The ship squats in the dock like a stubborn toad, panels mismatched, hull scorched in more than a few places, the nose art depicting some long-faded pinup girl with a laser cannon for an arm. It’s not sleek. It’s not impressive. And it isdefinitelynot what the brochure implied.
My stream audience is going to have a field day.
“Tactical correction,” Reflector says hesitantly. “This vessel is not listed in any civilian starcruiser registry and does not meet standard orbital aesthetics.”
“No kidding.”
I’m still standing there blinking when the ramp lowers with a wheeze and a hiss. Metal-on-metal screeches loud enough to rattle my molars, and then a shadow moves inside the entry bay. A man steps down the ramp, smooth and deliberate, like someone who practiced looking trustworthy in the mirror and decided to sell that as a lifestyle.
He’s wearing a charcoal-gray suit. Not a flight suit, not a pressure suit—an actual suit. Lapels sharp enough to cut glass. His boots are polished. His teeth are whiter than mine.
“Ms. Verrix,” he says, flashing his winningest smile. “Tobin Meyer, Orion Security. Pleased to finally meet the galaxy’s most daring darling in the flesh.”
I narrow my eyes. “You’reTobin Meyer?”
“Guilty.”
“You’re... not what I expected.”
He chuckles. “I get that a lot.”
I cross my arms. “You’re a little... glossy. For a guy who runs a private security firm that claims to be able to get me into the Hulk.”
“I assure you, my team has all the required tools, skills, and discretionary experience,” he says, still grinning like a sales ad. “We're professionals.”
There’s something about the way he says it that makes every hair on my neck twitch.
“Right,” I say slowly. “So where’s the team?”
“Already aboard. They don’t stand on ceremony.”
He gestures grandly, like I’m supposed to be impressed. And maybe I am, for half a second, until I actually walk up the ramp andseethe so-called team.
Oh stars.
It’s like a disaster movie and a bounty hunter bar had a baby.
The first person I see is unmistakably Frayvoyan—short and squat, covered head to toe in scruffy tan fur with a snout that twitches as he picks through a protein bar’s wrapper with oddly dexterous fingers. He’s wearing a cropped leather vest over what looks like a novelty holo-tee that saysPARTY MOLECULEand has four different juice stains on it. The dude looks like someone’s drunk uncle accidentally got ported into a crime flick.
Next to him, slouched on a crate, is a woman with hollow cheeks and leathery wings folded tight across her back. Her eyes flick up, yellow and slitted, as she takes a drag off something that’s definitely not regulation.
“Lovely,” I mutter.
A few paces further in, someone lumbers out of a side corridor. He's big.Big. Red-scaled. Scarred. A scowl carved into his features like it's permanent. He doesn't say a word—just stops, looks at me like he’s calculating whether I’m edible, and then turns back into the shadows without a sound.
And then there’s the cyborg. Half his face is a plate. His voice when he speaks is garbled, synthetic, and flat: “Welcome aboard.”
“Oh wow,” I say to Reflector in a stage whisper. “This must be the professional part.”
Reflector beeps in alarm. “Threat index rising. Seventy-four percent likelihood of criminal affiliation. Eighty-two percent likelihood of unaffiliated mercenary status.”
I plaster on a wide grin. “Okay, fam,” I announce to no one in particular. “Let’s get this party started.”
I turn to Tobin. “These... people. You vetted them?”
“Absolutely. Salt of the quadrant.”
That’s not comforting.
