Prologue

Vanbrook stared down the street as he adjusted his ribbony tie for the umpteenth time, fastened at his throat with a metal broach. The kindly old salesman at the clothier had assured him it was the latest style, and had patiently shown him how to fasten it. Vanbrook hoped he'd gotten it right when he did it on his own.

He stood outside of Kerucester’s finest dining establishment. The First Home Bistro was known for its Aeratan cuisine. It was hard to get a reservation, even for war heroes, but Vanbrook had managed it.

What made him so nervous wasn't the venue–or the tie, for that matter–so much as it was his date. Raivyn was the single most impressive person he knew. She was, in addition to being a deadly psychic warrior, smart, capable and driven. For some reason, she'd agreed to go on a date with him. He was sure he was going to mess it up.

A taxi hovered up to the curb and a petite woman with an eye patch stepped out, yelling into the cab, “‘Rounded up’ indeed! Keep the change and don't think I'll be using this cab service again!” She slammed the door, turning and blanching when she saw Vanbrook.

“Hey, Raivyn,” said Vanbrook, his face lighting up at the sight of the fiery psychic.

She smoothed her dress and smiled sheepishly up at him, the fire starting to fade from her eye as embarrassment started to overshadow anger. The simple green evening gown she wore brought out the flecks of emerald in her dark eye and complimented her fair complexion. Her black hair was, as ever, in a tight military bun, a few rogue locks hanging over her brow.

“Rough ride over?” He asked, nodding his head towards the departing cab.

“Uh, yeah, sorry,” she said, studying the sidewalk for a moment. “The cabbies in this town are great, except for the ones that aren’t.”

Vanbrook laughed. Raivyn looked up at him, the corners of her lips turning up in her first true smile of the evening. He was in formal wear, which was a strange look for him, and had on a frilly tie that wasn't entirely unflattering, but looked out of place to Raivyn. His dark eyes and aquiline features were what really caught her eye, along with his military haircut, which actually looked combed for a change. She couldn't help but smile at the goofball, and part of her couldn't believe this was happening. Their relationship had always been strained by their oil-and-water personality differences, but when Vanbrook finally asked her out to a romantic dinner, she hoped they’d finally found their stride.

“New eye patch?” asked Vanbrook. A cold sensation like a bucket of icewater washed over his mind as he heard his own careless words.

“Oh, um, yes!” answered Raivyn with a laugh, her hand going to the silky black patch over her ruined eye. “You noticed! Reclan keeps trying to talk me into a bionic replacement but I hear they can be itchy, plus the maintenance is a pain. So yeah, I researched ‘fashionable eyepatch,’ and this was the best I could find.”

“It, uh, looks nice,” said Vanbrook. Happy that his observation had been well-received, he smiled and offered Raivyn his arm, leading her into the restaurant.

Checking in with the host and finding their table, the two sat quietly studying the menus for a moment.

“Does it… look like the kind of food you grew up on?” asked Vanbrook.

“No,” said Raivyn casually. “This is the kind of stuff rich Aeratans eat. I never really cared for it.”

“Oh,” said Vanbrook, his face falling. Preparing this evening had taken a lot of work, and he hated to think it had all been for naught.

Raivyn blushed. “Oh, I didn’t mean-”

“No, no, it’s fine, I should have asked,” said Vanbrook.

“Ah, there we go!” said Raivyn, voice thick with exaggerated enthusiasm. “Blueback filet. Mom used to make that on special occasions. That’ll be lovely.”

Vanbrook smiled weakly.

Raivyn bit her lip, thinking for a moment. “Van, I have to tell you something.”

He looked up, worry obvious on his face.

“No–look–it’s not that bad,” said Raivyn. “It’s just a work thing. I have to go to Aerat with Admiral Hunt before we head back out to explore the Cornucopia Cluster. It’s some kind of outreach venture, and since I’m a native Aeratan he wants me to go along. The rest of the Blue Griffon Fleet is going to rendezvous with us out there in a few weeks and then we’ll get to see each other again.”

“Oh, okay, when do you leave?” asked Vanbrook.

“In two days,” she answered. “I know the timing isn’t great.”

