His ADX-88 shuddered free of ceespace in a wake of iridescent flux. Its twin engines whined with a righteous and guttural fury.

  Ahead, the stars wept violet forks of lightning. A cosmic storm—a blue-purple maelstrom of thermionic fire cut wide across the void like a living wound.

  Beautiful.

  Like watching the light drain from someone’s eyes.

  But beauty meant little to Vorteth. Only the tempo of chaos mattered, its rhythm. Its cadence. The sharp crescendo between life and death.

  His interceptor skimmed the storm’s crest, wing angled close enough for the aegietheric to shimmer. The transplast long since replaced by solid durtanium, a domed canopy overlaid with camera-feeds that flickered in the cosmic interference.

  While some visibility had been sacrificed, it was necessary to stave off the galaxy's merciless stars. Though truth-be-told, he almost preferred it. The sizzling touch of solar radiation sharpened the mind like no other pain. There was a certain pleasure to it.

  But over his unnaturally long life, Vorteth had learned when to indulge himself.

  And when to deny.

  Cosmic storms were one of few stimuli that still stirred him emotionally. The unpredictability. The proximity to annihilation. Life's finest treasures were often buried in hellish places. Where flesh melted, and bones shattered—where men's legs cowardly turned to jelly.

  And Carceris...was one such place.

  A hollowed out asteroid, looming dead ahead. Once a prison, now simply another tumor in a cancerous galaxy. It reeked of lust, blood, and barbarism. A hive where criminal syndicates traded ships, illegal synthenoids, and weapons. Even the odd slave from time to time.

  The syndicates controlled the middle circumference of Carceris' imperfect sphere. The lower-decks were more of a free-for-all. Bounty hunters. Mercs. Chemdoctors peddling elixirs that could turn organs to slurry. If used unwisely.

  Somewhere in its cold maze, tucked in Bay Blackstar, Gallows Garrison had made its newest den—bounty hunters as unforgiving as Vorteth. If, his information remained true. They could be parsecs away otherwise.

  As the interceptor neared, Vorteth keyed the comm, then input his desired landing location on the scanner display. The circular buttons beeped under his taloned fingers in orange flashes of compliance.

  Static chewed the signal before a nasally voice crackled through, some wet-lipped, noodle of a man by the sound of it.

  “Bay Blackstar’s a secure location,” he squeaked with a bored tone. “Without a code, you'll be redirected to Docking Bay-67, if you—wait, no. Elias I did what you said, I swear I cleaned the toilets, I—!”

  Two gunshots thundered over the comm, then a body dropped. A violent thud that prefaced a still, fuzzy moment of white noise.

  “...sorry for the inconvenience. Good help is hard to find," a gruffer voice spoke up with an audible smile, fiddling with the mic. “Continue on to Docking Bay-67. Have a nice day.”

  A smirk was Vorteth's only reply.

  He banked into a crisp left turn, then glided into the bay smooth as a knife between the ribs. Greeted by pale running lights. No banners or adverts. No colors or graffiti. The upper-decks were the closest thing to neutral territory. Where the indecisive lingered. The faithless. The cowards. Too weak to pledge allegiance to the syndicates. Or simply too poor to leave.

  The only available platform was enshrouded in shadow at the far end. His landing struts struck the elevated rig with a hydraulic hiss. As the canopy depressed upward in a plume of smoke, Vorteth stood with it, a dark corpse rising from a grave. His spine ached. His thighs rubbed raw. The vessel's cushions had long since been removed.

  Another pleasure happily purged.

  He replaced his silken hood, snapped his umbrefa?? in place—a lacquered, moss-hued mask molded in the shape of a dying scream. The face of an enemy long murdered and forgotten. It hugged the contours of his gaunt features like a second layer of skin. Welcome and familiar. His calm breaths warbled with a slight electronic whisper. Like a wraith on the prowl.

  Vorteth brushed the hilt of his umbri?or and teetered at the platform's edge. Fifty or so feet from the filthy, slate ground below. He started toward the elevator’s controls but paused, curling his hand into a bone-shattering fist.

  Then leapt—robes billowing in the dust like a vengeful raven—the deck dented under his weight. A terrible metallic boom that rolled like thunder. Several men collapsed to the ground in shock, shouting, scurrying from a burning barrel. Like rodents. With great fear and trembling.

