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, the faint hiss of carbonation escaping into the air.

  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?”

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

  Gravel snorted. “You say that, but I’m not the one who got an infection 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 this ship needs repair or when my face needs an overhaul.”

  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.”

  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.”

  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.”

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  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,” he rumbled with a mix of amusement and disbelief. “I’ll be damned.” He let out a short, barking laugh. “You lot actually made it back.”

  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’s just say I had . . . contingencies in case you didn’t.” 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 smirked. “Can’t be too careful. You went dark for a while. Thought maybe the Republic ate 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 I suppose 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. “Now, now. Let’s not get dramatic.” His tail flicked behind him, a restless movement. “You got the drive, didn’t you? And you’re alive. And McPherson has never delayed on payments for a successful job.”

  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. “That wasn’t the deal. Do you give money back if your job turned out 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 sharply through his nose, his tail flicking once. Then he let out a slow, measured chuckle. “Fine. You want more? You’ve got nerve, I’ll give you that.”

  Hunter crossed her arms. “And?”

  Garnash’s smirk returned, but this time it was tight, his patience thinning. “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 breaks promises.” 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’re smart enough to know when not to 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.