Vanbrook shrugged. “We’ll keep in touch.” He smiled. “I don’t make enough to buy you meals you don’t like, anyway.”

She tried to shoot him a stern look, but a smile broke through.

He raised his hands in surrender, laughing.

Chapter 1: The Dragon Awakens

Nearly a lightyear away from Griffonia, a massive field of purple electromagnetic energy hurdled through the aether. The field was shaped like an oblong sphere that rocketed forward like a torpedo. Inside the field was a long series of sleek and polished metal structures that looked like a cross between train cars and low-lying metal towers.

In the foremost structure, Farbin’s eyes flickered open. He stretched, his long metal arms nearly reaching the ceiling. He flexed his long, slender fingers to circulate blood through them. He ran his hands over his tabard, smoothing out the wrinkles. In the tightly controlled environment, The smooth metal that made up most of his body and his belt buckle, a globe orbited by an angular dragon, had kept the fresh-polished look they’d had when he set his course.

He reached up to smooth his coarse, black beard, wondering why the Council forbade shaving. All their people had done to eliminate the gross necessities of biological life, but still all males were required to grow the filthy things.

Dismissing the thought, he ran a quick diagnostic and found that his body had been well maintained during his centuries-long sleep. He would have to refill his lubricant hoppers, but that was to be expected. The drones couldn’t do it all. His biological elements appeared to be in good health, as well. Aging had been brought to a standstill in the stasis field he’d slept in, so he was still a young and healthy one hundred fifty-year-old.

Standing up from the chair he’d spend the last few decades in, Farbin walked over to the main console. He wouldn’t wake the Council up until he knew he’d found a good candidate for invasion.

“Let’s see,” he said in a low, rasping voice. A planet appeared on the report. It was blue and green, with wispy white clouds covering much of the surface. The radio and other electromagnetic waves that emanated from the world suggested the inhabitants were not only sapient, but somewhat technologically advanced. “What have we here?”

The neon sign flickered back and forth between the image of a griffon holding a mug of something frothy out in front of itself and one where it was pouring the beverage into its open maw. The Squiffy Griff was exactly the kind of establishment Darvik had been avoiding since he’d returned to Griffonia, but duty called. His meandering career path had taken him from professional duelist to petty criminal to murderer to cultist and now, by way of having his sentence commuted, to agent of the Republic Telepathic Services Rogue Psychic Taskforce. Through all that, he’d kicked his drinking habit and learned he had latent psychic abilities. It had been a wild year.

Stepping down into the dimly lit pub, he waited for his eyes to adjust. The bar was mostly empty, with just a few patrons sitting alone quietly or in groups of two or three. He walked past the tables and up to the bar, sitting down on one of the stools and calling to the bartender.

Stolen story; please report.

“Hey, what’s happening, Criddek?” he said, casually as he could.

The burly Dromean turned around, a scaly eyebrow raised in suspicion. Seeing Darvik sitting at the bar with a smile on his scruffy face, Criddek grinned, showing off a mouthful of sharp teeth. “Darvik! Heard you died out in that Cornucopia Cluster the newspapers can’t stop talking about!”

Darvik shrugged. “Nah. Had a rough go of it, but found my way back home.”

“Drink?” asked Criddek pointing to the wall of bottles behind himself. “Pick your poison. First one’s on me.”

“No,” said Darvik, shaking his head. “I’m off the stuff for good.”

“That’s not the plan, Darvik,” said a stony, bitter voice in his ear. “You are going to unnecessarily raise his suspicions.”

Darvik ignored the voice.

“Really?” asked Criddek, tilting his head to the side. “What brings you into my bar, then? Forgive me, but I’m assuming it wasn’t just to say hello to little ol’ me.”

Darvik smiled. “Ha. I’m hurt. But you’re right. I’m, uh, looking for work, as it were.”

“Get in contact with Dewlin,” said Criddek. “You used to do odd jobs for him, right?”

Darvik cringed. “Ah, yeah, last I was in town Dewlin and I had a bit of a… falling out.”

Creddik shrugged. “Well, Dewlin runs it all in Kerucester. You want work, you better get back on his good side.”

