Soren was nearly in a full sprint, each rounded corner a blur of soldiers and brawny brick. He wasn't late, but nowhere near his usual fifteen-minute cushion. The last few days had been a whirlwind, each hour swallowed by endless logistics. Crew rotations. Supply recounts. Ceenav plotting.

  What little time he’d stolen had vanished underneath the hum of a boltflusher. Hard at work with yet another of his inventions—the very same secured to the rear of his trauma-plate. An offensive... field, combat intangidisk, thing. A bulky box of a device, whatever nomenclature he finally decided on.

  Not a new idea, but portable models didn't have the power necessary to deprive the senses. In a useful manner at least. Not like the high-end mounted projectors. The illusions often buckled in pathetic flashes of light.

  It was a work-in-progress. A tediously complex back-warmer. But he’d get it right one day. He was good at tinkering with things when he put his mind to it.

  Damn good at breaking them too...

  Soren hit the elevator controls as he skirted to a halt. Two terrastone doors that yawned open with a grinding hiss, klaxons whining in shrill protest.

  “Please tell me you actually slept last night?” came a rearward voice, muffled by the mechanical racket. "I'm too tired to cover down for you."

  He half-turned, patted his pockets, hoping to find some sleep amongst the loose change and lint.

  It was Sere. His executive officer.

  She stood a hair taller, thermos in hand, wearing an identical crimson trauma-plate over beige fatigues. SUK-4 slung over one shoulder. Her grin was the perfect mix of mischief and warmth. Red-gold hair draped ruggedly over cinnamon cheeks, as if crowned with a blazing inferno.

  “Least tell me you didn’t spend the night hunched over that thing? In the dark like a gremlin?"

  He gave a noncommittal shrug as they entered the lift. Sere brushed his shoulder in unspoken challenge, glimpsing at him as she whistled. An old rhythmic tune he'd tap his foot to if he was in the mood.

  The doors began to cycle closed, the sharp bite of coolant tainted the air...

  ...before their bodies collided.

  Plates clanked together. Hair tangled. Lips locked in furious fervor. Soren's hands held her waist, his tongue explored her mouth with eager abandon.

  Equal parts love and lust—a blissful, much-needed reprieve.

  Before he knew it the doors opened, flooding the elevator with the bright-hot reality of Arephemos' surface. Scorching heat courtesy of its three merciless blue suns.

  “You're a damn good kisser,” Sere whispered as they passionately, and begrudgingly parted. "Minty fresh as always."

  Soren brushed a lock from her eye, stole a glance at the men bustling outside, then fished a small bottle from his cargo pocket.

  “Got ya something. With us being so busy and all, I just thought that." He snorted. "Actually, it's a gift I think we'll both enjoy.”

  Sere beamed as she snatched it, more radiant than the brightest star. Like he’d proposed and filed her taxes simultaneously.

  “No label? What is it, perfume or something? Or do I smell alcohol?"

  She unscrewed it with a deep, curious sniff.

  "Is this? Is this mouthwash?"

  “Just a quick little gurgle. Please. Do the smelling galaxy a favor.”

  "You piece of shit! We've been on doubles, what do you expect it to smell like? Daisies and rainbows?"

  "The hell does a rainbow smell like?"

  Sere pushed him away and stormed off, but he scooped her up, laughing hard.

  She playfully kicked her feet, and the heat rolled over them as Soren carried her out. Teal-leaf trees fluttered in the distance. Beige dust swept across the charcoal terrastone of Alpha Base's roof—a series of segmented set-down zones.

  Wolves rushed back and forth in a hurry, prepping to receive the QRF (Quick Response Fleet). En route from yet another a Scrapper incursion.

  Inbred pirates and The Heartland went together like assholes and toilet paper.

  Most of the zones were empty. The bulk of Whiro’s fleet was either underground, or away on missions like the QRF. Only two light-cruisers idled nearby. Crimson. Wedge-shaped and sleek. Riddled with weapon embankments of every deadly variety.

  The closest of which—dubbed Reaper in muted white letters—was their assigned vessel.

  A formation of robed vampir lingered in its shadow, watching the technicians with vaunted disinterest. Masked with umbrefa??, twisted into sneers or wicked smiles. Their raiment more practical than fashion statement, shields from the painful, and ultimately fatal sunlight.

  Had to be baking like bread underneath all that fabric.

  Also beneath Reaper’s shadow, Wardens Dodson and Gilas stood at the head of Soren's own formation. Across from them, Turk and Jo?o matched their positions perfectly.

