I walk fast. Head down. Shoulders tight.
I’m not going into hiding. That’s not who I am.
I’m Sable Jackson.
I do not disappear.
CHAPTER 2
VOLTAR
The sky weeps blood-colored mist and I couldn't be happier.
Barren rock spreads around me, cracked and charred like the surface of some forgotten god's ashtray. No cover. No backup. Just me and the Baragon. They're ugly sons of glitchspawn—chitinous brutes with too many legs and not enough brains—but there's a lot of them, which almost makes this fair.
Almost.
I stomp forward, heavy boots punching deep into the mud-slicked grit. Each step sounds like war drums being played with steel fists. My graviton cannon—shoulder-mounted, oversized, overcompensating—pulses warm against my spine. It's meant for puncturing cruiser hulls, but I find it works just as well on squishy ground troops.
A cluster of Baragon breaks from formation to flank me. Adorable.
I grin, baring all my teeth. "Time for the chorus, boys."
I belt out a Vakutan war hymn—“Grathgor’s Revenge, Part Three”—a classic. Full of throat noise and enough guttural base tones to shake gravel loose from the sky. I roar the verses as I ripthrough the first wave, plasma slugs vaporizing limbs, my wrist cannons carving molten arcs through exoskeletons. The ground becomes a killing field slicked with ichor and burnt chitin.
One Baragon tries to leap over me.
I grab it mid-air, slam it headfirst into another, then hurl both into a detonated crater for good measure. My shoulder cannon swivels with a low hum of anticipation.
“Line up,” I growl.
It fires.
The blast splits the horizon in half, vaporizing thirty—maybe forty—Baragon in a glorious, wailing instant. Their screeches go from sharp to silent mid-sound. The canyon wall behind them turns into smoke and regret.
The cannon hisses as it cools.
I light a cigar. Sweetleaf, stolen off a merchant freighter last tour. Burns blue at the tip, tastes like home.
“Sometimes,” I mutter around the smoke, “it’s so easy I’m ashamed of myself.”
A half-twitch smile plays on my lips as I survey the destruction. No more targets. No more movement. Just heaps of twitching alien limbs and the acrid perfume of victory. The wind carries the scent of plasma and pride, and under my boots, I feel the planet itself settling—like it's relieved I'm done.
My holocom buzzes.
I groan. “If this is a commendation, make it quick. I’m in the middle of a well-earned post-rampage glow.”
General Dowron’s face appears, flickering to life in the air beside me. Stiff-necked, armor always too polished, like someone pressed the starch button too hard on a bureaucrat.
“Voltar,” he begins, voice flat. “Another successful purge. Baragon forces decimated. Command’s impressed.”
I puff smoke at the holo. “Of course they are. I decimate impressively.”
Dowron squints at me like he’s trying to remember if I’m an idiot or just pretending. “But we’re reassigning you.”
My eyes narrow. “To what? There’s still pockets of resistance on Zhara VI. Don’t tell me you’re pulling me before I get to smash their artillery line with my bare hands.”
“No.”
