Twenty-nine days after the imperial ambassador’s murder.

Razan station, Bellos system, 5:22pm.

Vintage Rocks, read the sign above the entrance to the bar. Devan waited a moment for the automatic door to slide open. When it did, a draft of air hit his face, warm and with a bite of alcohol and cigarette smoke. The buzz of lively chatter flowed out into the quiet station corridor, unbothered by the new arrivals and flourishing in the homely atmosphere made by old-time patrons. Devan led the way inside, followed by Kalz and Less.

The bar was a well-preserved antique from when the station had first been built. Edged with drab steel growing and stretching upwards from the floor, opaque glass panes covered the walls, muting the glow of the lights behind them. A diaphanous cloud of smoke hung about tenaciously despite the air filters, fed by streams rising from many tables. At the very back of the bar stood a lacquered, black wood counter, with a barkeep endlessly polishing glasses behind it. Behind him stretched a wide assortment of alcoholic drinks, from the weak ones that would tickle the tongue, to the strong ones that would knock down even the heaviest drinkers. Everything was clean, too. It meant the patrons were the savoury sort.

As they sat down and gave their order, Devan scanned the people in the room. The majority was engrossed in recordings of the fighting matches shown on two large displays mounted on the walls. The rest kept their gazes low, unable to stomach the gruesome scenes, and talked about recent events. Worn jackets and coats painted them as citizens belonging to the lower sphere, either from the undersurface or cheaper districts on the ground. These people took in information and rumours like a sponge.

Channelling a spark of the Gift, Devan filtered the noise of the surroundings and listened in on their conversations. Words and sentences blended into a dizzying cacophony. However, focusing on keywords, he managed to isolate some parts and make out their meaning.

From what he could gather, some wondered how the killer could have even arrived on Radaar due to the lockdown. Others wondered about the Fringe’s involvement. Another group talked of the approaching war, and finally, some of the people wanted nothing more than to watch how the Empire’s wrath would fall on Earth.

He pulled his power back, sensing a migraine fast approaching from the swift extraction of information. The youths looked at him worriedly. “Just tired from the trip,” he said.

“Sorry you had to drag us along,” Less said. “If we’re too much a bother, we’ll leave.”

“No.” Devan shook his head. “We’re already here. Try to enjoy yourselves.” Even if they weren’t conducive to his mission, there was no need to push them away now that he had little to do. Additionally, they helped him remember some of the good times from the past.

The door to the bar opened. The man that walked in drew everyone’s attention, but most of the people turned away a moment later, unwilling to meet his eyes. His gaze swept over the bar, then settled on Devan and the two youths. He sauntered towards them. The relaxed gait did little, however, to disguise his fierce appearance.

He was a mountain of a man, grizzled and fierce. He wore his battles, not in scars, but in his steps, his movements – there were almost no scars marring his face, a carved stone barely mellowed by age. Only the spark of boyish charm and mischief still lingering in his dark brown eyes made the jovial smile seem genuine.

He grabbed a nearby chair, and spun it, having the backrest facing his front, then sat down. Kalz and Less stared at him with their mouths slightly open.

“I’m not bothering you, am I?” he asked, then waved to the barkeep. “A mug of Bellossi ale!” The barkeep gave him a thumbs up.

“Why are you here?” Devan asked.

“That’s a rude thing to say to your captain,” the man said. “Name’s Thren Raid. I came to see for myself who my passengers were. Not your names. I read your reports so many times I get a headache just looking at them.”

Devan furrowed his brow, drumming his fingers on the table, once. “Shouldn’t that highborn be of greater interest to you than us, then? Her kind’s the one that tends to get into trouble.”

Raid groaned and waved his hand in exasperation. “Don’t get me started with her. I hate dealing with her kind. They don’t mingle with… lessers,” he spat the last word out.

“S-so, there’s an actual highborn on board the ship?” Kalz whisper-shouted, though, thankfully, the background roar of chatter had drowned out his words before they could spread beyond this table.

“Calm down,” Raid said. “So what if she’s a highborn? Eat, drink, piss, and shit – they’re no different than the rest of us. Ain’t got two heads, nor is their blood green.”

“How can that be?!” Less said in protest. “They’re completely different.”

“Raid’s right. There is no difference” Devan said. “If you discount the money, the influence, and the fact that most if not all of them are adepts. No difference at all.”

“All minor things,” Raid said. “Practically irrelevant.”

The joking tone inspired the boys to start pestering the captain to tell them more, their initial fear of him pushed down by their curiosity.

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Devan smiled at the scene, but unpleasant thoughts kept intruding. Highborn only used ghostships during their political battles when secrecy was paramount. This better not bring any trouble, he thought bitterly.

“All right, enough of that. I wanna hear what you’re all gonna be up to when we arrive,” Raid said. “Personally, I’ll be hitting a few good bars and pleasure districts.”

Once the waiter arrived carrying their drinks, Raid handed the man a large sum of credits – enough for the whole table, along with a generous tip. Devan made a mental note to treat him at least once should he have some free time.

“We were thinking of finding a job, getting enough credits, and then maybe moving up to the ground,” Kalz said sheepishly, then dropped his voice so low it might have been a whisper. “Maybe even getting one of those stones.”

So, that’s why they asked, Devan thought. “You won’t be able to do that on Radaar.” He swirled his drink in thought. “I can’t say much about getting money, but for moving up the social ladder you would need to switch worlds after acquiring the funds.”