“I hear there’s someone else,” said Darvik, looking down at the empty bar in front of himself.

“Don’t know anything about it,” said Criddek with a little too much finality.

“I’m talking about the Puppet Master,” said Darvik.

The “Puppet Master,” as the papers had called him, had been psychically puppeteering security guards, bank tellers, and apparently random passers-by to commit massive thefts in recent weeks. The earliest occurrences had all been in the vicinity of the Squiffy Griff, and Darvik had been sent by Trebor to pump Criddek for information.

“Then I definitely don’t know anything about it,” said Criddek. He had put his hands on the bar opposite Darvik and was staring him in the eyes. “Besides, they say he works alone.”

“Well, it sounds like you know… something,” coaxed Darvik.

Criddek’s eyes narrowed. Something like cold fingers stabbed into Darvik’s mind. He tensed up, trying to push Criddek out of his brain, but he was failing.

“Got a gun on you, don’t you?” said Criddek.

Darvik grunted, trying to white-knuckle his way through the attack.

“You’re going to pull it, push it against your temple, and pull the trigger,” taunted Criddek. “Everyone will think it’s so sad how poor old Darvik, once-promising pro athlete, traveled all around the galaxy, kicked his drinking habit, and then wound up ending it all in a dive bar in the south side of Kerucester.”

It was Darvik’s will against Criddek’s now, and Darvik felt like victory was in grasp. Instead of reaching for it, Darvik let his arm start to go through the motion of pulling his gun, fighting just enough to slow Criddek down. The cold barrel pressed against his skull.

Two shots rang out, and Darvik’s arm snapped away from his head, his mind released from the Puppet Master’s attack. He watched as the two bullets slammed into the deadly psychic’s shoulders, dropping him to the floor. He turned to see Trebor standing in the doorway, his long, dark cloak still rustling from his entrance, his twin pistols in his hands, and his icy blue eyes locked onto Darvik.

As soon as the shots went off, everyone in the bar had fled to the back door or hunkered behind a table. Trebor walked into the room, eyeing the remaining patrons. His tall, lanky form paired with a gaunt, pale face and slick black hair made for an imposing figure. No one stood up.

“Cut that a bit close, don’t you think?” asked Darvik, getting up and walking around the bar to tend to Criddek.

“Would have been fine if you had played your part more intelligently,” scoffed Trebor.

“Whatever,” said Darvik dismissively. He looked down at Criddek, who was groaning in pain in an increasingly large puddle of his own blood. “Looks like we got our man.”

Vanbrook smoothed his mustache as the Bombard, the Blue Griffon Fleet’s new destroyer-class gunship, approached Aerat to rendezvous with the Wingspan.

Reclan looked on with disgust, her crimson crest of feathers flattened against her head. “What, are you checking to make sure it didn’t crawl off?”

Vanbrook looked at her, offense written all over his face. “Raivyn’s seen it already over a video comm, you know, and she said it looked, and I quote, ‘dashing.’”

Reclan rolled her eyes. “All that time and effort trying to get the two of you together and this is what I get in return. I have to deal with mustaches and hearing about how ‘dashing’ they are.”

“This isn’t about you, Rec,” said Vanbrook, some of his good humor returning.

“He’s right,” offered Doc Manford, Talon Squad’s medic. His unmoving, Robotic face accentuating his deadpan remark. “We all have to look at the blasted thing.”

Reclan howled with laughter, and D’Jarric chuckled gently. The glowing golden Solaran hadn’t said a word about the mustache, and as far as Vanbrook could tell, probably didn’t much care one way or another, but always enjoyed a good-natured laugh at a squadmate’s expense.

“Well, it’s my face, and I’m keeping the thing,” said Vanbrook in semi-mock indignation.

“Just as long as you feed it and clean up for it,” retorted Reclan. Doc and D’Jarric nearly doubled over laughing.

