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QUINN

T he Paris Starport hums with the low murmur of a hundred languages, the air thick with the scent of alien spices and the faint tang of ionized air.

My heels click against the polished floor, the sound swallowed by the vastness of the terminal.

A Grolgath businessman strides past, his scales shimmering under the fluorescent lights.

A Pi’Rell pauses to adjust the strap of their satchel, their eyes catching the light like polished marble.

A Shorcu with a third eye that glows faintly in the UV spectrum is arguing with a Vakutan over the exchange rate on a credstick transaction.

The Vakutan’s ridges flush a deeper red as the Shorcu’s third eye narrows.

I’m halfway to the IEC wing when the light dims. A shadow falls over me, blotting out the overhead lights.

I glance up—way up—into the face of an Odex.

His fur is a deep chestnut, and he’s wearing a beret tilted at a jaunty angle.

It’s the kind of thing that would look ridiculous on anyone else, but on him, it’s almost charming. Almost.

“Human,” he rumbles, his voice like gravel under a steamroller. “You look like someone who appreciates art.”

“Do I?” I arch an eyebrow, glancing at the stack of canvases tucked under his massive arm. “Or do I just look like someone with a credstick?”

He chuckles, a sound that vibrates through my chest. “Both. But mostly the first one.” He pulls out a painting, holding it up with surprising delicacy. It’s the Eiffel Tower, but with a flying saucer hovering next to it, its metallic surface reflecting the Parisian skyline. “What do you think?”

I tilt my head, considering. “It’s... bold. Unexpected. I like it.”

“Good taste.” He grins, revealing teeth that could probably crush a small asteroid. “Five hundred credits.”

“Five hundred?” I laugh, pulling out my credstick. “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood. Deliver it to the IEC Triumphant. I’m boarding soon.”

He nods, tucking the painting back under his arm. “Pleasure doing business with you, human.”

I wave him off and continue toward the security checkpoint. The Vakutan guard towers over the scanner, his scales a deep crimson. He glances at my ID, then down at me, his ridges furrowing.

“Diplomat Clearance?” he snorts. “Aren’t you a little young to be a diplomat?”

I plant a hand on my hip, meeting his gaze without flinching. “I wasn’t aware there was an age requirement. Besides, humans only live a little over a century, compared to almost a thousand years for you Vakutan. Aren’t we ALL a little young compared to you?”

He grunts, waving me through. “Vakutan young can hunt and slay their own dinner within hours of birth.”

“Of course you can,” I mutter, stepping past him.

The terminal stretches out before me, a maze of gates and signs.

I scan the board, searching for the Triumphant.

My heels click against the floor, the sound echoing in the vast space.

The ship awaits, and with it, whatever the galaxy has in store for me next.

I spot him before he’s halfway across the terminal—General Dowron, towering over the crowd, his dark red Alliance uniform crisp even at this ungodly hour.

His scales have faded to a soft pink with age, but his stride is still sharp, each step deliberate.

I can practically hear the gears turning in his head as he approaches.

“General,” I greet him, my smile warm but laced with the kind of sarcasm that only comes from dealing with bureaucrats who think they’re subtle. “So nice of you to see me off in person. Did you bring flowers? Champagne? Or is this just your version of a friendly goodbye?”

“Gellar.” His voice is gravel, deep and unmovable. He doesn’t even crack a smile. “Cut the chatter. Did you get the files on the Jwoon incident?”

“I did.” I pat the tablet tucked under my arm.

“And let me say, it’s a real page-turner.

Murder, malfunctions, and a mining operation that’s about as legal as piracy.

Speaking of which—” I tilt my head, feigning innocence.

“Why hasn’t Kallus Bruw’s operation been moved off the planet already?

He never filed the right permits, did he? ”

Dowron’s ridges tighten. “Bruw’s challenging the vacate order. Claims it’s a misunderstanding. He’s tied it up in the courts—bureaucratic quicksand. It’s a mess.”

“Of course it is.” I roll my eyes. “Because why wouldn’t the dirtiest player in the shipping game drag this out until the Solari are out of a home moon?”

“That’s why you’re going to Armstrong.” His gaze locks onto mine, intense and unyielding. “Salvage this. Keep the Solari on their moon. And if you can, do it without starting another war.”

“No pressure, then.” I smirk, folding my arms. “Care to give me a hint on how to handle Bruw? Or are you just here to deliver the bad news and leave me to figure it out?”

“You’re clever, Gellar. You’ll manage.” He steps back, giving me a curt nod. “Don’t overthink it. And don’t underestimate him.”

“Never do.” I watch as he turns and walks away, his posture as straight as ever. He’s already moving on to the next crisis, the next negotiation, the next fire to put out. Typical Dowron—straight to the point, no pleasantries. I shake my head, adjusting my grip on my bag.

The Triumphant looms ahead, sleek and elegant, a falcon ready to take flight. I take a deep breath, squaring my shoulders. Time to see if I can outmaneuver Kallus Bruw and keep the Solari in their home. Piece of cake. Right?

The Triumphant’s boarding ramp hisses shut behind me, sealing out the chaos of the starport.

The interior is sleek, all polished metal and soft lighting, with the faint hum of the engines vibrating through the floor.

The captain, a grizzled human with a salt-and-pepper beard and a uniform that’s seen better days, greets me with a nod.

“Welcome aboard, Ms. Gellar. Captain Hargrove. We’ll be underway shortly.” His voice is gravelly, like he’s been chewing on stardust for breakfast.

“Captain,” I reply, flashing him my most diplomatic smile. “Looking forward to a smooth flight.”

