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Bolden’s jaw clenches. He wraps his fist around the hilt of his blade. Six days without food, but he is strong as ever, venomous anger rearing through his aura as he imagines us being killed on the station, but I know he would force that rage down to keep her safe. This is our battle now. To stop the Scorp-Blooded rage from consuming us and spilling out into her. To reign in our darkest impulses. To rise above ourselves, to be worthy fathers and husbands.

“In and out. The Priests can have spies everywhere.”

There is no need for further words. We leave the Reaver, and Khra strides away, mechanics moving aside hurriedly and keeping their eyes down as he passes by. A portly woman in grease stained brown pants beelines towards me, glancing up at the brand on my forehead then to the weapon at my belt. Her eyes linger on the venomous green of my veins.

Before she can speak, I toss her a thousand credits. She snatches it and it disappears into her pants in an instant.

“Welcome to Rapart Space Sport. This is my bay.” She smiles, showing brown teeth, her bottom lip packed full of tobacco chew. “We get a few of your kind around here. And none with…” she trails off, thinking better of mentioning the venom in my veins. If she has heard of Scorp-Blooded Aurelians, it would only be in horror stories.

“Any Aurelians on board now?” I hand her another thousand credits before she can answer.

“No. Last we had was three weeks ago. Rogue types, not with any faction. They bought two slave-women and left. Shall I have a few women brought to your ship to sate you? Or are the auctions more to your liking?” There’s a sly smile on her lips.

“No. I need tools and supplies. Bio-formers. Seeds. Where do I go?”

Her eyes flash in surprise. She looks me up and down, but bites back questions, but I know what she’s thinking.

That Aurelians aren’t farmers…

And that there’s a third of my triad, still in the Reaver.

“Albert’s. I can get you a transport there. Or it’s a ten minute walking, straight up that way, take the second left, you can’t miss it. Maybe five minutes with your long legs. He’ll set you up. Tell him Laney sent you, and he’ll give you a discount.”

“Thank you.” I thrust more credits into her hands and stalk away, my boots clanging with each step on the metal grated floor. The air is thick, used a thousand times over, and welders and mechanics cast red-hot sparks in my vision while repairing ships. I stride out of the cacophony of the ship bay and down the main corridor, walls towering above me but giving a soulless vibe of worn metal and stale air. As I approach, humans press themselves against the walls in fear, their eyes tracing the black brand on my chest before looking away, never daring to make eye contract.

There is no chance for stealth. Even behind me, I can hear the buzz of people speaking. A triad of Aurelians, branded for Obsidian, with venom in their veins. Reports will be sent everywhere.

We just have to disappear before we can be hounded.

The station is mostly humans, but there is the occasional Toad. One Toad, laden with gold jewelry, in gaudy purple robes over his distended belly, is flanked by two Bullfrog guards, the massive, warty soldiers that stare me down. I give them a wide berth. I have no time for challenges.

I follow her directions until I get to a store that is packed full of ancient yet well-made machinery, everything in organized chaos, towering piles of genetically modified seeds next to racks of worn yet good quality leather jackets. My stomach growls as I smell roasted bird wafting through the hallways. My stomach acid burns, but every second is precious.

A man with a patchy white moustache sidles up to me. “What…” he clears his throat, nervous, as he glances up at the brand on my chest, the veins filled with poison covering my body where my black robes do not hide me. “What can I do for you?”

The list is imprinted on my mind. “I need a bio-former. Bring it to the Reaver in Laney’s hanger. Your best model. If there’s any problem with it, I’ll be coming back.”

“No problem, no problem at all. Harry!” He yells, and a boy, perhaps twenty, with a glazed look on his face and shoulder length brown hair, appears out of the shelfs. His jaw gapes open as he sees me. “Bio-former. This year’s model. Get it sent over to Laney’s hanger. Now.”

“Uh, to which ship?” He says. He chews on nothing, staring straight to the ground.

“To the Reaver, you fool boy. Now!” The young man disappears, grateful to be sent away.

“What else can I do for you?”

“Seeds. I’ll take them myself.”

“What sort of climate are they for?”

“Just give me the hardiest plants you have.”

I reach into my robe and take out the bag. I feel the weight of the bars and coins inside, and I hope that it is enough.

It is the last of my physical credits. Our bank accounts cannot be accessed, or everyone in Obsidian’s armies would know where we are. From now on, we’ll be alone, with only what we can create.

I hand the bag to him. He opens it quickly, counting the credits, and hands me back two black bars of ten thousand each, along with some change.

“I do a fair trade. This is excess on the balance.”