  “What’re you two waiting for?” Soren walked past them, keeping his eye on their frenemies, half-stern, half-amused. “We’ve wasted enough time.”

  “Yes, Huntmaster!” Dodson barked crisply. “Alpha team to the bridge! Delta, get the engines hot! Move!”

  Soren and Turk locked eyes, retreating footfalls punctuating the tense moment. Her umbrefa?? was simple. Bone-white. Mouthless. Titian irises flickering with malice in its slitted and recessed eye sockets.

  She waved once at her back, slow and silent, commanding the vampir to pour aboard like liquid shadows.

  Sere, long since on her own two feet, shook her head as she watched them vanish up the ramp.

  “Gonna be a fun little journey. And by fun, I mean I'll be checking over my shoulder and avoiding dark corridors. What the hell was Whiro thinking?”

  “He’s thinking we need Teth Coven’s funding, till we find our footing. Can’t lean on BioMech anymore after all. Rumor is Vorteth’s even got Omni-Corp directors in his pocket.”

  “In his iron grip, more like. And I respect the logic. Just wish there was a better way.”

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  The breeze ruffled Soren's cascading blonde hair, as he watched the last pallets of H-Rations rise up into the hold.

  “And he’s thinking that maybe, if we can permanently alter the virus, we won’t need human flesh to stave off Lupining. That matters more than anything. Especially to me.”

  She gently rubbed at his shoulder. "You mean, what happened on Taladran?"

  He turned to face her. Serious, but not severe.

  “What else? But are you ready for this mission—hunting Te Whetū? If I had to chase down my dead… Ida… I’d feel some kind of way. Set the universe on fire just to hear her voice for five minutes.”

  Her face went blank. Not cold. Simply still. One knuckle tapped against her sub-machine gun.

  “He’s been dead to me. Whatever walks in his skin, hasn't been the man I loved for a long while. Why else would I be standing here and not with him?”

  Soren held her gaze, pressed lazily down on his holstered pistols, then gave a faint nod. Not quite sympathy. More like gratitude.

  “Good. Well, not good, but better that you've let go than not. Go on ahead and get aboard, I'll catch up.”

  Thankfully, the final checks didn’t drag on.

  Before long Soren was last up the ramp, watching Defiler tear skyward, engines howling like a lone wolf’s cry. En route toward Directorate space, and this supposed genius, Tani Undali.

  The cruiser vanished into the clouds with a thunderous boom. Soren depressed the ramp's controls, a slow, but—

  “Wait!”

  Hurried boots thundered across the set-down zone.

  Rodríguez barreled into view past a cargo-lift, duffel on one shoulder, SUK-4 slung on the other. At the last second, she launched into the air—fifteen feet, easy—and caught the ramp’s edge with a grunt. She rolled down in a clatter of limbs and gear, landing unceremoniously at Soren’s feet, as the door hummed shut.

  She looked up with sharp, gray, accusatory eyes. Her chest heaved in steady breaths. Not from the exertion, it appeared. But more from rage.

  “I got orders to come aboard.” She swallowed and regained positive control of her weapon. “Six frackin minutes ago!”

  “I know. Who do you think gave them?”

  Her scowl twitched, and confusion crept over her like fog.

  “So this is what—got a crush on me now or something? Or is this another punishment? Wasn’t scrubbing the whole starsdamned base enough?”

  He stared down at her, unreadable, arms behind his back.

  “Actually, I’m cutting you a break. Word is your bunkmates have been roughing you up. More than expected. Figured with you gone they'd have time to cool off.”

  He offered a hand, and she took it, surprisingly let him pull her up.

  “I may be young,” she said, dusting off. “But I’m still a grown-ass woman. I can fight my own battles.”

  “There’s no fucking winning with you, is there?”

  “Oh there is.” Rodríguez smiled, lips thin as a fine razor. “Just not with you, sir.”

  Soren smirked and scratched lazily at an ear. “Follow me.”

  They moved through Reaper’s guts as it launched, narrow but roomy enough corridors. Amber light flickered along bronzed walls, a warm color that clashed with the cruiser’s bloody ascents. The deck shuddered at their feet, but they didn’t falter in the slightest. The GEG was running smooth as silk. Without it they'd have mangled into a heap of limbs.

  They took the lift up to Deck Three, weaving through the busy maintenance crew.

  “I took a glance at your file,” Soren said, boots echoing off the plating. “I know why you hate me now.”

  “Took you reading a file to figure that out? Should’ve been obvious from the get-go.”

