Page 15

VARNOK

I stomp up the ramp into Sweet Charity, my footfalls echoing through the empty ship. Gas is probably out enjoying Armstrong's nightlife—good for him. The quiet suits my mood.

The holocom chamber is tucked behind the bridge, a small room with nothing but a circular platform surrounded by projectors. I step onto the platform and punch in Dowron's personal code. It's late, but this can't wait.

The system hums to life, the air shimmering before me. After several moments, Dowron's image flickers into existence—disheveled, his pink scales dull with age and sleep.

"This better be important, Annihilator," he growls, blinking rapidly. He's wearing what appears to be sleeping robes, and his ridge is flattened on one side where he must have been lying on it.

"Apologies for waking you, General," I say, straightening my posture automatically. "But we have a situation. Kallus Bruw is petitioning the Alliance for a Writ of Industrial Conscription for Jwoon X."

Dowron's eyes sharpen immediately, sleep falling away. "Serenity Garsdotter told you this?"

"Yes. Is it true?"

He sighs, a heavy sound that seems to carry the weight of his five centuries. "It is. My sources on the Alliance Council confirmed it yesterday."

I slam my fist against the wall. "We are no longer at war, General. Why the writ? These emergency powers should be buried with the dead!"

"The war might be officially over, Varnok, but the danger never is." Dowron's image steps closer, his voice dropping. "Just saying the war is over doesn't make it over for the entire galaxy. There are splinter groups of former Alliance and Coalition fighters alike who refuse to cease hostilities."

"Rogue elements," I say dismissively.

"More than that. Former war generals on both sides have chosen to become warlords instead of disarming and returning home as ordered.

They control entire systems now, with battle-hardened troops loyal only to them.

" Dowron's eyes meet mine. "In fact, I believe the galaxy is a MORE dangerous place now that the Centuries War is over. "

"How so?"

"During the war, we knew who our enemies were. Now?" He shakes his head. "The lines are blurred. Opportunists like Kallus exploit the chaos, while legitimate security concerns make it difficult to deny requests like his without appearing weak."

I pace the small chamber, processing his words. "So Kallus claims these minerals are vital to Alliance security?"

"Precisely. And there's enough truth in it to make the argument compelling. The minerals can be used in next-generation shield technology."

I stop pacing, a realization hitting me. "This isn't just about profit for him, is it? This is about power."

"Always has been." Dowron nods. "Kallus lost billions when the war ended. This is how he plans to reclaim his position."

My blood burns hot in my veins. The ambassador—Quinn—is walking into a battle far more dangerous than she realizes. "Our duty never ends, does it, General?"

"No," Dowron says, his voice firm despite his obvious fatigue. "And every time that duty calls, the Vakutan will be there to answer."

Pride swells in my chest. "Damn right we will." I thump my fist against my heart in salute. "The Vakutan have always stood between the innocent and those who would prey upon them. War or no war, that doesn't change."

"What will you do now, Annihilator?" Dowron asks.

I bare my teeth in what humans might mistake for a smile. "Whatever is necessary to protect the ambassador and stop Kallus from destroying an entire civilization for his profit margins."

"Be careful, Varnok," Dowron warns. "This is a different kind of battlefield."

"All battlefields are the same, General," I say, reaching to end the transmission. "They're won by those willing to fight the hardest for what they believe in."

I leave Sweet Charity with my mind churning. The writ changes everything. If Kallus gets his way, the Solari are finished. I need a drink.

The neon lights of Christmasville's entertainment district pull me in. I find a place called The Broken Orbit—dim lighting, strong drinks, and minimal conversation. Perfect.

I duck through the doorway, my head nearly scraping the ceiling. The patrons glance up at me, then quickly return to their drinks. Smart. I'm not in the mood for small talk.

The bartender—a burly human with cybernetic arms—nods as I approach. "What'll it be?"

"Something strong. Vakutan if you have it."

He slides a mug of frothy blue liquid across the bar. I drop my credstick on the counter and find an empty booth in the corner.

