Gravel exchanged a glance with Hunter, who was still brushing debris from her jacket. “Define fly,” he said, already knowing he wouldn’t like the answer.
“Metallic, sprightly, and real bitey,” Fang shot back. “Think mechanical vultures with an attitude problem. I count at least four on me, but there’s probably more. Hey, one of them just waved at me. Hey bestie!”
“No tentacles?”
“No.”
“Tough luck.” Gravel turned to Hunter and grinned, and she gave him a ‘what are you talking about’ look.
Priest swore under his breath, yanking a drive free from its housing. He sprinted toward the makeshift exit, the others right behind him. Sunlight streaked through the jagged hole above, illuminating the swirling dust.
As soon as he stepped out, the Spider mech whirred back to life, servos clicking as it attempted to recalibrate. Its plasma cannon was offline, but its targeting systems were still active. The remaining railguns swung toward him with a mechanical snarl.
As the railguns locked onto him, he pivoted, raising his wrist and firing a concentrated energy blast straight at the mech’s exposed joint. The shot hit dead-on, a crackling burst of blue light slamming into the damaged servos.
The mech lurched, its targeting systems stuttering. Sparks erupted from the wound, the once-fluid movements of its leg turning sluggish and erratic.
Hunter caught on instantly. “Keep hitting it there!”
Priest fired again, this time aiming just below the exposed hydraulics. The impact sent another surge of energy crackling through the mech’s frame, causing it to shudder violently. The railguns twitched, then went still, their targeting reticles flickering.
Gravel seized the opening. “Now’s our chance! Move!”
The team sprinted away as the Spider mech attempted to steady itself, its damaged systems struggling to compensate.
But it wasn’t over yet.
From above, a piercing shriek rang out—the first of the metallic vultures had spotted them.
“What in the hell are those?” Gravel looked up, marveling at the nightmarish shapes cutting through the sky.
The metallic vultures were an unholy fusion of machine and predator, their skeletal frames a patchwork of corroded steel and exposed wiring. Their wings—jagged, uneven things—flexed with unnatural precision, each beat sending ripples of red energy coursing through the gaps in their plating. Instead of feathers, they were lined with razor-thin alloy blades that caught the sunlight like shattered glass.
A shadow streaked across the jungle canopy, cutting through the dust and smoke. Then came the roar of thrusters, a controlled yet powerful hum that sent leaves and debris scattering across the clearing.
Hua Fang’s craft—a sleek and vicious modified gunship called Black Fang (it was named after her)—descended. Its matte-black plating drank in the sunlight, broken only by sharp red markings that flickered like embers beneath an active energy shield. But up close, its patched-together nature was impossible to miss.
The hull was a Frankenstein’s monster of stolen tech—some panels smooth and pristine, clearly ripped from the latest Republic interceptors, while others were rough, scorched, and uneven, scavenged from downed crafts or bought off the black market. The VTOL engines, mounted on either side, hummed with unsettling efficiency, their polished casings unmistakably belonging to a state-of-the-art Volrak model. They were far too advanced for a ship like this—evidence of a very successful raid.
The side hatch hissed open mid-hover. A petite young woman leaned out, wind whipping her short, dark, perpetually windswept hair as she shouted, “Onboard!” That was Hua Fang.
Gravel grabbed Hunter’s arm and sprinted, Priest hot on their heels. They all telepathically decided against confronting those monsters head-on.
Above them, the metallic vultures closed in, their sleek bodies glinting in the sunlight. Each was a nightmare of rusted steel and exposed wiring, with jagged wings that cut through the air like razors. Optical sensors burned a deep red, tracking the fleeing team with predatory precision.
The gunship dipped lower, skimming just above the jungle floor. Hunter leaped first, grabbing the edge of the hatch and hauling herself in. Gravel followed, turning just in time to grab Priest’s wrist and yank him aboard as Fang jerked the controls.