  The massive bay, dim with flickering fixtures, reeked of unwashed bodies and open sores. Smog clung to its trash-riddled floor, coiled around platforms and wandering degenerates. Overhead, rusty walkways that ran the perimeter creaked under heavy foot traffic. Men and women with slightly cleaner appearances, that barely spared a glance at the downtrodden beneath them.

  In the distance, someone cried out for help. A scuffle over their wallet by the sound of it. But like Vorteth, no one else moved to help. No one seemed to care.

  He didn’t linger. The initial layout was memorized. Cataloged. No further observation required. Instead, he stalked toward the main exit, down a gaping corridor littered with malfunctioning adverts. Drugs, prostitutes. The typical vices of lesser creatures. A lone door waited at its end, where three men emerged.

  Big. Broad-shouldered. Trying and failing to appear dangerous.

  One wore a ragged gray vest, a holstered pistol, and crooked smile. A walking caricature of the typical smuggler.

  The second, a machine gun, with a worn Directorate uniform. Twenty years and thirty pounds past his prime.

  The third held a shotgun tight, like a child clutching a teddy bear after a nightmare.

  “Whoa now.” Gray-Vest chuckled, raising a hand as if calming a skittish beast. “Didn’t know it was—what do they call it, Spooky Day? Spooky, something? Fuck it. Whatever holiday you're dressed for pal, you're the only one here celebrating. Though, gotta admit that's a pretty good costume. Real…real intense. Nice sword too. What is it 1492?”

  The others laughed. Tight, twitchy. Prey that perhaps sensed the shift in the air, but were too stupid or prideful to heed it.

  Vorteth didn’t speak. Didn't alter his pace in the slightest. A steady, unyielding march forward.

  Gray-Vest planted a hand on his holstered weapon, trying to cling to the illusion of authority.

  “You hearing me, asshole? Neutral turf doesn’t mean you can stroll wherever you want without—”

  Hiss.

  A plume of vapor spewed out the sporecaster embedded on Vorteth’s gauntlet. Verdant and pallid. Not aimed, but allowed. The cloud coiled through the air with a malicious mind of its own. Slithered, poured into their eyes sockets, mouths, and pores.

  They didn’t scream. They couldn’t.

  Not yet.

  They hunched forward, muscles locked, bodies jerking as gurgled saliva clogged their throats.

  Gray-Vest dropped first. Back arched like lightning. Mouth a perfect circle of silent agony.

  Then Patch fell. Then Shotgun—who managed an involuntary squeeze of the trigger. Vorteth stepped over them as the roar of the shotgun blast faded, and the real screaming began. A trio of inhuman shrills filled with hellish torment.

  He still didn’t speak. Didn’t gloat. Only the steady tap, tap, tap of his boots against the deck.

  The door whistled open, revealing an old and decrepit elevator shaft. Vorteth glanced over his shoulder to watch the men writhe. An ecstatic second longer than necessary, then keyed the controls with a dry smirk.

  The half-broken lift took thirty seconds to reach the bottom. A hundred and twenty meters from the top by his count. Long enough for a man to splatter to paste. Short enough for his scream to vanish without an echo.

  A chime rang as the doors slid apart, inviting in an unnatural breeze. A sickly stench of chems, stale alcohol, and perfumed attempts to mask poor hygiene.

  Like before, his feet carried him out without haste nor hesitation. Into a bustle of humans as they traversed a series of cavernous tunnels—rustic, rocky veins, filled with vendors selling wares that no one needed.

  A pistol on every hip. A rifle slung on every shoulder. Not threats, but promises of retaliatory violence.

  There were ten routes of egress. Three useful for a tactical retreat. Signs scrawled haphazardly along the ceiling above. Poorly drawn and spelled, yet well-placed. Bay Blackstar was down the passage to the left, far closer than expected.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  Vorteth melded further into the crowd, which very quickly parted like The Red Sea. Wary of him, of his umbrefa??. More than likely ignorant of what he truly was, but aware that a lion was among the herd nonetheless.

  Mercenaries, pilots, scum all, narrowed their eyes. Hands clutched at their weapons and women alike. A sea of mismatched leather, flight-suits, and trauma-plates. Though, as the weight of his presence settled like low fog, the humans grew palpably bolder. Comforted by their sheer numbers.

  A common trait among prey animals.

  “Knock over a costume shop? Or a circus?”

  “It ain’t Spookyfall, asshole!”

