A ship drops out of hyperspace—black hull, no identification markers, weapons already charging. The kind of vessel that announces trouble from orbit.
From the top of the cargo boxes, Jitters drops with a wet splat, immediately cycling through panic colors so rapidly he looks like a living strobe light. The sound he makes is pure terror—broken glass mixed with despair.
Crash goes perfectly still, staring at the approaching ship with something that might be resignation or grim determination. When he speaks, his voice carries weight that has nothing to do with his supposed courier career.
“Thek-Ka.”
The name means nothing to me, but the way Crash says it—like a curse, like a death sentence—makes my blood run cold.
“Who is Thek-Ka?”
“Someone who has been hunting me for three years.” His hand presses more firmly against my back, urging me toward my ship. “Someone who will not stop until one of us is dead.”
The approaching ship settles onto the platform with military precision. Whatever’s about to emerge from that black hull, Crash clearly doesn’t want to face it. But instead of lookingcowardly, he looks like a soldier calculating odds and finding them wanting.
“This isn’t your fight,” he says, but there’s something in his voice—a weight that speaks of battles fought and scars earned in places most people never see. His golden eyes meet mine, and I catch a glimpse of the warrior he was before he became a courier running packages through the Fringe. “Get to your ship. Leave. File your report and forget you ever met me.”
Every rational thought I possess screams at me to do exactly that. To run. To file an emergency evacuation report and request immediate transfer to the safest, most boring Core world post available.
Instead, I hear myself say: “Like hell.”
He stops moving, turns to stare at me with something like wonder. “Zola—”
“You said stay close to you. That’s what I’m doing.”
Something large and dangerous begins moving inside the black ship. Multiple legs, if the sound is any indication. Something that makes the platform’s metal decking ring like a bell with each step.
Crash’s expression shifts through surprise, gratitude, and something deeper that makes my heart tight. “You do not understand what you are offering.”
“Then explain it to me. Fast.”
His golden eyes search mine, and whatever he finds there seems to make some kind of decision for him. “Thek-Ka is Exoscarab. Four arms, natural armor plating, mandibles that can crush steel. We fought in the Nexus Pits, illegal gladiator circuits, three years ago. The match was... interrupted. He considers this a matter of honor.”
Gladiator circuits. That explains the tactical awareness, the controlled lethality, the way he moves like violence is a familiar companion.
“Honor?”
“Among his people, interrupted combat is shame that must be resolved. He has hunted me across three sectors to finish what we started.”
The ship’s loading ramp begins to descend with a hiss of hydraulics. Whatever’s coming, it’s big enough to make the platform vibrate with its movement.
“So we run?”
Crash’s jaw tightens. “I have been running for three years. It has not worked.”
“Then we fight?”
Something flickers across his expression—surprise, respect, and underneath it all, a fierce protectiveness that makes my breath catch.
“We?” His voice is rough with emotion I can’t quite identify. “This is not your battle, Inspector Cross.”
“He’s interrupting my inspection so it is now.”
The words hang between us as something massive steps onto the platform. Something with four arms and armor plating that gleams like black metal in the emergency lighting. Something that looks at the two of us standing together... and tastes the air with feathery antennae that twitch in our direction. A dry, rhythmic clicking of mandibles fills the air—not laughter, I realize with a shudder. It’s the sound of him sharpening his weapons.
“Golden Viper,” a voice calls out, each word carefully enunciated in accented Standard. “Three years of running, and you bring me a gift?”
Crash moves in front of me with fluid grace, but this time it’s not the uncontrolled protective rage from before. This is deliberate positioning, tactical awareness—a fighter who’s calculated odds and distances and knows exactly how this is going to go.