A few hours later, the Bombard landed on Aerat in the Griffon Republic Embassy’s airfield. The massive, torpedo-shaped gunship was dwarfed by the carrier-class Wingspan, the Blue Griffon Fleet’s thousand-foot-long flagship. The Wingspan resembled a massive platform with a tall, dome-enclosed bridge tower that rose above the main structure of the ship. Attached to the massive carrier via airlock was the tower-like Shepherd, the fleet’s medical and support ship.

Captain Yulun, a Wabuluban female, stepped down the ramp of the Bombard and was greeted by Admiral Hunt, the fleet’s newly-promoted ranking officer. Hunt had taken over command when Admiral Jasken had retired. He was young, but had proven himself a capable leader and Jasken had happily handed off the command to him before riding off into the proverbial sunset on Ol’ Blue, his beloved pet griffon.

Returning Yulun’s salute, Hunt got down to business. “Captain Yulun. I trust the trip went smoothly?”

“Yes, sir,” she replied. “I suppose you’ll be happy to take Talon Squad back under your wing, if you’ll pardon the phrase. They should be here shortly.”

Hunt’s face would have soured if he hadn’t learned from Jasken how to mask his emotions in front of his subordinates. Talon Squad was an elite, effective team to be sure. However, they also existed parallel to the chain of command in a way that had never sat well with Hunt. Vanbrook in particular had often been a thorn in Jasken's side. It was the one element of the fleet Hunt had been less than happy to inherit.

“Then I didn't miss them yet?” asked Raivyn, walking up with Lawbine, the Aeratan representative who would be traveling with them as they pushed further into the Cornucopia Cluster.

Raivyn was the exception to the rule with Talon Squad. She was professional, dependable, and respectful. Scuttlebutt was that she and Vanbrook had gone out for a romantic dinner just before she'd left Griffonia. Hunt didn't mind as long as Raivyn didn't pick up Vanbrook's habit of flaunting authority. He was an Admiral now, and his reputation may very well be built up or torn down by the actions of the elite Talon Squad.

As Hunt mulled over the situation, Vanbrook appeared at the top of the ramp along with Reclan, Doc, and D'Jarric. Greeting Hunt with a sloppy salute, Vanbrook brushed past him and went to Raivyn.

“Rai! It's great to see you!” he said.

They stood smiling at each other awkwardly for a moment and then went in for a quick hug.

Reclan rolled her eyes. “Yes, yes, your beau and his pet mustache are here now.”

“I think it looks dashing,” declared Raivyn.

“So we've heard,” noted Doc.

“Good to see you, Admiral,” said D'Jarric.

Hunt regarded the Solaran. The glowing golden figure dressed in silver armor that stood before him was the electromagnetic avatar of D'Jarric, whose true presence and mind existed somewhere in the swirling inferno of a distant star. D'Jarric was respectful and kind, but had a way of working his own will quietly that made Hunt uncomfortable.

“You too, D'Jarric,” he said curtly.

He turned to see Vanbrook and Lawbine sizing each other up silently. Both were tall and broad, but Lawbine was just a bit taller, with a square jaw and a more slender build. He sported a mustache as well, but his was wide and thick, reminding Hunt of Jasken's signature facial hair, but still jet black with youth. He had deep olive skin and emerald eyes that looked sharp and clear as a pair of glass daggers. His long-tailed coat was opened wide, revealing a set of twin ray guns on either hip.

The looks on their faces were at once neutral and menacing. Raivyn must have noticed it as well.

“Vanbrook, this is Lawbine,” she said. “He's an old friend, and he's also going to be coming along as a representative of the Aeratan Nation’s military.”

“Thought you Aeratans liked to stick close to the homeland,” said Vanbrook, his smile friendly but his eyes cold.

“We can make exceptions for a good cause,” said Lawbine with an easy smile. He had the lithe, easy slowness of a gunslinger, but the refined dress and speech of an Aeratan gentleman.

Something about his voice grated on Vanbrook’s nerves. Or maybe it was his clothes. Or the look in his eye. The more he considered it, the more he realized there wasn’t anything about this newcomer that Vanbrook liked.

“Right,” said Reclan hesitantly. “So, Admiral, what's next?”

“We make our way to Hruduk,” said Hunt, walking back towards the Wingspan. “We're going to see some old friends.”