  “Can smell the crazy comin’ offa him.”

  Among the torrent of nervous curses and irreverent asides, a slurred voice emerged from a cluster of gamblers to his left. Hard at work with a game of dice in a shallow alcove.

  “Hey, hey, waitaminute,” the drunk straggler staggered closer, scuffed bottle dangling in a precarious grip. “I know that face. You’re that guy... that guy from...”

  His words trailed into a stumbling stupor, while his compatriots cackled wild behind him, equally unsteady in their flimsy chairs. Abruptly, the drunk regained some of control of his equilibrium, and placed a palm on Vorteth’s shoulder.

  “Yeah! I remember you! You’re that tricky bastard from the—”

  Crunch.

  The man's hand shattered into shards that burst through his skin—knuckles and joints mashed into gelatinous mush—imploded in the vise of Vorteth’s durtanium grip. No scream. No. Not at first. He just watched, as if it were someone else’s hand. Until his languid mind registered the pain with a horrid shriek. Half-man, half-slaughterhouse.

  Vorteth dragged the human along like a sack of refuse. Until he grew bored and relinquished him, left to whimper as his heart murdered him with each pump. The slick red tonic of life pooled out of him and soaked the fabric of his trousers.

  His friends staggered up, chairs scraped and bottles clinked in rage. A flimsy crate bounced harmlessly off Vorteth's back.

  “What the fuck, man?! He didn't do anything!”

  “Gut the freak!”

  “Let’s frackin’ go!”

  They rushed in with a collective shout. Five strong by the sound of it, barking sloppy threats, clumsy and undisciplined. Vorteth didn’t stop. Barely even slowed.

  The first lunged out with a knife.

  Vorteth twisted, caught the blade—let it stab through his palm. His other hand latched onto the man’s throat and wrenched. Bones cracked. His neck twisted, parallel with his shoulder. Then he crumpled in a heap. Twitching. Pathetic.

  The second man, fatter yet faster, charged with a berserker's howl.

  Vorteth sidestepped and drove a fist through his chest like a piston. Warm fluids seeped into his sleeve. Ribs snapped as he retrieved it with a tug. A ruptured lung wheezed as the man dropped gurgling pink froth.

  The third swung a desperate pipe overhead, more animal fear than anger now.

  Vorteth swung his hips around, then speared his elbow into the man’s sternum with a squelch. Damning him back through the air, into a vendor’s stall in a pall of glass, sparks, and flailing limbs.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  The last two squeaked to an abrupt halt. A breath of hesitation. A moment of doubt.

  Cowardice...

  Vorteth flicked his robe back, drew his machine-pistol in one deft movement.

  Pt-pt. Pt-pt. Pt-pt.

  His TK-2 vanished back into his robes before they hit the ground. To the sound of murmurs and gasps.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  Mercenaries, pilots, scum all, gave him a wider berth, calculating the danger Vorteth represented with greater caution. But no one else dared challenge him, or even brush his shoulder. No outrage. Just the learned wisdom of rugged men who knew when to pick a fight. And when not to.

  Unfortunate. He was starting to enjoy himself...

  Vorteth reached his destination without further incident. A shoddy circular door, rusted but sturdy enough to potentially inhibit a rocket launcher. The words "Gallows Garrison," were etched above its frame.

  He cleared his throat, then activated the poorly wired comm-panel.

  “Wattdaya want?” A gruff voice snapped to life almost instantly. “Ain’t no shops in here. Turn around before you get hurt.”

  “Good afternoon.” Vorteth mused. “I would very much like to, humbly request an audience with your employer?"

  "And who would that be?"

  "Griston. We're old friends of sorts.”

  “Ain’t nobody here with that name. Turn around. Now. While your legs still work.”

  Vorteth laughed, almost heartily, louder than he had in years.

  “Tell him it’s Radu. Tell him I’m more than willing to aid him in his unique methods of promotion. If, he has the men to spare? It's quite entertaining actually.”

  Silence. A long one. Nearly a full minute of something he'd normally regard as insolence. But Vorteth found himself stooping into a strange mood. One that somewhat resembled giddy.

  As close as he could manage anyhow.

  Finally, another voice came through. Older. Heavier. Digitally warped and laced with a deadly scrutiny. Griston's voice.

  “Radu? Been a long time. Well, for me anyway. A long damn time. Didn’t think you’d ever darken my doorstep again?”