The drink burns pleasantly going down. I've barely taken my second sip when a shadow falls across my table.

"Mind if I join you?"

Kallus Bruw stands before me, immaculately dressed in what must be the latest fashion from some overpriced human designer. His light red scales gleam under the bar lights, polished to an unnatural shine.

"Actually, I do mind," I growl.

He slides into the seat across from me anyway, signaling the bartender. "Two more of whatever my friend is having. And put his tab on mine."

I bare my teeth. "In that case, I'll take one of every appetizer you have on the menu."

Kallus laughs, a practiced sound that never reaches his eyes. "A small price to pay to make good friends."

"We're not friends."

"That's because you don't know me yet." He leans forward, lowering his voice. "We have more in common than you think, Varnok."

The bartender delivers our drinks. I push mine aside, suddenly wary.

"I doubt that very much."

Kallus takes a delicate sip. "We're both pragmatists. Warriors. We understand how the galaxy really works." He gestures toward the window, toward the diplomatic center of Armstrong. "Not like those idealists playing at peace."

"You mean Ambassador Gellar?"

"Among others." He waves dismissively. "Come on, Varnok. Since when do Ataxian priestesses convert to the way of the Solari? Zantress is playing the Alliance. The Solari are just the beachhead for a potential Ataxian invasion."

I laugh. The idea is so absurd it's almost brilliant.

"You're good, Kallus. Trying to play on my prejudices against the Ataxians, of which I admittedly have many." I lean forward, my eyes narrowing dangerously. "But the war is over. And with it, any grudges I had against the Coalition."

"Really?" Kallus raises an eyebrow ridge. "What about Drach? Drach killed one of your crew, didn't he? On Proxima VI, during the Battle of the Crimson Nebula."

My blood runs cold. "How do you know about that?"

Kallus just smiles, his teeth gleaming. A server arrives with a platter of appetizers—fried wings, something tentacled, and various skewered meats.

"I make it my business to know things, Annihilator. Information is more valuable than credits." He pushes the platter toward me. "Eat. We're just two veterans having a friendly conversation."

I don't touch the food. "What do you want, Kallus?"

"Wouldn't you like to get back to the business of fighting, Varnok?

" His voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper.

"It would be so easy. Without Ambassador Gellar, the negotiations will come to an end.

All you have to do is just stay here at the bar for another hour, then go back to the hotel, and we'll all get what we want.

" He slides a plate of wings toward me. "More hot wings? "

There's more than wings on the plate. A credstick gleams among the food, its display showing a balance that makes my eyes widen. Ten million Alliance credits, at least.

"I've lost my appetite." I stand abruptly, my chair scraping against the floor.

Kallus remains seated, perfectly composed. "Think about it, Annihilator. The war may be over, but there will always be battles to fight. Choose the right side."

I turn and stride toward the door, my mind racing. The moment I step outside, I break into a dead run. Kallus's words echo in my head: "Without Ambassador Gellar, the negotiations will come to an end."

Quinn is in danger.

My feet pound the pavement as I sprint through the streets of Christmasville.

Civilians scatter out of my path, some crying out in alarm at the sight of a fully-armored Vakutan warrior charging through the night.

I don't care. Let them stare. Let them fear.

Right now, all that matters is getting to Quinn before Kallus's agents do.

I tap my wrist communicator as I run. "Gas! Gas, come in!"

Static crackles, then Gas's voice, slurred with what sounds like several drinks. "Heyyy, boss. What's up?"

"Get to the Superior Gardens now! The ambassador's in danger!"

"On my way!" His voice instantly sharpens, the professional beneath the party animal emerging.

I push myself harder, my muscles burning with exertion. The Superior Gardens looms ahead, its elegant spires gleaming against the night sky. I barrel through the front entrance, nearly taking the ornate glass doors off their hinges.

The Odex hotel manager—Roleach—steps forward with an indignant expression. "Sir! I must insist?—"

I seize him by the front of his uniform, lifting him off the ground. "Ambassador Gellar. Where is she?"

