Chapter 16

The display lit up with a soft buzz, framing the twinkling sphere of Gemheart. Points of light bloomed uniformly across the planet’s slate-coloured surface, marking the land like a patient awaiting surgery. To say the Starbreaker Empire was thorough would be an insult that paid no respect to the soon-to-be-dead planet. Within the next fifty to one hundred years, every precious mineral, gemstone, and natural gas would be gutted from the stone and dirt and sent back home to Brightstone.

That inevitable obsolescence could sour the minds and spirits of many people, but the inhabitants of Gemheart took it as license for a generational bender. Spotlights cut aimlessly through the sky, luring would be revelers to the site of the latest blowout. Young dwarves eager to brandish their new wealth hosted parties where the booze, drugs, and music were free and plentiful. Closer to Brightstone, the excess might be frowned upon, but distance from home was the death of restraint.

Speaking of people without restraint ... Zenith keyed a passcode into her terminal and opened a channel only two other people knew of. She didn’t expect an answer, not for weeks anyway, but that was the nature of their relationship. She took a breath, then hit record.

“Hey dad. Long time no talk. I’m not sure what corner of the galaxy you’ve hidden yourself in, but it would be nice to get your help with a few things. First, Harlow. He’s left the Materia military and joined up with a psycho named Vaelor. That will be hitting your news feed in the next few weeks. You’re probably wondering why I’m asking for help with Harlow, given that he hates you, well-”

Zenith sighed, “Ozzy, edit out that last bit.”

“Done.”

“Harlow has his issues with you, but that’s why I want you to talk to him. If anyone can put him back in his usual frame of mind, it’s you. Second, I need some money for medical bills. Don’t worry, it’s not for me. A couple of my friends were badly hurt aboard Levisia. I know what you’re going to say, ‘Money stays within the family,’ but I need these people. With you, mom and Harlow so far apart, this crew is the closest thing I have to family. I hope you can meet them one day. Talk soon, dad.”

“Is that the end, ZT?”

“Yeah, attach my deposit info and send. How’s our docking order going?”

“It’ll be another hour before there’s a space for us.”

“Should have told them our hold was full of whiskey and opioids.”

“They tend to prefer stimulants over downers,” Odybrix said, walking onto the bridge. “Fractal and Drift are the popular ones these days.”

“Have you come here to add new entries to the AIs’ databases, or is there something I can help you with,” Zenith said, not turning from her control panel.

“No, just letting you know that I’ve lined up a clinic for BOB and Buddy.”

“You have?” Zenith asked, spinning in her chair to face the halfling, “With what money? We’re broke. Wait, do I want to know?”

“Blue Wings often have chapters in places like this,” she said, hand drifting up to rub the tattoo on her shoulder. “We’re going to owe them a favour.”

“Ugh.”

“I know.”

“The last favour we did for them ended with us fleeing three gunships on foot. The time before that, we were nearly obliterated by a planetary defense system.”

“Yeah, but we got two decent crew mates and the Sunrunner out of those. The favour won’t be any worse than what we’re already doing.”

“You hope.”

“Hope is for the delusional and ignorant. I’m reasonably certain mutants and giant death rays are as bad as it gets.”

Zenith raised a hand, “Please stop inviting the universe to prove you wrong.”

“You’re right. It could always get worse.” Odybrix paused for a moment, then said, “About your brother...”

“It’s fine. I know what you’re like when you go without coffee, or whiskey, or a fight. Any vice, really.”

“Yeah.”

An alert trilled from the cockpit and Ozzy appeared on Zenith’s monitor.

“We’ve got a message coming in,” the AI said.

“I take it that’s not our docking order,” Zenith said, punching in a command to locate the sender. “No one should know we’re here.”

“Remington?” Odybrix asked, cracking her knuckles.

“No way. They couldn’t have known where we were going. The message is coming from a carrack class ship in parallel orbit.”

“I’ll raise shields,” Ozzy said

“Wait,” Zenith said, tapping her terminal, “the message is encrypted. Huh.”

“Well don’t leave us in fucking suspense,” Odybrix said.

Zenith opened a new comms channel. “Adam, I think your new friend wants to talk.”

Lights crowded the either side of the street, reflecting rich colours off the wet pavement. The click of the crew’s boots was muffled under the din of raucous workers coming off their shifts and music booming from every other building. The mortal tableau they strode through was almost algorithmic. In the span of seconds, any of the following events occurred: hearty laugh, swig of whiskey, string of expletives, punch in the face, projectile vomit.