The moment Priest’s boots hit the floor, Fang slammed the throttle forward. The engines roared, and the gunship shot skyward in a steep, gut-wrenching ascent. Below, the Spider mech twitched—then steadied, its systems rerouting power with chilling efficiency. Its targeting array flared back to life, locking onto them as its railguns swiveled upward.
“Fang.” Gravel called out, gripping the side of the cabin. “It’s still moving.”
“Yeah, I noticed,” Fang shot back, yanking the controls. The gunship pitched sharply as a burst of railgun fire shredded the air just behind them. “I’d really prefer not to die today, so hang on.”
Priest clenched the overhead bar. “That thing’s recalibrating fast.”
Hunter grimaced as another warning tone blared through the cockpit. “Yeah? Well, so should we. Get us out of here!”
“Working on it,” Fang snapped, slamming the throttle to full burn. The VTOL engines roared, the ship jolting as it accelerated hard. Below, the Spider mech took another lumbering step, servos shrieking as its plasma cannon began charging again.
A shrill screech cut through the air—one of the metallic vultures diving toward them. Fang swore and twisted the stick, sending the ship into a stomach-churning roll just as the creature’s claws scraped against the hull. Sparks flew, but the gunship powered through, climbing higher.
“We’re not sticking around for round two,” Fang growled, punching a set of mismatched switches. A brief pulse rippled from the ship’s tail—a countermeasure burst scrambling enemy targeting for a few precious seconds.
Gravel exhaled, keeping his eyes on the rapidly shrinking battlefield below. “Let’s hope that buys us enough time.”
“Hope faster,” Fang muttered, pushing the ship into a full-speed retreat.
The gunship rocketed through the sky, engines burning hot as Fang pushed them past safe limits. Below, the jungle blurred into a mass of green, and the bunker—along with the Spider mech still struggling to regain full function—shrank rapidly from view.
Another piercing screech. One of the metallic vultures streaked toward them, its razor-lined wings slicing through the air, but Fang twisted the stick hard. The ship veered sharply to the side, sending the creature spiraling past them before it could adjust course.
“Almost clear,” Priest called, checking his scanner. “But they’re still on us.”
“Not for long,” Fang muttered, fingers flying across the console. “Switching to high burn.”
A warning light flared red on the dash—engine strain. Fang ignored it. She flicked a mismatched toggle near the throttle, and the ship’s patched-together drive system flared to life, its mix of Republic-grade propulsion and black-market enhancements forcing raw power into the engines.
The ship lurched forward, inertia pressing them into their seats. The vultures screeched in frustration, their speed suddenly insufficient against the gunship’s acceleration. Within seconds, the atmosphere began to thin, the sky deepening into a dark void speckled with stars.
Gravel let out a slow breath as the shaking eased. “We clear?”
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
Priest checked his readouts. “Tracking signatures are fading. They can’t chase us this high.”
Hunter leaned back, finally releasing the grip on her harness. “Remind me to never doubt your getaway skills, Fang.”
Fang scoffed, flipping a few stabilizers back online. “Then don’t cut me off your comms again next time.”
“I didn’t do that. Rhyan did.” Hunter turned to Gravel.
“Call me by my real name now, huh, Miss Felicia Rhodes?” He snorted.
Fang exhaled sharply. “You two gonna reminisce, or are we actually debriefing? Because last I checked, we barely got out of that hellhole in one piece.”
Priest tapped his console, double-checking their heading. “She’s right. We’ve got the drive, but we don’t know what’s on it yet. And something tells me the Republic didn’t leave those surprises behind for nothing.”
Hunter chimed in, “And what’s up with that corpse? I’ve never seen anything like that before.”
Gravel’s expression darkened. “Maybe the drive will tell us. That thing is in the same facility they run dubious experiments on anyway. Let’s crack it open and find out what’s worth dying over.”
Priest didn’t look up from his console. “We’re not cracking anything open. We deliver the drive as-is. That was the deal.”
Gravel scoffed. “You can’t be serious.”
