You wish.” He then lowered this voice, muttering to himself. “That’s twice today alone. Can’t have me some flickball in peace.”

  As they stepped out, Priest’s voice came through comms, calm but focused. “Confirming now. Keep the ship steady.”

  Fang didn’t respond right away, which meant she was already scanning.

  Gravel tapped his comm. “You sure you’re not just paranoid? Not in the best headspace, maybe?”

  Fang’s voice came back fast. “Boss, I know what a damn ship looks like when it’s tailing us.” Her voice was venomous.

  That was enough to shut him up.

  By the time Gravel and Hunter reached the bridge, Priest was already working the sensors, his visor flickering with data streams. Fang sat in the pilot’s chair, fingers flying over the controls as she adjusted their trajectory. The Black Fang cruised steady, nothing overtly aggressive, but there was tension in the air.

  “Talk to me,” Gravel said, stepping up behind Priest.

  Priest didn’t look up. “Unidentified vessel, keeping distance but matching course.” He expanded the scan results on the main display. A faint blip trailed them, just far enough to stay outside optimal sensor range. “No active weapon signatures, but they’re not broadcasting any identifiers either.”

  Hunter leaned against the back of a chair, arms crossed. “Could just be another ship heading the same way.”

  Fang let out a sharp breath. “No way. They adjusted course when we did. They’re tracking us.”

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  Gravel narrowed his eyes at the display. The ship wasn’t closing in—yet—but it wasn’t veering off either.

  Sloan’s voice came from behind them. “If they were Republic, they’d be more direct.”

  Gravel turned. He hadn’t even heard her come in. She was watching the screen, arms folded.

  “You have a point.” Hunter tilted her head. “So, not the Republic. McPherson, then? Maybe even Strokas.” Strokas had had a bounty on Hunter for 14 years. Never caught her.

  Sloan was about to say something but stopped as soon as she opened her mouth.

  Priest cut in. “Whoever they are, they’re careful. No hails, no warnings, just sitting in our wake.”

  Fang drummed her fingers against the console. “I don’t like this. If they’re waiting for us to land before making a move, we’re walking into something.”

  Gravel cracked his knuckles. “Then let’s not let them dictate the pace.” He turned to Fang. “Can you lose them?”

  Fang’s lips pressed into a thin line. “If they’re half-decent pilots? No.” She tapped the controls, pulling up an expanded star map. “But I can make it really damn annoying to follow us.”

  Gravel grinned. “That’s what I like to hear.”

  Priest leaned back slightly, still watching the screen. “Let’s make this a controlled detour. If they react, we’ll know what they want.”

  Hunter exhaled. “And if they don’t react?”

  Sloan finally spoke, quiet but firm. “Then we have to assume they’re playing a longer game.”

  That killed whatever small bit of humor was left in the room.

  Fang’s fingers hovered over the controls. “I’m making the turn.”

  The ship rumbled slightly as she adjusted their heading, cutting a sharp angle toward The Veifield Expanse—a dense asteroid cluster known for its strange, shifting formations. Unlike typical asteroid belts, the Expanse’s debris wasn’t static. Weak gravitational anomalies caused by long-dead celestial bodies sent chunks of rock drifting in unpredictable patterns, a nightmare to navigate without precise calculations.

  Fang kept their trajectory smooth, threading them through the outer edges where the motion was less erratic. It wasn’t a full burn, nothing that screamed panic, but it was enough to see if their tail would flinch.

  A tense silence settled as everyone watched the sensors. The trailing blip hesitated for a moment—then adjusted.

  Still following.

  Fang’s grip tightened. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

  Gravel’s grin faded. “Better not be Garnash. I hate that guy.”

  Priest’s visor flickered as he pulled up deeper scans, running their pursuer’s readings through the Black Fang’s limited database. “Ship’s still too far for a full profile. No clear ID.” He glanced toward Fang. “Take us through the denser part of the field. No sudden bursts—gradual acceleration.”

  Fang nodded, shifting power to maneuvering thrusters as she guided the Black Fang deeper into the asteroid cluster. The ship rumbled under the strain, but the movement was smooth, careful.

  The blip followed.

  Sloan’s voice was measured. “If they wanted to take us out, they could’ve made a move already.”

  Gravel sighed. “Could be someone just looking for the right moment. Could be someone waiting to see if we panic. Could be someone wanting to deliver me the result of the flickball final match in person.”

  Hunter tapped her fingers against the edge of the console. “And what if it’s not a bounty hunter?”

  That made Gravel pause. “. . . Then I’m really gonna hate whatever comes next.”

  Priest didn’t look up. “Let’s find out.”

  He switched their long-range comms to an open frequency.

  Static hummed through the speakers.

  Priest spoke evenly. “Unknown vessel. You’ve been shadowing us long enough. Identify yourself.”

  Silence.

  Then, finally, a voice crackled through the comms. Smooth. Collected. And entirely unfamiliar.

  “Now, now. No need for hostilities. I was just wondering how long you’d take to notice.” He spoke the Intergalactic Space Language (ISL) in an accent that accentuated each syllable with a deliberate crispness, the kind that suggested he wasn’t just fluent—he was practiced.

  Gravel’s brow furrowed. “Oh, great. One of those guys.”

  Fang manually muted the comm for a second, muttering, “Sounds like someone who likes hearing themselves speak.” She unmuted and adjusted the comm settings. “You’re awfully chatty for someone creeping up on us.”

  The voice chuckled. “Creeping? Nuh-uh. I prefer the term observing.”

  Priest remained expressionless. “We don’t like being observed.”

  “This galaxy’s gotten strict rules on spaceship privacy, just so you know. Fifty thousand ducats for every offense,” Gravel said.

  A brief pause. Then, the voice dropped its playful edge, turning just a shade more serious.

  “I’ll make this simple,” the stranger said. “You have something that doesn’t belong to you. And I’m here to collect.”

  Sloan whispered, “That’s how McPherson officers phrase retrieval orders.”