Adam was out of his depth in places like this. Members of his RC security detail would occasionally invite him out to blow off steam. He’d accept the offers out of a sense of professional obligation, but proceed to spend the night more on edge than if he were in a firefight. His preferred remedies for the mental and physical rigors of his occupation were, well, additional physical rigors—nothing beat exercise as a stress reliever. Now, light years away from the life he knew, and pursued by the people he once called allies, he felt that awkward social pressure once again.

“I can’t help but observe how we are once again going into a seedy bar to speak with a guy we hardly know about a clandestine operation,” Odybrix said to no one in particular.

After a moment of uncomfortable glances among the crew, Hoxley opted to take the brunt of Odybrix’ protest, “You’re concerned we’re going to be locked in an acid gas room with a killer robot?”

“While I never had cause to be concerned about it in the past, it is now near the top of my list, yes.”

“You know the probability of that happening again is infinitesimal, right?”

“No, actually, it isn’t. If we’re talking probabilities, acid-gas-room-killer-robot shouldn’t have happened to begin with, but it did. Among the vast aisles of the supermarket of shittiness, we somehow always pick the worst one.”

“Things could have been worse.”

Odybrix fixed Hoxley with an incredulous stare that effortlessly conveyed the word dumbass without speaking it.

“Yes, there could have been mutated monsters, turbo charged mechs, or giant death rays that split space stations in half—oh wait.”

“So are you saying we shouldn’t meet this guy at the bar?”

“I’m saying that the common denominator for all these things is us sticking our fucking noses into this particular situation.”

“You’re falling into the post hoc ergo propter hoc fallacy,” Hoxley said. “Causal factors are rarely so narrow.”

“I think that was an attempt at speaking words. Did you just have a mild seizure?”

“Okay,” Hoxley sighed, switching gears from philosophy to reason, “do you not want to go meet this person?”

“I think we should do it on our terms, so we don’t get played again.”

“He’s not going to play us,” Adam said.

“Oh, he speaks. I thought you were too occupied scanning the crowd for threats,” Odybrix said.

“Why do you say that?” Zenith asked Adam.

“To quote Buddy, ‘I’ve got a good feeling about him.’ Besides,” he continued before Odybrix could inject her predictable snark, “there’ll be whiskey.”

“Oh, you think I can be pacified with liquor, kid? Well, you’re right, but I still don’t like the situation.”

“I’ll keep an eye out,” Adam said, reassuringly.

The rendezvous location was called The Felspar Dryad. The club could have been missed amongst the myriad of similar establishments, but there was one distinguishing feature. A grim figure towered over the predominantly dwarven foot traffic. Some kept their distance, treating him as they would a potentially dangerous animal, others walked passed obliviously, treating him like a lamp post.

Kron clocked Adam almost as quickly as Adam spotted him. The stern professionalism melted from his expression and a broad smile spread across his face. He strode through the busy street to meet the crew, causing startled revelers to scatter from his path. Adam found himself smiling back at the orc. He raised his arm for a handshake; Kron spread out his arms.

“Uh, oh,” Adam said, mirroring the gesture.

Kron simultaneously switched to a handshake. Before Adam could grab the hand, the orc opened his arms again and wrapped him in an embrace.

“I’m a hugger,” Kron said.

Adam awkwardly patted the orc’s back before pulling away.

“Now we have time for a proper introduction. Kron val Kron, captain in the Grolvar navy. You’re all looking pretty good for having survived an RC flagship.” Kron paused, taking note of the absences in the group. “The rest are back aboard your ship, I hope.”

“Getting medical attention,” Adam replied, speeding past the recent trauma, “they’ll be in fighting shape soon. We’re hoping you have some information for us.”

Kron clasped Adam’s shoulder and led him toward the bar, “Information? Yes. Answers? Probably not. Let’s get out of the street.”

Zenith cocked an eyebrow from behind her helmet. Light years away from any naturally occurring vegetation, yet The Diamond Dryad had somehow procured an El’adir. The red leaves of the Elven tree hung in stark contrast to its pristine white bark. Nano-lights had been implanted on the trunk, creating the illusion of a shimmering exterior. That, and the other collected foliage, cemented the theme.

She dismissed the flashy decor and focused her attention on Sturdy. The assassin turned ally sat across from her in the semi-circle booth. Hoxley sat to his left, visibly uncomfortable in the role of chaperone. The infernum would have to deal with it. The Lendaren operative needed to be watched at all times until he could be dealt with.

I thought you scared him straight?

For a while. I don’t think change comes easily to our new friend.

Adam worked for Remington. We trust him.

Adam wasn’t tasked with killing one of us.

But he’s certainly changed since joining the crew. You can’t deny we have a unique effect on people.

If there were more time, you might be right. We don’t have time.

So...

We keep him around for now. When an opportunity presents itself-

We ditch him.

We kill him.