"The—the rooftop garden," he stammers. "But security protocols?—"

I drop him and sprint for the elevators, smashing the call button with my fist. Too slow. I turn to the emergency stairs and take them three at a time, my heart hammering in my chest.

Twenty-seven floors. I count them as I climb, each step bringing me closer to Quinn. Please let me be in time. Please let her be safe.

I slam my palm against the elevator call button. The doors slide open and I step inside, punching the button for the rooftop garden. My heart pounds against my ribs as the elevator begins its ascent.

Floor twelve... thirteen... fourteen...

The elevator jerks to a halt between floors. Something's wrong.

I flatten myself against the wall, instinct taking over just as a hail of plasma fire tears through the ceiling. The shots punch through the metal like it's paper, leaving molten edges around each hole. The acrid smell of burnt circuitry fills the small space.

"Coward!" I roar. "Face me like a warrior!"

More shots answer me, this time in a sweeping pattern across the elevator roof. I crouch low, then spring upward with all my strength. My fist punches through the weakened metal, and my fingers close around something solid—an ankle.

I yank downward with all my might. There's a startled cry as my attacker crashes through the roof, landing in a heap at my feet.

A Vakutan. One of my own kind.

He scrambles to his feet, plasma rifle aimed at my chest. His scales are a dull orange, his ridge marked with the scars of old battles. I recognize the pattern of those scars—the 23rd Assault Division. He fought at the Battle of Antares Prime. A fellow veteran.

"Why?" I demand, not moving. "This is dishonorable. We are Vakutan."

His laugh is bitter. "Honor?" He spits on the floor. "Honor doesn't put food on the table, Annihilator. Honor doesn't rebuild what was lost when they told us to lay down our weapons and go home."

"So you sell yourself to Kallus? Disgrace everything we fought for?"

"We fought for victory!" he snarls. "Not this... peace." He says the word like it's poison. "Kallus understands. The war never ended. It just changed battlefields."

"And Quinn? The ambassador? She's innocent in all this."

He shrugs. "Collateral damage. Nothing personal."

"It's personal to me." I tense, ready to spring.

He sees the shift in my stance and fires, but I'm already moving. The shot grazes my shoulder as I close the distance between us. His rifle clatters to the floor as I slam him against the wall, the impact denting the metal.

"For the glory of Vakuta," he hisses, drawing a vibroblade from his belt.

The blade slices across my abdomen, cutting deep. Pain flares, hot and sharp, but I don't release my grip. I can't. Quinn's life depends on it.

"For its honor," I reply, seizing his wrist and twisting until the blade falls.

We grapple in the confined space, two warriors bred for battle. He's good—trained like I was—but desperation gives me strength. I drive my knee into his stomach, then grab his head in both hands.

One sharp twist. A sickening crack.

His body goes limp in my grasp. I lower him to the floor, my breathing ragged. Blood—my blood—pools at my feet.

"You fought well," I murmur, closing his eyes with my palm. "May you find the battle you seek in the next life."

I retrieve his rifle and force the elevator doors open with my bare hands. The car has stopped between floors. I climb up to the next level, ignoring the burning pain in my side. Blood seeps through my fingers as I clap a hand to the wound.

Back in the hallway, I find another elevator and punch the button for the roof. As the doors close, I lean against the wall, leaving a smear of blood.

The cut is deep. Too deep. But I've fought with worse. I've survived worse.

Hold on, Quinn, I think as the elevator climbs. I'm coming.

The numbers tick upward. Twenty-five... twenty-six... twenty-seven.

The doors slide open to reveal the rooftop garden, the night air cool against my face. Somewhere among the exotic plants and twinkling lights, Quinn is in danger. And I won't let Kallus win. Not tonight. Not ever.

I step out of the elevator, weapon ready, blood dripping onto the polished floor. One thought drives me forward through the pain.

Find Quinn. Protect Quinn. Nothing else matters.