Hunter leaned forward, arms crossed. “Priest, they lied to us. We weren’t supposed to run into an entire kill squad and a damn murder-spider. The job was framed as a simple retrieval, not a death trap.”
Priest met their stares, his expression unreadable. “Doesn’t change the contract.”
Gravel ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “We nearly died for this thing. You really don’t wanna know why?”
Priest hesitated, just for a second, before shaking his head. “Doesn’t matter. If we look inside, we make ourselves a liability. Good luck getting hired for anything else.”
Fang clicked her tongue, watching them through the rearview display. “Hate to break up the moral debate, but we’re an hour from rendezvous. You three better figure this out before we get there.”
The screen flickered with navigational data: Departing low orbit of Namor-4. Trajectory set for deep-space relay at Gridpoint Theta-92.
The once-distant planet shrank behind them, its storm-wracked surface a swirling mass of emerald clouds and jagged lightning. Whatever secrets had been buried beneath its shattered landscape, they were leaving them far behind—at least for now.
Hunter and Gravel exchanged a glance. Neither looked ready to let this go.
The ship hummed softly as it cut through the void, its stabilizers adjusting automatically to the shift in trajectory. The silence between them stretched, thick with unspoken arguments.
Hunter leaned back in her seat, boot tapping an impatient rhythm against the floor. Gravel had his arms crossed, gaze distant, jaw tight. Priest remained at the console, expression unreadable, fingers idly running through flight diagnostics—pretending not to feel the weight of the others’ stares.
Fang, ever the outsider to their moral dilemmas, sighed. “You know, if you’re all gonna sulk, at least do it somewhere other than my cockpit.”
No one moved.
She rolled her eyes and focused on the controls. “Fine. Keep brooding. Just don’t make it my problem when it blows up in your faces.”
The relay station at Gridpoint Theta-92 emerged from the void, a solitary construct floating at the edge of deep space. It was a sprawling array of antennae and docking spires, built from a patchwork of reinforced plating that had clearly seen its share of rough encounters. The station’s lights pulsed faintly, a quiet beacon in the dark—no fanfare, no welcoming signals, just the cold, functional glow of automated systems waiting for the next transient crew.
Beyond it, the nearest star loomed—Sarnath-Delta, a red giant nearing the end of its life. Its surface roiled with slow, molten currents, sending out arcs of dying plasma that flickered like distant storms. The light it cast was weak, almost diluted, painting the relay station in a dim, rust-colored glow. A graveyard sun for a lonely outpost.
Fang guided the ship in, aligning with the docking coordinates. A brief transmission crackled through the comms—automated clearance, no human voice. There should be a real human greeting them at the dock. At least last time they were here, there was.
Fang frowned. “Automated response. No live check-in.”
Priest’s hands hovered over his console. “Normal for a relay this remote.”
Gravel wasn’t convinced. “Garnash should be here waiting.”
Hunter checked her weapon’s charge. “Maybe he’s late. Maybe he’s dead. Maybe he went to shave that ugly beard of his.”
Fang frowned. “I just picked up a suspicious encrypted message. It’d take time to decipher it; time we don’t have right now. Don’t know why they bothered encrypting it.”
“Means somebody’s here, at least,” Gravel said. “Or maybe it’s the super-duper galactic entity communicating in a frequency we just happen to be able to pick up.”
The docking clamps engaged with a mechanical hiss, locking the ship into place. Outside, the access corridor extended toward them, but no one stood waiting at the airlock. Just the quiet hum of station power, the dull flicker of warning lights casting long shadows against the metal walls.
Fang narrowed her eyes at the empty reception. “Alright, now I know something’s up.”
Priest adjusted his grip on the drive case. “No sign of Garnash?”
Gravel exhaled, already stepping toward the airlock controls. “We’re about to find out.”
The airlock cycled open with a deep clunk. The moment the doors slid apart, a wall of armed bodies came into view—half a dozen mercs in patchwork armor, weapons raised, standing in a loose formation inside the corridor. At their center, a broad-shouldered figure stepped forward, eyes locking onto the crew.