She leaned back in her seat, frowning at the remembered conversation. The helmet kept her displeasure private. She didn’t enjoy killing people, though it was becoming a frequent necessity. Part of her wondered if she was precluding forgiveness and redemption because of her brother—hardening herself for what was to come.

The server arrived and set a staggering number of drinks on the table. Shockingly, it was the orc who ordered them and not Odybrix. She removed the frown from her face before tapping the underside of the helmet. The faceplate slid away, revealing her mouth. She took a slip from the nearest glass and the frown returned.

“You don’t like it?” Kron asked.

“What is it?” She asked in reply.

“Elfsbane.”

“That sounds about right.”

“It’s made with juniper berries and aged in dwarven whiskey casks.”

“Juniper tastes like ass to most elves,” Odybrix chimed in.

“Acid,” Zenith corrected.

“Oh, you’re an elf. Couldn’t tell, what with the helmet situation,” Kron said, waving a loose hand in front of his face. “I guess there’s some truth to the name.”

She took another sip from the glass. “I’ve had worse.”

“Before we get down to business,” Kron said, raising a mug of ale, “to the fallen of Levisia. I’m not big on vengeance, but that psycho Vaelor needs to be taken down.”

Everyone at the table raised a glass except Adam, who offered a supportive “Hear hear.”

Kron took a swig of his ale and stopped when he noticed Adam.

“You want me to order something else?” Kron asked.

“No thank you, I don’t really drink.”

“Our boy is a teetotaller,” Odybrix said, knocking back a glass of whiskey. “He also enjoys crochet and painting flowers.”

Adam frowned.

“Hey, everybody loosens up in their own way. Some people choose not to indulge the common vices. No judgement here,” Kron said, waving to a server. “You want a coffee?”

“No,” Adam said, eyeing the table. His lip twitched into something that could have been a sneer and he grabbed an ale. The crew watched in silence as he knocked back the drink in seconds.

Kron let out a clipped laugh and threw back his own ale. Setting his mug down he said, “Also, nothing wrong with crocheting. I sew, myself.”

The orc’s hands were each half the size of Zenith’s head. “You sew?” She asked incredulously.

“Gotta fill your spare time with more than exercise. Keeps the brain healthy.”

“If we’re done sharing life tips, maybe we can get down to business,” Sturdy said.

Zenith noted that, while he raised his glass, he hadn’t drunk from it. Not a bad idea to stay sober when meeting a new contact, but it was just as likely that he was getting ready to run if things went sideways. On edge because of the orc or because of me, Mr. Spy?

Kron clasped both hands and set them on the table, then said, “Here’s the rundown of why I’m involved in this. Several weeks ago a masked individual broke into the most secure vault on Grolvar. This thief, Vaelor, materialized in front of the vault door completely undetected by multi-spectrum cameras. Defenses were immediately activated when he appeared; the vault locked down, auto-cannons came online, and oxygen was vented out of the room. Normally, these countermeasures would result in a well-perforated and suffocated thief, but...”

“Not for Vaelor,” Zenith said.

“Lightning shot out of his hands and disabled the cannons, and the lack of air didn’t seem to be a problem for him. Then he raised a hand and slammed it against the vault door. I need you to understand that this vault is supposed to be impenetrable. It’s a multi-factor lock keyed to the biology of the High Warlord; only she can open it. Moreover, it’s on a 30 minute time delay. Yet this guy simply slaps it and it pops open.”

“Are you allowed to tell us what he took?”

“Probably not, but secrets aren’t going to help the hunt. That vault contains any number of things that someone could sell for a big payday: classified docs with military and government secrets, prototypes for new weapons, recovered tech from unexplained sources. Our guy didn’t take any of those. The other category the vault houses is relics from the age of myth. He took one of those.”

Kron paused as the server came by with another round of drinks. At this point, the crew was leaning in to hear the story. Even Sturdy seemed to lose some of the tension in his shoulders as he focused on the orc’s words. The server left and he continued.

“The relic was a six-sided cube made of a material that Grolvar scientists haven’t been able to identify. Each side has a unique symbol. We have no idea what it is, but we do know where it was found.”

Kron paused again.

“Well don’t keep us in suspense,” Adam said, urging him to continue.

“You heard of Mt. Kologar?”

“It’s an active volcano in the middle of the Cresting Sea on Materia,” Hoxley offered. “The volcano erupts every four-hundred years or so.”

“Nerd,” Odybrix said.

“That’s almost correct,” Kron said, nodding once.

“About the volcano or Hoxley being an encyclopedia?” Adam asked.

“The volcano. It erupts every four-hundred years on the dot.”

“That’s ludicrously improbable,” Hoxley said, “How would you even know the dates beyond the first two to three repetitions? Historical records are notoriously spotty before the Exodus.”