  “A tired assumption, a mistake my enemies often make. Usually their last. Though in truth, I never truly counted you among them. Not entirely.”

  “How very touching. Might fuck around and make an old man cry talking like that.”

  “I am nothing if not sentimental.”

  Griston chuckled, dry as bits of bone. “What did you say you wanted? Help out with a Culling? Things are getting awfully chummy in here.”

  “It is not the prime purpose for my visit, no. I have an offer for you. But by all means, open the door, let us help each other. Like old times."

  "Hmm. Help, huh? I actually read some old myth about vampir recently. Something about needing to be invited in? Otherwise you'd be standing there with your dick in your hand—so they said."

  "A falsehood spread to ancient humans. Like garlic, and that wooden stake rubbish. Ridiculousness."

  "Fair enough. Just have to take your word for it." He paused with grumble. "Rosco, open Entrance A-2, before he breaks it down. And tell the rookies it's time to cut their teeth. Too many familiar faces around here."

  Vorteth smiled, a tingle of excitement threading his spine, as the old door rumbled aside.

  "Much appreciated. You're a credit to your race. It's been quite some time since I've allowed myself the pleasure of...real exercise.”

  “Alright, you ready?” Kara asked, hands firmly planted on her belt buckle. “High Commander Rorik?”

  Rorik adjusted his hair, then hit the controls, beckoning the lift upward with a shudder. “Don't have to be a smart-ass about it. Why, are you ready?”

  “Ready enough. It'll be great seeing so many friendly faces.” Her tone had steadied, but with an undercurrent of agitation. "Maybe we'll make s'mores and sing campfire songs? Who knows?"

  “Promise not to do anything when you see her? I wanna get off-world quick as can be.”

  "Can't promise, kid. I'd like to, but, I don't know.”

  “Don't think for a second that I haven’t been sticking my neck out for you. What little good it’s done until now. The Kinhold's stubborn as ever.”

  “Hey, not your fault. Probably.” Kara flashed a soft, almost sad smile. "Better late than—"

  Her eyes thinned to slits, face abruptly hard like durtanium. She gripped his shoulder, gave it a hard swipe for dust, then started to roughly adjust his gig-line.

  “Look at this mess! What did you roll around in a pigsty? A giant fucking dust pan? Didn't I always tell you to keep your gear clean and—”

  “I got it—just—for the love of fuck!” Rorik batted at her hands, failing to suppress a chuckle. “Is it possible for you to just stand there and do nothing? Is that possible? Could you do that for me?”

  “Fine, fine.” She shrugged, half-surrender and half-smug. “Just go fuck myself, I guess."

  "Please do."

  He shook his head. More amused than annoyed. The past day had been interesting. He'd forgotten that she had a unique way of fluctuating. Nothing new, but certainly more frequent. Playful one second. A pain in the ass the next. Then she went suddenly quiet like she needed a hug.

  And similar to three seconds ago, she sometimes bordered maternal. Strange. Yet oddly comforting in a fucked-up, Oedipus-adjacent kind of way.

  Rorik especially hated how young she made him feel. Even after years of attrition, there were still plenty of wolves older than him. It simply wasn't the same. She didn’t have to say or do anything. Just her staring forward, grinning like the biggest bitch to ever live sufficed.

  He’d changed in the time they'd been apart, in quiet ways. Less seen than felt. But she hadn't. Not really.

  Rorik stole a glance, not wanting to betray his thoughts. Her old uniform, a faded shade of pewter, was slightly shrunken from too many washes. In stark contrast to his: crisp, current, and only a little dusty. Like Kara was stuck in the distant past and didn’t give a shit about the future.

  Which given their talk on the shuttle, that was the honest truth...

  The door yawned open, revealing a vast and cylindrical chamber. Its high ceiling capped by reinforced transplast, a dome that refracted the rays of Azrhar’s vermilion sun. Barely visible through the howling blizzard plaguing the barren surface.

  Still, the sparse light made his dry eyes sting a bit. Incense hung in the cold air as their boots clanked against the deck, nearly perfectly in-step. At the far wall, an elliptic row of six elevated chairs sat behind a long teak desk, lit by muted amber torches. Myriad workstations and viewscreens lined the perimeter, monitoring situations on and off-world.

  Ancient ceremony at peace with military utility.

