It was later, with an extra 3000 in his pockets, that Gaylen gazed about, much as Herdis had been doing. This was his second time, and again that fellow behind him averted his eyes.

Gaylen was being followed.

Keep calm.

He didn’t change his pace and kept his body language as it had been; no more alert than general caution called for. The man was about twenty metres behind him. In a typical society his loud, yellow jacket might have caused him to stand out, but in this crazy thoroughfare of fringe cultures it did no such thing.

Gaylen didn’t waste time wondering whether this led back to the mercs or to the Browns or some other issue entirely. He just went over the immediately relevant facts.

The man had to have already reported in to whoever he answered to. And there were only two options when it came to intentions here: Either the point was to follow him and find out where he was staying, or to strike at him the moment an opportunity presented itself.

The point was probably to take him alive, for the sake of getting that damned cylinder. But that would only be a stay of execution.

On he walked, past a recruitment station for a cheap private security outfit, and on past a basic repair outlet. Next came stairs leading up, and if they’d had a bend Gaylen might have taken the chance to try to shake the spy, but it was just a straight line up, in full view. The echoing din of Kvathanthan Square became audible, and a possibility formed in his mind.

The bulk of the traffic continued on to the left, but Gaylen cut to the right. He passed a few shoddily-erected box apartments before reaching the guard rail overlooking the square.

There, four floors down, was the Round Ground. Herdis and Ayna were of course long gone, and raising anyone on the comm came with a strong risk of being listened in on. But there was plenty else to see down below, and across the divide. Such as a familiar type of brown jacket hurriedly moving back and out of sight, on the opposite second floor.

Right.

Gaylen’s gaze travelled up and to the left, to the Black Box. It was a long-operating, notorious tavern, pressed right up against the edge of the balcony. Some rough-looking types were exiting by the back door in a fairly rushed manner, and Gaylen suspected he knew why.

He started walking again, moving alongside the rail. A glance at a reflective surface told him the yellow jacket was still behind him.

Gaylen kept his right hand through that bottomless coat pocket, on the pistol.

His immediate surroundings consisted of more cargo containers, used to house more cheap sleeping areas. Directly ahead, blocking his path, was one used as an equally cheap eatery. People were leaving, entering and passing the place by in similar numbers, giving him a decent crowd to slip into.

Cramped quarters made the local residents high strung and combative, and only bumping and getting bumped got him around the corner and walking right alongside the eatery. And there against the other end leaned a man in nondescript clothing. He kept his eyes forward, fixated on nothing in quite a deliberate fashion, and his body held expectant energy.

Gaylen was walking right towards him, trapped by the crowd he was walking alongside. He could not shift direction without being obvious about it.

He kept his own eyes fixated on nothing, his steps unhurried, remaining painfully aware of his exposed, unguarded back.

Five steps separated them. Then four. Then three. Then two.

The man on the corner moved. Gaylen lashed out and punched him in the neck. There was a dull thud and a choked gasp, before the man slid down clutching at his throat. Gaylen walked on by without changing his stride. The fallen man drew some mild interest from nearby people, but with no shouts and no one moving in a guilty fashion that was it.

Gaylen went around the corner, and there before him was a narrow bridge across the divide. It was a rickety old thing, made of two separate pieces and clashing sharply with the elegant curves of the open space. But it was his way across and he took it.

Across, down at the third floor, he caught a glimpse of brown jackets moving into a stairwell. A stairwell that opened near the Black Box. A stranger in a red jumpsuit appeared in the hallway directly opposite the bridge, standing still and nakedly staring directly at Gaylen.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

The time for any subtlety at all had gone, and Gaylen broke into a run. The red-clad man remained still, but of course his reinforcements were only seconds away.

Bitter experience had made a daily hour on the treadmill a firm routine, and Gaylen made it across the divide a few seconds before Eldin exited the stairwell, accompanied by two other Browns.

Their eyes met, and Gaylen made his wager. He forewent any of the potential routes around the Browns and ducked to the right, into the Black Box.

