From the outside, the Feint Heart was just one more dive bar that lined the street of the Kerucester entertainment district, one more building where bright neon signs adorned a weathered storefront. Inside, however, the place was full of lively and good-natured patrons, celebrating the victories or nursing the losses that occurred at the stadium just down the street. It was the favored watering hole for duelists, and Vanbrook had taken Talon Squad, along with Drixen and Kaihla, to celebrate his victory. Reclan had gotten her nieces and nephews back to their respective parents and was happy to be free to celebrate with her friends.

A Wabuluban bartender greeted them as they walked in the front door. Walking out from behind the bar, he revealed his mechanical legs, each controlled by two of his tentacles. While Wabulubans could scurry around fine without them, the mechanical legs were common among those who chose to live among humanoids. The remaining four tentacles, each forked at the ends, were spread wide in a gesture of welcome and his wide eyes were warm, if you knew what to look for.

“Vanbrook!” said the octopus-like creature in a bubbling, watery voice. Even with the mechanical legs, Wabulubans tended to be on the small side, and the bartender’s hood only came up to Vanbrook’s chest. “I heard you were on tonight, was wondering if you’d stop by.”

“Of course, Wilbis!” said Vanbrook, putting his hand over his heart and speaking with a sense of drama. “I haven’t forgotten about my favorite bartender.”

“Heh,” responded the Wabuluban. “Okay, no need to lay it on so thick. A round of victory specials on the house, who’ll have one?”

Vanbrook, Reclan, Drixen, and Kaihla raised their hands. Raivyn didn’t drink, and D’Jarric and Doc Manford, being an energy being and a Robot, respectively, couldn’t.

“Alright,” said Wilbis, “four victories coming up.”

The bartender turned and stepped back behind the bar, grabbing a number of bottles simultaneously and mixing up a fruity cocktail. He turned half way around, tentacles still in action, and looked at Raivyn.

“Sure I can’t get you anything?” he asked. “No charge.”

“My mind is my weapon,” replied Raivyn. “I prefer to keep it sharp.”

The bartender eyed her studiously as he set four bright pink drinks on the bar. He turned back and poured another drink, carefully considering ingredients.

“One Kraquian swampberry juice with a splash of soda water, a hint of Griffonian hot pepper and a talvan blossom garnish,” he said, placing a bubbly purple drink in front of Raivyn. “Perfect drink for the sober psychic.”

Raivyn took a sip of the drink and nodded.

“How’d I do?” asked the bartender.

“Not bad,” said Raivyn. “Pretty good, actually.”

“That’s about as close you’re going to get to praise, Wilbis,” said Vanbrook with a chuckle as he sipped his drink. “I’d call that a win.”

Wilbis nodded contentedly.

The door swung open and Rolling Thunder barged into the Feint Heart, accompanied by three Marines.

“Wilbis!” he called to the bartender. “Four defeats for me and my friends, if you would be so kind.”

“Of course, Thunder,” answered the Wabuluban good-naturedly, “First round’s on the house.”

The Marines sat at the bar by the Navy squad and pilots, giving them a good-natured nod. Vanbrook raised a glass to them and took another sip of his sweet, fruity cocktail. Wilbis poured four blue drinks and set them out before the Marines.

“Ah,” said Thunder as he took a sip. “Bitter, as it should be.”

As part of their time-honored ritual, Vanbrook and Thunder exchanged glasses, took a sip of the other’s drink and then handed them back.

“Hey, it was a great match,” said Vanbrook. “Oh, and I wanted to introduce you to somebody! Hey, Drixen, c'mere once.”

The pilot looked up from his drink, eyes wide. He stepped over with as much confidence as he could muster.

“Rolling Thunder, I’d like you to meet Drixen, your biggest fan,” said Vanbrook.

“Call me Krum-Bahk,” said the Krauqian duelist, extending his hand to Drixen. “It’s an honor to meet one of the Republic’s greatest pilots.”

“Uh, wow, thanks Thun- uh, Krum-Bahk, the pleasure’s all mine,” said Drixen, beaming. “Though I’ll admit I was a tad disappointed when I heard you’d joined the knuckle draggers.”

“Easy,” said one of the Marines with a good natured laugh. He was a Raki, and while the humanoid crustaceans were generally large-framed as it was, this one was exceptionally broad and tall. The Talpidarian female sitting by him looked small enough that someone could have picked her up and carried her out of the bar like a sack of potatoes. However, the dangerous look on her pointed face and the spade-like claws clicking on the bar top made Drixen think they’d be better off not trying it. The third Marine was a broad-faced, barrel-chested Human male with an affable look on his face.