  Seated in the chairs left to right were: MacDuff, Baldric, Marama, Saniyya, Tenzin, and Amahle—The Kinhold—engaged in hushed conversation as they came to a halt. A respectful distance away. The center seat, where the Primum normally presided was palpably empty.

  Most of them offered polite nods, serious but not cold. MacDuff flashed a weary smile that told Rorik exactly the kind of day he’d had. They all wore standard fatigues. Well-kept. Prim. But their political roles allowed them some stylistic variation. Sashes. Necklaces. Cultural ornaments. Not much, but enough to stand out.

  Marama especially did as much, but not because of her clothes. Or her umber skin, and auburn hair. But her eyes were like bayonets. Piercing. She barely glanced at him, glossed over Rorik entirely to stab into Kara. A deep-seated hatred buried under a veil of professionalism.

  “Hi, boys and girls.” Kara mused with a sly purr, twisting her hair into a ponytail. “You folks miss me?”

  They exchanged weary expressions, but only Baldric replied, voice tainted with the remnants of a faded Nordic lilt.

  “Like an infected hemorrhoid.”

  “Aw.”

  “Let’s, not start off combative,” MacDuff said, raising a calm hand. “Kara, good to see you—James, much more so.”

  Rorik smiled, tired but genuine.

  “Good to see you too. What’s this about? I’ve been briefed. The Gizotso's ready to take off. Was hoping Kara and I could debrief Lieutenant Zervas before we did. Final checks, all that.”

  MacDuff gave a slow nod, eyes drifting briefly.

  “I know, but Cassandra can wait a little longer. Plus, she's got things well under control." He laid his hands flat on the desk. “There’s one more piece of intel on Te Whetū. A whisper, really. From a trusted source.”

  “From your trusted source, Seamus,” Baldric muttered, coppery knot bobbing atop his head. “Their continued shyness is awfully convenient. I wonder where their true loyalties—.”

  “It’s no time for splitting hairs, Baldric.”

  The words were so low and sudden, it took Rorik a second to realize it was Marama's voice.

  “We have word that Whiro and his horde are also after my beloved cousin.” She continued. “Don’t know what leads they’ve uncovered, but they’ve begun searching the stars as we speak. According to this mysterious source at least.”

  She paused, scowl jagged as a serrated blade. “What purpose beyond his assassination, I know not.”

  The words were for everyone. But her gaze still hadn’t moved. Not a single. Fucking. Centimeter. Hazel irises that would've bored a crater into Kara’s head given the means. Though she was too busy cleaning her claws to notice.

  Or so she’d have us believe.

  “Whiro, huh?” Rorik rubbed at his beard, and stepped subtly between them. “Been a few years since I ran into them. Some recon escort that pussied out near a BioMech refill station.”

  He glanced around the table. “Real question is, how the hell do they know what we know? How’d they find out he was missing to even take advantage of it?”

  The Kinhold grimaced in unison.

  “Good point. Maybe MacDuff’s source truly is a double-headed ax.” Baldric chuckled, with little to no humor. “Telling tall tales to both sides, perhaps?”

  “The intel is solid.” MacDuff didn't look over, voice a low simmer. “Wanted to give you a heads-up, personally, away from prying ears. You know how people get when our cousins show up.”

  “Either wanna join ’em or kill ’em. Yeah. We’ll keep that info restricted to command staff, unless absolutely necessary. Thanks for the update. That all?”

  “Of course. And for now yes, that's all. Fly safely you two.”

  Rorik lingered a second longer, then turned with a nod.

  “Nothing’s changed.” Kara slinked past him like a puma, fists loosely clenched at her sides. “Still wasting people’s time like you’re starsdamned royalty.”

  “Excuse you?” MacDuff asked, level, but not pleased.

  “An encrypted comm. A message in a bottle—anything than dragging us to the top of Ulvenhold. For a two-second conversation no less. Bureaucratic bullshit like this almost lost us the last war with the vampir. And did lose us the war with Whiro.”

  Rorik shifted on his feet, not at her words, but at the sudden drop in temperature. The Red Mist War had been a mess, even more so than the civil war that followed. He was torn between backing Kara up, who was right, and trying to get them out as diplomatically as possible.

  Marama’s eyes flared. “Funny. You almost had me, for a second I was deluded into thinking your vacation had humbled you. What a fool I am.”

  Kara let out a dry, scornful laugh. “That vacation was a funny way of saying thanks for cleaning up your messes.”