He grunts, already turning back to the cockpit. “Smooth as space, ma’am. Crew’ll get you settled.”

The two flight attendants are waiting just inside the cabin.

One’s human, petite with a bob of dark hair and a no-nonsense expression.

The other’s a Vakutan, her scales a deep crimson, her ridges catching the light as she moves.

She’s easily seven feet tall, and her uniform is tailored to accommodate her bulk, though it still looks like it’s one wrong move away from tearing at the seams.

“Ms. Gellar,” the human attendant says, her voice crisp. “I’m Clara. This is T’vek. Let us know if you need anything.”

“Clara. T’vek.” I nod at each of them, already slipping into my usual charm offensive. “So, how long have you two been flying together? You look like a well-oiled machine.”

Clara’s lips twitch, almost a smile. “Three years. T’vek’s the best co-worker I’ve ever had. Doesn’t complain, doesn’t steal my lunch, and can lift a shuttle engine with one hand.”

T’vek snorts, a deep rumble that shakes the air. “Clara exaggerates. It was half an engine.”

I laugh, leaning against the bulkhead. “Sounds like a dream team. So, what’s the gossip? Anything juicy happening on the Triumphant these days?”

Clara glances at T’vek, who shrugs her massive shoulders. “Not much,” Clara says. “Unless you count the time T’vek accidentally crushed the coffee machine.”

“It was fragile,” T’vek mutters, her ridges darkening. “Human technology is too delicate.”

“Says the woman who once punched a hull breach shut,” Clara shoots back, grinning now.

I raise an eyebrow. “You punched a hull breach shut?”

T’vek shrugs again. “It was a small breach.”

The engines hum louder, and the ship tilts slightly as it lifts off. I keep my eyes firmly on the attendants, avoiding the windows. The last thing I need is a bout of space sickness before we’ve even left the atmosphere.

“You ever get used to that?” I ask, gesturing vaguely toward the windows. “The whole ‘ship pointing straight up’ thing?”

T’vek shakes her head. “Never. I don’t look. It’s better that way.”

Clara nods in agreement. “First rule of space travel: don’t look out the window until you’re in the black.”

The ship levels out, and the blue of the sky fades to black, stars winking into existence like a thousand tiny eyes. I finally risk a glance out the window, the vastness of space stretching out before us. It’s breathtaking, as always.

The stars blur into streaks of light as the Triumphant makes the jump to superluminal speed. The hum of the engines shifts, deeper now, resonating in my chest.

“Here we go,” I say, leaning back in my seat. Armstrong awaits.

The flight attendants move to secure the cabin as alarms blare, their professionalism fraying at the edges. Clara's knuckles whiten around the seat restraints she's checking, and T'vek's ridges flush a deeper crimson.

I sink back into my seat, tapping my tablet to expand Zantress’s dossier.

The Grolgath’s scaled face glares from the screen, her golden eyes unblinking.

Records show she once stood for twelve hours in silent protest outside an IEC outpost after they detained a Solari youth for picking glow-moss outside Bruw’s mining perimeter.

No demands, no speeches—just presence. And now three of her people are dead, and she wants blood.

Or rather, the absence of it. Total withdrawal. Full accountability.

Find out what someone wants, and either grant it or withhold it. Dad’s voice echoes in my skull. That’s all diplomacy is, kid—controlled leverage.

I resist the urge to snort. Easy for him to say. He never had to negotiate with a zealot whose definition of “justice” involved dismantling a billion-credit operation bare-handed.

The ship lurches violently, throwing me against the harness so hard my teeth clack. The stars outside the viewport smear, then snap back into pinpoints. The artificial gravity stutters, making my stomach flip.

“What the hell was that?” I call toward the cockpit.

T’vek braces a clawed hand against the ceiling. “Unscheduled drop from superluminal.”

Clara stumbles down the aisle toward me. “Gravity well interference. Probably just a nav hiccup?—”

The Triumphant jerks again, harder. Metal groans, and a shower of sparks erupts from the overhead console. The lights flicker, then stabilize into an ominous dim red. Emergency protocols. My nails dig into the armrests.

Captain Hargrove’s voice crackles over the comm. “Brace for impact. We’ve got—” A deafening crunch cuts him off, followed by the shriek of tearing metal. The ship slews sideways as klaxons wail.

Clara grabs my seatback, her knuckles bone-white. “That wasn’t a gravity well.”

No kidding. I thumb the comm open. “Captain. Report.”

The static-filled reply makes my blood freeze. “Unmarked cruiser. They’ve got us in a disruptor net. Engines are down. Shields at—” A burst of feedback drowns him out.

The main monitor flickers to life, displaying the exterior feed. The pirate ship looms—a jagged brute of a cruiser, its hull studded with retrofitted ion cannons. No identifiers. No affiliations. Just raw threat.

T’vek growls low in her throat. “Pirates don’t hit IEC diplomats. Too messy.”

Clara exhales sharply. “Unless someone paid them to.”

Another blast rocks us. A muffled curse from the cockpit cuts off with a thud. The comm panel lights up—incoming hail.

Clara and T’vek exchange looks. Neither moves.

Right. Diplomatic immunity falls to me.

I slap the receiver. “This is the IEC Triumphant on official diplomatic?—”

A laugh slices through the static. Not amused. Not even cruel. Just hungry.

“But we—” The voice rasps like steel dragged over stone. “—are a threat to you. ”

Silence. Then the line dies.

Across the aisle, Clara’s wrist unit flashes. Life support failing. T’vek’s claws flex.

The cruiser’s docking clamps thud against our hull. And suddenly, I'm not so sure we're going to make our appointment at Armstrong.