“Ah, well the Marines suit me,” said Krum-Bahk dismissively. “The thrill of jumping into battle is a bit more my speed than the whole exploring new worlds gig.”

“Well I suppose it does take all kinds,” said Drixen with a chuckle. “Oh, let me introduce you to my wif-”

“VANBROOK!” shouted a voice from the bar’s doorway, interrupting the introductions. The whole bar turned to see a haggard, bleary-eyed man leaning on the doorframe, his blonde hair hanging over his eyes and a scraggly beard growing on his chin. He had a black eye and a busted nose with a bandage stuck to it. “I knew I’d find you here.”

“Get out of here, Darvik,” said Wilbis in a dangerous voice.

“I was hoping the aether would claim you, you two-faced scumbag,” spat Darvik.

Wilbis shot Vanbrook a dangerous look, warning him not to engage the man.

“Thought you’d still be in prison, honestly,” Vanbrook snarled, setting his drink down and walking towards the drunk man.

“Oh, I did my time, do-gooder. But I don’t mind going back in for a good cause.” With that Darvik pulled a knife from his waistband and charged. Vanbrook sidestepped the clumsy attack, grabbing the wrist of his enemy’s knife hand and tossing him into the bar. Glass shattered as Darvik flailed. He came to rest on the bar, then snapped a kick with such unexpected speed and ferocity that it caught Vanbrook in the ribs.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Darvik followed up with another wild stab at Vanbrook. Not willing to be caught off guard twice, the swordsman dodged the knife and struck his attacker on the jaw.

This time Darvik simply crumpled. Vanbrook looked up and saw everyone staring at him.

"What?" he asked defensively.

"You could have given me a chance," said Wilbis sternly. "Darvik's been around a few times since he got out. I might've been able to talk him down."

"He came at me with a knife!" shouted Vanbrook as he stalked towards the bar.

"After you egged him on!" retorted Wilbis.

Vanbrook humphed and walked back to the bar. He slammed down enough platinum to cover the drinks and broken glasses and stormed out of the bar.

Raivyn shook her head. Vanbrook was a good man, and it was to his credit that he never ran from a fight. But he never walked away from a challenge, either. If only he could learn the difference.

Everyone trickled out of the bar after that. Darvik stirred, standing up and leaning on the bar.

"Guess it's back to prison for me, eh?" he said sullenly. The rage had cooled to self-pity, and Wilbis looked at him in contempt.

"Do you see any law officers around?" he asked the drunkard. "No, you don't."

Darvik huffed in annoyance, taking a seat.

"You won't like this one," said Wilbis, "but you and Vanbrook are cut from the same cloth. You're hotheads, always looking for trouble. Vanbrook just does a better job of picking sides."

Darvik brandished his knife, but Wilbis lifted a tentacle from under the bar, waving a small gun customized for a Wabuluban grip.

"Get out of my bar, Darvik."

Darvik stalked out of the bar, into the night.

***

Crush stood aboard her flagship, the Liberty. Formerly known as the Sepulchre, the gunship was part of the fleet she had stolen when she mutinied against the Ramshackle Collective and formed the Free Revolutionary Fleet. The red paint of the Collective had been covered over in stark white and black patterns, matching the new overcoats worn by the crew and officers. The Liberty boasted a deadly array of broadside cannons, mostly lasers but with a couple of railguns on each side to diversify the ship's armaments. Missile tubes graced the prow and stern of the vessel.

Massive panels resembling sails reached up greedily into the aether, drinking in solar rays and cosmic radiation to fuel the engines.

There was nothing keeping Crush attached to the deck but the magnetics built into her feet, and absolutely nothing separated her from the void of space as she stood on the deck. She reached out idly, as if she could ladle a cup of aether into her hands.

"Admiral?" asked a voice beside her. She pulled her arm back aboard as if she'd been caught stealing something. She turned to see Captain Tank, her second-in-command, and struck a dignified pose. Tank was sturdy, wide, and strong-limbed. Not the smartest robot Crush had ever met, but a fine sailor and a natural leader.

"Yes, Captain, what is it?" she asked in a commanding tone.

"We are coming up on the Ramshackle fleet, but something doesn't feel right about it."

Crush shot him a quizzical look, cocking her head to the side and raising one metal eyebrow.

"They're more well-armed than the others. Captain Hacksaw thinks they're expecting us."

