I take another step.
“You know,” he says, “this is a shame. You seem like a woman of taste. Rare to find someone who appreciates the art of a well-draped suit.”
“You’re the first person I’ve met who made murder look like a runway show,” I mutter. My fingers close around the breadbox lid.
He tilts his head, curious. “Do you always keep blasters in carb storage?”
“Only when I have guests,” I say, and yank the box open.
My hand dives into the shadows and comes out with cold metal. I swing the muzzle up, thumb the power cell on, and aim dead center between those ridiculous lapels.
“Out. Now.”
He doesn’t flinch.
He does, however, sigh. Like I’ve disappointed him. Like I’m the one who just ruined a nice evening.
“You’re lucky I care more about fashion than blood,” he says, smoothing his lapels. “This was freshly pressed.”
He turns, all grace and suavity, and as I blink, he dissolves into steam.
One puff. A sibilanthiss. And he’s gone.
I stand there for a long moment, arm shaking, blaster aimed at nothing.
The synth-tuna bowl is still on the floor. Empty. Mocking.
My knees give out. I slump against the counter, heart thundering, pulse in my ears like starship engines on overload.
What the hell just happened?
CHAPTER 4
VOLTAR
The halls of the Novaria Alliance Command Center smell like ozone, bureaucracy, and weak caf. My boots thud against the polished synthcrete, too loud for a place this uptight. I chomp my cigar like it’s a chewing stick, eyes scanning the too-clean walls and too-tense personnel. Not a one of 'em meets my gaze for more than a second. Smart.
I’m strutting, yeah. Shoulders squared. Elbows out. Swinging through corridors like I’m leading a parade only I was invited to. One of the lieutenants—I think he’s a lieutenant, who can tell with all these bars and sashes—gets too close. I nudge him in the ribs.
“Cheer up, kid,” I bark, grin wide. “This is the highlight of your whole career.”
He looks like he wants to crawl into the wall.
I exhale cigar smoke directly into a ventilation grate. Let the whole damn building share in my vibe. Feels good to be planetside. My kind of good, not their kind. My kind’s loud, brash, scarred to hell and proud of it. Their kind files reports and winces at raised voices.
Then I see him—Commandant Lazarus. Standing still in a sea of motion. He’s got the look of a statue that disapprovesof everything. Bronze-scaled, dressed sharp enough to slice through a lesser officer’s ego.
“Voltar,” he says like he’s tasting a bad fruit.
“Commandant.” I salute by tapping the side of my cigar.
“You’re violating three indoor codes right now.”
“Three? Hells, I’m losing my touch.”
He doesn’t crack a smile. Doesn’t even blink.
“You’ve been briefed?” he asks.