The place was every bit as shady as he remembered. Literally. Almost every surface was dark in hue, and most of the lighting came from the walls. Simple holographic cladding showed flame-like waves undulate at a steady pace, casting brightness only as the wave passed. Much of the floor space was divided into three rows of large booths designed for privacy. The owner understood her customers, and her customers were in large part gangsters and pirates using this place to discuss business with their peers.

Gaylen saw no one as he took the first few steps in, although of course the design of the booths made it hard to be sure. He finally drew his pistol and darted around the centre row of booths, putting him out of view of the main entrance. He thought he heard a faint sound of conversation as he passed by the middle of the row, but his pursuers couldn’t have made it around and through the back door this quickly, so he ignored it.

“Hello?” he announced, loudly enough to be heard over the slow bass drumming away over the speakers.

“I have all the trouble I need already,” said the barman as Gaylen came around the row of booths.

He glared at Gaylen’s drawn pistol, but didn’t seem likely to reach for a weapon of his own.

“I don’t suppose-” Gaylen began, but then came the sound of the main door.

“Gayyy-len!” came Eldin’s voice in an angry sing-song, followed by the sound of several sets of feet... then followed by the sound of the back door opening.

As a red wave passed by Gaylen glimpsed two silhouettes come in from that direction. He slid alongside the bar table, until he had a cooler to put his back against. He raised his pistol a moment before Eldin walked into view on another passing wave. With him were two Browns and the red jumpsuit. All had guns.

“Oh, what are you going to do, Gaylen?” Eldin asked, scowling at Gaylen’s gun. “Shoot me?”

“That’s up to you, Eldin,” Gaylen replied.

“You’re trapped, you idiot,” Eldin said, and those two who’d come through the back moved into Gaylen’s peripheral vision. “And outgunned. Now, drop the gun and tell your people to bring the cylinder. Fast.”

“I told you already, Eldin: I don’t answer to you.”

“Ah, Gaylen,” the gang leader said through a false smile. “Old Cool Nerve Gaylen Qin. I don’t need you. I can find out where you docked, and get that damned cylinder myself. It would just be extra work. But getting to kill you would make up for it, I think.”

Gaylen was aiming square at his face. But whatever his other failings, Eldin was no coward.

“Now... one last time: Call y-”

“Murder?” intruded a deep voice. “I do not think I will allow any such thing.”

He strode into view, out of a darkened corner of the tavern; tall, well-built, with a sword at his hip. He came to a stop in the centre of the situation, between Gaylen and the Browns, and an illuminating wave passed by. The man wore the black and crimson suit that had become so well known in the outer lanes, topped with a hood.

However much he tried to hide it, Eldin’s confidence had evaporated.

“This doesn’t concern you, Warden!” the gang boss said.

“That is no reason not to act,” the man replied.

He turned away from the Browns, just enough to take Gaylen in with one eye.

“Did you know I was here, Gaylen?”

“I saw you earlier, Pietr. I figured you would visit the local den of evil.”

“I take offence at that,” muttered the barman, crouching in cover out of sight.

“I am not your bodyguard,” Pietr reminded Gaylen with a hint of dissatisfaction.

“No. Then I would have to pay you. But... thanks.”

He began inching his way back along the bar, towards the back door, but kept his eyes on the gangsters. One of them worked up his courage and stepped closer to Pietr, holding his gun up.

“Anyone can put on the red and black!” the man shouted belligerently.

Gaylen stopped, but Pietr just met the challenge with a stony glare and ready body language.

Evidently some more courage-gathering was needed as a pregnant silence fell over the whole scene. Another wave passed by.

One of the Browns raised his gun in a quick flash. Instinct made Gaylen do the same, and every single trigger in the tavern was pulled.

Nothing happened.

“How do you bastards do that?!” Eldin demanded, gesticulating with his useless pistol.

“Yes, how do they do that?” Gaylen said, and began a quicker retreat to the back door. “I’ve always insisted it’s some First Civ tech.”

Pietr gave him another disapproving look.

“Wise up, Gaylen. And do pick better company.”

“I am working on it.”

“You’re not getting off this station, Gaylen!” Eldin shouted, even as he took a step away from the Warden. “We’re having the Inner Ring entrances watched!”

Gaylen ran out the back door.