Crush considered that for a moment, thoughtfully tapping her chin. Hacksaw was aboard the Fleet’s second ship, the Anthem. He had a background in intelligence and Crush had been impressed by his sharp analysis.

"Seems likely," she said. "We've hit them too hard too often. We desperately need the supplies, though. If we can take this fleet out with minimal losses it should give us what we'll need to lay low and restrategize."

Though the FRF had grown rapidly at first, the mutiny-turned-revolution had stagnated as of late. Those brave and wise enough to flee the Ramshackle Collective's oligarchical pirate fleets had already done so, and now Crush's raids on Collective scrap shipments had garnered a little too much attention.

Her musings were cut short once again as a laser cut through the aether and slammed into the shielded hull of the Liberty.

"Scramble fighters!" shouted Crush over the comms. "All ships turn broadside and fire on the enemy! Target weapon and sails! I want them crippled and toothless!"

The enemy had indeed been expecting them, the first laser blast followed by a full volley, all targeting the Liberty. Growling her displeasure, Crush climbed into her star tree, taking off to distract and harass the enemy ships. The living vessel, stolen from the Astralbian Kingdom's navy, responded to her mental commands as she gripped the root-like reins at the control center. The tree handled beautifully, weaving through the Ramshackle’s ships and carving the smaller fighters to bits with its laser eyes; the same eyes that fed visual information to the membranous screen in the control center. Crush had grown fond of the star tree. Not that it was sapient, or even aware, for that matter, but she had bonded to it in the way that any captain or pilot bonds with their vessel.

She blasted a gun off of one of the ships and reveled in the destruction. The Ramshackle Collective relied on shock and awe. If you could survive the initial onslaught and mount a counter-offensive, their ships tended to be weakly shielded. Crush had made sure her ships were well-shielded and thick-hulled, ready to repel the Collective’s fire long enough to burn them down.

Crush rounded to make another run at the guns, but found herself flanked by Ramshackle fighter skiffs. The star tree may have been the more graceful vessel, but it was hard to match a fighter skiff for firepower. She tried to target them with the tree’s eyes, but found she was spending too much energy on defense. She resented the fact that she’d been unable to upgrade the tree. The method of growing a star tree, much less coaxing it to bud eyes or thicken its bark, were secrets that the Astralbian tree priests guarded jealously. Making due with what she had, she managed to knock out a couple of skiffs before her own fighters came to her aid.

“Send the boarding parties!” she called as the fighters took out the remaining guns. Larger, slower skiffs carrying heavily armed FRF sailors launched from her fleet and rocketed towards the Collective ships. Crush monitored the melee remotely as she continued to fire on any Collective soldiers out on the decks of the unboarded ships.

As soon as the first boarding skiff hit the enemy’s lead vessel, a massive FRF sailor stomped on board, blasting away with a ballistic shotgun specially designed for use in a vacuum. When a Collective soldier got too close, he slammed the butt of the gun into the robot’s head, crushing him to the floor. Others were right behind the shotgun-toting brute, and Crush’s sailors quickly overwhelmed the battered vessels.

Crush was about to land on the lead vessel when it erupted into a fireball. Shocked, she jumped on the comms.

“Who fired that shot!” she demanded.

“No one, Admiral,” came Captain Hacksaw’s reply. “The ship was likely rigged to explode.”

“EVERYONE BACK TO YOUR SHIPS!” she shouted to the boarding crews. But it was too late. The other Ramshackle vessels exploded in turn, and anyone still onboard was lost. The aether soon calmed down. When it did, all that was left of the enemy fleet was a sorry collection of smoldering hulls.

“I want a full status report immediately,” said Crush. “I want skiffs out searching for survivors right away.”

“It was a trap, Admiral,” said Captain Hacksaw over the officer’s private comm channel.

“I can see that, Captain,” replied Crush, annoyance seething through her tone.

“I mean no disrespect,” Hacksaw added diplomatically. “Unfortunately, it means our sources within the Collective are compromised.”

“Most likely,” said Crush glumly. “Our days of picking off Collective shipments for easy pay days are certainly over.”

“Admiral Crush,” said Tank. “What about mercenary work? Back when this all began, we talked about acting as privateers. Why not give that a try?”

“The Griffon Republic doesn’t hire privateers,” replied Crush.

“True,” said Hacksaw, “but the Republic isn’t the only faction in the galaxy we could ally ourselves with.”

Crush paused.

“It’s worth considering,” she said. Then, to the general comms channel, she continued, “Please rescue any survivors from the blast, round up any useful scrap and prepare for a ripmed jump. We leave in thirty minutes.”