“He’s right,” Raid said, taking a swig of his drink. “As for the money… you can get the most working for fixers, but you should avoid those. You’re more likely to soak up a bullet in the head than get rich. The shipyards are a slower but much safer choice. Alternatively, if you find a freighter for supply runs or general trade, those can pay pretty good.”

“So much for an easy road,” Less said despondently.

“And don’t go anywhere near mercenaries of just about anything related to fighting,” Raid added. “You ain’t got the knack for it.”

“You can tell that sort of thing?” Devan asked.

Raid grinned. “You develop a feel after a certain time. Speaking of which…” He leaned in closer to Devan. “How good of a shot are you?”

Devan smirked.

Raid’s grin widened. “Great!” He took a large swig from his mug, emptying half the contents. The thick glass landed on the table with a loud clang. “I’ve not had a good partner for a while. There’re a lot of good ranges. We should hit a few.”

“It’d be fun,” Devan said. There was little chance of it happening due to his mission, but the mischievous smile on Raid’s face implied the man was very good. Such a challenge was always welcome.

“Ah!” Kalz sprang up from his seat. “I can’t believe I forgot it…” he mumbled. “Sorry, we’ll be right back! Gotta grab something from the ship.” He grabbed Less’ arm and dragged him up. The other boy protested, though it didn’t take long for him to give up.

“Can you find your way back?” Devan asked between sips.

“We remember,” Less answered, then both youths dashed out of the bar.

“I scared them, didn’t I?” Raid said.

“You should look in a mirror sometimes.”

Raid snorted, but for an instant, pain and sadness flickered across his face. He took a swig of his drink. “It’s weird how much you remind me of someone,” he said, then squinted as if it would somehow jog his memory.

“I’m not drunk enough for crappy pick-up lines.”

“Turn into an attractive woman and I might consider revising them. Anyway, I hope you aren’t planning to stir up a big mess on Radaar.”

That comment took Devan by surprise. “Mess? Not sure what that person you know would do, but I’m only going to clear up a misunderstanding.”

Raid fixed Devan with his piercing gaze, but after several seconds he shifted his attention back to his mug and the drink still inside it. He downed the remainder of the ale in one quick motion, then slammed the glass on the table with a loud clang, earning a stern look from the barkeep. “Well, who cares,” he said cheerily. “Shall we get another round?” He raised his hand before Devan could utter a single word of protest. “Waiter—”

His words were cut short as an explosion shook the entire station. Glasses crashed from their shelves, chairs toppled over, and both Devan and Raid barely managed to remain standing. Devan scanned the interior of the bar. Despite the mess, nothing suggested an attack had happened nearby. The explosion must have happened on another deck – and whoever was responsible for it managed to damage the critical systems, throwing the station into the highest levels of alert.

The door to the bar flung open and four heavily armed men walked in, all holding high-calibre military grade rifles. Terrorists.

Devan shot a glance at Raid, the man’s equally shocked expression jolting him awake from the confusion. The leader of the terrorist group raised his rifle, aiming it at the two. He opened his mouth to speak.

Devan’s eyes darted to the table in front of him. It would provide perfect cover. Before the leader managed to get even the first word out, Devan and Raid sprang into action.

Everything happened fast. While Devan kicked the table up, Raid drew a pistol he’d hidden under his jacket in one deft motion, almost a blur. Channelling the Gift, Devan conjured a barrier on their side of the table – thickening the air until it almost solidified. Raid pulled the trigger before any of the enemies even registered it. Two men fell. The leader and another helmeted soldier remained.

They opened fire just as Raid squatted behind the cover. Bullets riddled the table with holes, splinters spraying everywhere. However, the barrier absorbed the attacks, trapping the projectiles.

Despite the loud drumming of bullets on the table’s surface, Devan heard the regular clanking of advancing footsteps. Following the faint sound of their steps, isolating it from the rapid fire, he made a rough estimate of where the enemy was. The roars of bullets stopped then.

I need to distract them for a moment. A spark of the Gift made an adjacent table, closest to the door and therefore the enemy, topple. Devan jumped from where he had squatted towards the new cover.

Both enemies snapped their heads towards him. One moved his rifle. The other one, the leader, noticed Devan’s arm bent in front of his chest. The man plunged into a roll away from the helmeted soldier.

While mid-air, the Gift, will, and a slashing motion of the arm constructed and sent a blade of force flying towards the two men.

It hit the one with the helmet. Like a knife through butter, the energy passed through armour, skin, flesh, and bone. It cut the man’s legs off at the thighs, and his torso slid off and crumpled onto the floor where his gun clanged to, having slipped from his grasp. The leader, however, had managed to get far enough away to avoid the power.

As Devan landed behind the table, he only had a partial view of the leader past the round edge.

The man scrambled on all fours, snapped his head up, and saw Raid’s pistol pointed at his face. The sights lined up on his forehead.

Raid fired.

There was silence in the room. Devan stood up from behind cover, and the terrified barkeep peeked out from behind the counter along with the other guests.

“The ship,” Raid began, but Devan cut in, “Way ahead of you.”

They stopped by the bodies to take note of the combat suits and grab any weapons they could use. A black-bladed dagger caught Devan’s eye, sheathed at the leader’s belt. Rifles didn’t suit him, and the men had no pistols, so a dagger would have to do. There was no insignia on their combat suits to identify the group or organization they belonged to.

Devan spun the dagger in his hand to feel its weight. Satisfied, he turned towards Raid just as the man had finished reloading his pistol. They were done here. The two darted out of the bar, ignoring the shocked gazes of everyone still inside.