  “Even these days, Rodríguez is a pretty common name. Your grandfather?”

  “Great-grandfather," she spat, voice beveled like a blade.

  He led them down the crew section, stopped at the last quarters on the left, hands still clasped.

  “This is you.”

  She sniffed at the door, like a cautious pup about to enter a foreign cage.

  “It's not booby-trapped, kid.” He hit the door console. “You’re on general relief and will fill in where needed. Sync your intangidisk to ship-time, and report to the bridge at 0800.”

  Soren turned to leave, then paused despite himself. Long enough for an even greater tension to brew between them.

  "...I’d kill him all over again, you know?”

  No reply. Her stare stabbed between his shoulder blades like a burning bayonet. Soren heard a finger brush over her weapon's trigger, coiled with murderous contemplation.

  “The Red Mist War was messy for everyone. But if anyone had it coming it was Isael Rodríguez. If you’d known him, his disregard for the people under him? You’d hate him instead of me. Or...maybe that's just wishful thinking?"

  He kept on without looking back.

  The last remnants of an old guilt fell from his shoulders. Not one ounce of pity weighed him down now. Isael had had it coming. But he understood vengeance, how it warped the mind—devoured the soul.

  Rodríguez was lucky, she had a name, a face in which to aim her hatred. Soren wasn’t as fortunate. There was no one else to blame.

  No one but him.

  Minutes later, he strode into the command briefing room. Heavy authority in each step. Five wolves and five vampir filled the cramped space. Closer than they would ever care to be. Most were standing, with a few seated around the central table. All tension and exhaustion.

  Turk paced, maskless with arms crossed tight, tired shadows under her eyes. Above a mounted intangidisk, Vorteth’s face shimmered like a phantasmal god peering through a crack in reality.

  “I don’t expect you to scour the entire galaxy, Teresa. New settlements pop up with every breath. Humans are like rodents in more ways than one.” Vorteth tilted his head. “What of your mysticism, Sere? You have vials of Whiro's blood. Can you not sense a flicker of his kin through The Veil? Or are they beyond your reach?”

  Sere casually peeled an orange with a claw like skinning a citrus grenade. “The mind has limits, especially in regards to the range of hemoveilic pursuit. Better odds once we get further out into space.”

  “Useless charlatan! Have better luck posting an advert on The Stellarnet.”

  “She’s a Bloodhound, not a sorceress, my Lord.” Soren sat his backpack down and plopped into one of the comfortable, wamu-leather chairs. “If you don’t like the show then change the damn channel.”

  The vampir subtly bristled, not angry, simply not used to anyone speaking to him like that. Jo?o being the only one visibly annoyed, talons tapping along the table.

  Vorteth laughed, dry as bits of bone.

  “Coming to your woman’s aid? How quaint. But remember, there won’t always be parsecs between us, boy.”

  “I know.” Soren leaned back. “And I plan to savor every second of fresh air while there is.”

  Sere shook her head, humored beneath a thin veneer of mock disappointment.

  “I’m going to savor the day I render you into bloody digestible chunks.” Vorteth flashed a milk-curdling smile. “But I am patient. If nothing else.”

  “Wolven irreverence aside, my tactical concerns remain," Turk continued with a frown. "Why send so few vessels? Their father Kahika has been a ghost for centuries. Maybe he'll be alone. But Te Whetū? He's probably guarded by the bulk of the Unified Clans.”

  “Scrapper armadas are prowling nearby systems, committing more leaves us exposed. But fret not, you have endless time. This mission may last far longer than any of us expect.”

  He paused, silence settling slow like snow on a windless day.

  “We have eyes everywhere. If either sticks their neck out, we'll send you in to unburden their shoulders. Metaphorically, of course. If he’s holed up somewhere with teeth, we’ll come in force when able.”

  “Of course, Lord Vorteth.”

  The image flickered, then his pale face twitched up a hairless brow.

  “But I may have... alternative operators to aid you. Old contacts. Gutter-born riffraff. Deadliest humans I’ve ever met. Unreliable without copious amounts of fissens, but useful.”

  Soren cracked his neck, tired of hearing his voice but curious. “Got their contact data? A little help is still help.”

  “None to give. Doubt they’ll accept a contract from people they don't know anyhow. But I know where they are. And I’m already off-world.”

  Console beeps filled another noticeable hush. Vorteth's eyes burned like sulfur. Bright. Deadly and hungry.

  “Maybe I’ll drop by. See if I can find ways to motivate them.”