  “You cleaned them with an old mop and dirty water.”

  “Self-righteous bitch!” Kara stepped closer, voice rising. “I made the hard calls you were too much of a pussy to make! And every wolf here knows it!”

  Everyone else held their breath. Not out of discomfort, but morbid curiosity. What was said was said. The vote to exile Kara hadn't been unanimous. This was certainly a moment a long time in the making.

  “You disobeyed orders! You’re still the same arrogant loose-cannon you were the day you left! You compromised the chain of command! And your showboating got good men killed!”

  Kara's lip curled in disgust. “If you’re referring to your sons. They were nice enough kids. But the only thing they were good for was drawing Whiro's fire! Keeping it away from the real soldiers!”

  The air cracked with a thunderous silence. A guttural, sound built in Marama's throat. Half-growl, half-roar. Hatred emanated from her in waves. Hot, sticky, and venomous.

  “I’m going to rip you into pieces now,” she seethed.

  Rorik and Kara eased back to back. Pure instinct. A byproduct of centuries killing next to each other.

  Marama’s breath hitched. Once. Twice. Her spine taut like a bow pulled tight. Her uniform split down the sides as she grew. Lupined. The Kinhold sprang into action, chairs scraping as they braced Marama's shoulders, shouting over one another.

  Muscle and fur surged beneath Marama's umber skin. Tendons strained. Her clavicle cracked. And a roar teeming with rage tore from her throat. Grief. Pain. Blood boiling beneath the surface.

  “Marama!” Tenzin vaulted onto the desk to cup her half-deformed face. “Breathe. Focus. You’re still in—”

  She ripped an arm free to backhand him across the chamber. Twenty feet. Easy. Tenzin slammed onto the floor shoulder-first, skidding to a stop at Rorik's feet. Blood smeared in a line down the polished deck in. Jaw unhinged and crooked.

  Rorik winced with a sharp inhale. It hadn’t been a love tap, that's for sure. With a grunt Tenzin rolled to a knee and popped his face into place with a squelch.

  “Been a while," he sneered with a pained glance back, licking blood from his lips. "Too long."

  Marama's claws, once the length of razors, had turned to daggers. Not quite woman. Not quite wolf. Some small but powerful part of her was fighting to hold the beast back.

  What about your husband?” Marama snarled with a wet rasp. “What was he good for? Vampir-fodder!?"

  Kara surged forward, Rorik hooked her by the waist—almost a second to late—and held her off the floor. She put up little resistance, thank the stars, but the coiled violence in her muscles meant that could change.

  “Give her the serum already, dammit!” MacDuff grappled with Amahle to keep Marama pinned.

  Saniyya dove beneath the desk for a medical kit, then quickly slammed an injector into Marama’s neck. A hiss of cerulean fluid surged into her bloodstream, as her body froze in place. Half-muzzle clenched. Her spine unbowed and the fur receded. The beast vanished in an implosion of flesh and agony.

  Gone as quickly as it came.

  Marama fell on the desk, gasping shallow breaths. Nude body barely covered by her tattered uniform. Long auburn hair clung to a sweaty face.

  “I’m fine.” She croaked. “Sorry, never...haven't lost control like that in a long time.”

  Kara, still in his arms, didn’t talk. Didn’t blink. Just stared at Marama with a mix of anger, and something strangely unrecognizable.

  After a tense pause and a tired exhale, he started to set her down—then thought better of it. Each face in the Kinhold was tight with suspicion, tension, and resignation. No one said a word. Not even MacDuff.

  Because there was nothing to say.

  Rorik reached into his cargo-pocket for the vial, carefully packaged in scorched white fabric, and set it gently on the desk.

  “This is the virus I recovered from Avansen. It’s a flawed replicate strain, ours. Saw feral wolves change and die in under a minute. I'm not too learned on the topic, but know how big of a deal this is, what it could change for us?”

  Baldric delicately unwrapped the vial, then lifted it up, a faint yellow fluid with glistening bubbles. Nearly gelatinous and completely unassuming.

  Rorik pursed his lips, mouth suddenly dry. “But we’ll get out your hair. I’ll beam over my first report once we pick up The Primum's scent. Let's all hope he's just half-drunk on some tropical resort world.”

  His eyes drifted to the center seat. Dragged toward it like a gravity well.

  It seemed even emptier than before...

  “Don’t wait up for us.”