“If you go searching for dates online, you’ll find multiple answers. That, from what we’ve learned, is intentional. The cube was found hovering on top of a bed of lava.”

“It hovers?” Odybrix asked.

“Not since it left the volcano.”

“How long has Glovar had this relic?” Sturdy asked.

“Pre-Exodus. One of our ancestors brought it with them when we took to the stars.”

“So you have no idea what it does?” Adam asked.

“No, but it came to us with a warning written on a scrap of paper, ‘Keep it sealed away.’”

“I suspect Vaelor knows what it is,” Sturdy said, finally taking an actual sip from a whiskey glass.

“My thoughts exactly,” Kron concurred. “So, what can you tell me about your involvement?”

Adam took the lead on the explanation. He covered the initial job from Remington, their first encounter with a mutant, the derelict ship and the monster within. There was a noticeable pause when the story veered towards Harlow. Zenith picked up the story at those points, not wanting to shy away from the reality of the situation.

“So he stole a dangerous artifact from Remington,” Kron said, picking up a glass and swirling the amber liquid inside, “Want to wager he’s here for another relic?”

“It’s a safe bet,” Adam said.

“How are we going to find him?” Hoxley asked. “It’s a big planet and we have no leads.”

Kron smiled, then pointed to a group of dwarves entering the club. Ten in all. They were adorned with silver: studs, chokers, and rings. Their skin was an eclectic tableau of tattoos with a single unifying image on their necks, a chunk of metal wreathed in flame.

“My contact on Gemheart led me towards these guys. They’re called the Slags, and they’re the reason I chose this spot. Vaelor’s had dealings with criminals in the past.”

“He killed an information broker aboard Levisia,” Adam said, “so it’s as good a guess as any that he’ll reach out to someone here.”

“I’m hoping the Slags will point us in the right direction,” Kron said.

“That, or they’ll point a pistol at your head and tell you too fuck off. If you’re lucky,” Odybrix said.

“Maybe they’d be most receptive to someone like you,” Hoxley said.

“Is that prejudicial suggestion because of my size or my tattoos?” Odybrix asked, shooting the infernum a harsh look.

“Attitude,” Sturdy said.

Zenith stood up, cutting off Odybrix. She briefly looked at Hoxley, hoping to convey that he keep an eye on Sturdy, then said, “I’ll handle this.”

“No offense, but maybe the kid or Mr. Serious should go,” Odybrix said, jabbing a thumb at Sturdy. “You’re not exactly our best negotiator.”

“No, but I am the best dancer.”

Zenith turned and strode towards the dwarves’ table, hearing Adam’s words drift through the din.

“So he gets a cool nickname and I’m stuck with ‘the kid?’”

The band on stage was an eclectic assortment of races, which was uncommon on a predominantly dwarven planet. A slender elf with dirty blonde hair and tattered clothes provided the backbeat, hammering a drum kit with her eyes closed. Two infernum stood opposite each other. One has a red complexion, the other, a very rare ivory. They played synth and bass respectively. Fronting the band was a young dwarf woman with wild red hair and an acoustic guitar slung around her shoulders.

If circumstances were less pressing, Zenith might have given herself time to enjoy the set. Instead, she strode to the Slags’ table and sized the gang up at glance. The semi circle booth was capped at both ends with muscle—three on each side. Sitting at the centre was a pale-skinned dwarf with a low fade Mohawk and red shades that covered a quarter of his face—the boss. His arm was draped over the shoulder of a black-haired dwarf woman. She had more piercings on her face than the Sunrunner had rivets.

Of the two that were left, only one caught Zenith’s eye. She was younger than the rest, with purple hair and silver studs around the collar of her leather jacket. Close enough to the gang leader to be someone important, but lacking the hard edges of someone with criminal experience. A cousin or sister of the boss.

Hard eyes and scowls greeted her as she approached the table. Two goons stood and let their hands slide to the guns obviously hidden at their waists. Zenith paid the hostility no heed, instead focusing her attention on the purple haired dwarf.

“Want to dance?”

The dwarf glanced at the boss, who responded with a mild shrug.

“And why would I want to dance with you?” she asked.

Zenith pulled off her helmet and shook her head, letting her white hair fall to her shoulders.

“Why wouldn’t you?”

The dwarf sized her up, pausing to sip from her lowball. After a few uncomfortable seconds of silence, she smirked and said, “You’re ballsy. Terna, Gully, move your asses. I need to stretch my legs.”

Zenith clocked a flicker in the gang leader’s glasses as her dance partner slid out of the booth. Tech specs. He’s probably running my face against a database right now. Good luck, pal. She slid her helmet across the table. He casually slapped a hand down to stop it, then lowered his shades and gave her a questioning, likely threatening, look.