Garnash.
The old warlord looked genuinely surprised. His reptilian features twitched, sharp teeth parting slightly in what could almost be called an amused snarl. His scales, a dull bronze under the station’s dim lights, caught the flicker of the warning strips along the corridor. He was taller than most of his hired guns, his heavy coat draped over a chest plate that had clearly seen battle.
“Well,” he rumbled, his deep voice carrying a mix of amusement and disbelief. “I’ll be damned.” He let out a short, barking laugh. “You lot actually made it back.”
Hunter cocked an eyebrow. “Oh? You weren’t expecting us?”
Garnash tilted his head, looking them over, eyes lingering on the drive case in Priest’s hands. “Let’s just say I had . . . contingencies in case you didn’t.” He gestured around at his men with an easy, almost casual motion.
Gravel’s fingers twitched near his weapon, but he didn’t draw. Not yet. “That why you brought a welcoming committee?”
Garnash smirked. “Can’t be too careful. You went dark for a while. Thought maybe the Republic ate you alive.” His gaze flicked between them.
Hunter exhaled sharply. “You tell us, Garnash. Because we had one hell of a time down there.”
The warlord let out a deep chuckle. “Then I suppose we all have stories to share.” He extended a clawed hand. “But first—the drive.”
Priest stepped forward, case in hand, ready to hand it over. But then he hesitated. His gaze flickered to Hunter, to Gravel, to Fang still at the ship’s controls. The tension in their eyes said it all.
Something wasn’t right.
Before he could speak, Gravel took a step ahead of him. “Garnash,” he said, voice even but laced with something harder, sharper. “You sent us into something way nastier than a simple retrieval job. You wanna explain why?”
Garnash’s smirk twitched, but he didn’t lose his composure. Instead, he spread his hands in mock innocence. “Now, now. Let’s not get dramatic.” His tail flicked behind him, a restless movement. “You got the drive, didn’t you? And you’re alive. And McPherson has never delayed on payments for a successful job.”
Gravel didn’t move. “You knew what was down there. I demand–”
Priest interrupted, voice low. “If this drive was worth sending us into a kill zone, then it’s worth more than you’re paying.”
Garnash’s smirk faded. His slit-pupiled eyes locked onto Priest. “That wasn’t the deal.”
Gravel took a half step forward, just enough to let the guards know they weren’t backing down. “Neither was an ambush, a kill squad, or that walking war crime of a mech. If you want this drive, you tell us exactly what’s on it.”
For the first time since they arrived, Garnash hesitated. It was quick—just a fraction of a second—but Gravel caught it.
Fang’s voice crackled over comms from the ship. “So . . . are we doing business, or do I need to warm up the engines?”
Garnash exhaled sharply through his nose, his tail flicking once. Then he let out a slow, measured chuckle. “Fine. You want more? You’ve got nerve, I’ll give you that.”
Hunter crossed her arms. “And?”
Garnash’s smirk returned, but this time it was tight, his patience thinning. “An extra thirty million. No more.”
Gravel glanced at Priest, then at Hunter. Fang was silent on the comms, but he knew she was listening. They had pushed their luck enough—pressing further would get them shot.
Priest gave a slow nod. “We take the thirty. And we walk away clean.”
Garnash’s claws drummed against his vambrace before he gestured to one of his people. A moment later, the transfer confirmation pinged on Priest’s wrist display.
“Done. McPherson never breaks promises.” Garnash held out his hand. “Now, the drive.”
Priest hesitated again, but this time, he handed it over.
Garnash took it, weighing it in his palm before tucking it away inside his armored coat. His gaze lingered on them for a beat too long. “You’re smart enough to know when not to ask questions. Keep it that way.”
Gravel snorted. “We’ll try.”
Fang’s voice cut in through the comms. “Engines are primed. Can we go before lizard boy changes his mind?”
Gravel jerked his head toward the ship. “Let’s move.”
No one turned their backs to Garnash’s men as they walked away.