“The game is rigged, my friend. Vast public works projects across the galaxy—who gets the contracts? Whoever greased the right palms, that’s who. So some border installation, or housing planet, or world-bridge gets built with public rebu from Synatorium charter taxes, and a few hundred years later, the damn things are always obsolete—and who gets the contracts to tear them down? See, that’s the problem with the Nova Rim—that’s the mentality that’s applied to everything.”

—Keidra Chuialmar, former leader of the anti-Synatorium rebel group, The Red Hand, in a correspondence to one of her closest friends

Zaina sat by one of the many hyper-glass windows on Ondor Almada’s personal cruiser. The void their ship was travelling through mesmerized her; it was infinite, white nothingness stretching to the horizon. It was all too easy to lose track of time staring as the emptiness went by.

There was a lull in the ship’s movement, and Zaina’s torso tilted. A voice came over the ship’s intercom.

“Attention, passengers. We will be re-entering Nova Rim space in thirty seconds. After that, we will make our final approach to Archavo Outpost.”

Zaina sighed. Whether she was ready or not, it was time for action. She closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths, and when she opened them, they were out of the void. A beige world awaited outside the window.

Another message came over the intercom. “Attention, passengers. We have departed from voidspace and are making our final approach to Archavo Outpost. If the lancers would please begin making their way to the ship’s exit—”

A familiar voice interrupted. “Looks like they’re already trying to put us to work.”

Zaina turned toward Xyrthe. In a low voice, she said, “I still don’t understand why you hate him so much. He’s been nothing but kind to us.”

With a sigh, Xyrthe shook her head. “Yeah, because he needs our help. If we were in his way—”

“But we’re not, are we?” Zaina asked.

“You have a lot to learn, kid. There’s always a tension on missions like these. See, rich assholes like this guy think because they make big donations to the Order, we’re basically their personal servants. That we can be bought like the rest of the galaxy. Everyone has a price, but not lancers. We work for the Order. On missions like this, we act at our own discretion.”

Zaina frowned. “So you’re not going to follow orders?”

“Not if I don’t like them,” Xyrthe said. “Look—it doesn’t matter. We’re here, and they clearly want us to get to it.”

Zaina followed Xyrthe through the sleek metal hallways of the luxury transport. Everything was tinted blue by long, thin panels of lighting housed in hand-carved wooden casings; hyper-glass bay windows were stationed every twenty feet. They passed the high-dollar suites, and then the worker cabins, and then the on-board greenhouse.

Finally they arrived at the ship’s departure terminal, a large tube with twin mechanical staircases that extended to contact the surface. Ondor was waiting for them at the exit with his arms spread wide.

“Hello, friends! I do hope you found the ride enjoyable. This cruiser cost me more than a small fortune, I tell you, but there’s nothing quite like travelling the cosmos in style.”

Xyrthe grumbled, so Zaina decided to be the ambassador. “It was lovely, thank you.”

“And this was a short trip,” he said. “You should come with us on a cruise out near Garis Helm’s Lights—the view is breathtaking, and it’ll be the most luxurious week you’ll ever spend in a ship, I can promise you that.”

“I may take you up on that if I can,” Zaina said.

Ondor clapped his hands together. “Now! I won’t waste any more of your time—let’s get down there. You can meet my crew, and we can talk in further detail about how to proceed.”

They made their way down the exit terminal. Ondor chatted excitedly, bragging about this and that.

“An exit terminal like this, they’re rare, see. The cruiser has a size threshold to make this model possible, and a bigger size threshold to make them feasible with consideration to fuel, cargo, and the experience of flying. I decided long ago, if I had to venture out into space, I would do it in as much comfort at possible.”

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Zaina chuckled. “Not much into space-travel, are you?”

A wry grin took over Ondor’s lips. “Not the concept of it, no. Being in a metal box, exposed in space, so far from everything—no, it’s not quite the most relaxing experience at times. Our cruises are accompanied by protection vessels, so those are much less stressful.”

“Can’t say I disagree,” Zaina said. She’d hated the idea of flying ever since she was a farm-girl on Demelia—those few months felt like long years ago now.

They arrived at the bottom of the terminal, greeted by endless dunes of sand surrounding a massive, fortress-like complex surrounded by a set of thick metal walls. Zaina raised a hand—the sun’s light was blinding. Within seconds, she was sweating in her armor. There was no water and no plant or animal life in sight.

Ondor stepped out, flanked by a team of guards headed by Randall. Each wore identical black armor and helmets and carried birifles at the ready. They moved whenever Randall raised his hands to show a specific signal.

“Welcome to Archavo Outpost,” Ondor said, motioning toward the fortress. “It’s a beauty, really. There used to be more all over the planet, but they’ve been buried by the shifting sands.”

Xyrthe sighed. “Who the hell’s idea was it to import so much sand?”

“Well, after the Militarium decommissioned the outpost as a border defense facility, they repurposed it as a training world to simulate desert combat. But when they decided to move most Militarium training to Vylensus and the Core Worlds, it was game over for Archavo Outpost as a viable military installation. It’s too far inside the current border, and too far outside any established supply lines to even use as a refueling destination.”

“Typical,” Xyrthe said.

Ondor shrugged. “Hard work is sometimes wasted. Come now, let’s get you introduced to the team. They’ve been very excited to meet you.”

The chairman turned and walked toward the fortress, surrounded by his guards. The cruiser’s exit terminal receded into the ship, which hovered overhead. Zaina shot Xyrthe a glance—her mentor couldn’t appear more bored. With a sigh, Zaina followed Ondor; as soon as she started walking, Xyrthe tagged along.

“You know, kid,” she said, “I don’t think this mission is going to go very well.”

Zaina rolled her eyes. “What, you think we’re gonna get got by a bunch of pirates?”

With a shrug, Xyrthe said, “Maybe. Don’t overlook any threat. You’re too young to be cocky. And remember—the pirates aren’t the only threat.”

Zaina shook her head. “You really need to work on your trust issues.”

“Trust me, I have issues for a reason,” Xyrthe shot back.

They approached the looming fortress walls, at least a hundred feet tall and smooth on the outside; the reflection it gave was muted, and its exterior was scraped and scratched by years of neglect in the sands. At the base was a ten-foot tall door toward which Ondor walked. The darkened hall leading through the walls was dimly lit by flickering ceiling panels, and the floor was covered in sand.

On the other side was a multi-layered complex of buildings and platforms, all connected by a series of bridges; the upper levels were supported by spiraling metal pillars. Some platforms had grass and trees on them, and a few even had artificial lakes; the buildings were all uniform, similar in their rectangular shape and size, with sparse doors and windows.

Zaina’s mouth fell open. It was so unlike the world outside, and yet it shared an odd sense of loneliness. This was more prim and proper, but it was still abandoned. The numerous park benches and playground sets near residential buildings were empty, the metal rusted; a layer of sand covered the lower levels, and it was congregating on walkways and platforms on the mid-levels.

“This way,” Ondor said, snapping her out of her reverie. They walked to a platform and ascended one of the branching walkways, making their way up to a building on one of the upper levels. A guard was stationed outside the door, and two more patrolled nearby.

The chairman kept talking as they went. “Take a good look—it may not look like much now, but in another ten years, all this material will be two parsecs over. We’ve already got a buyer on the world of Irdelan—I’m sure you’ve heard of Irdelan. Best vacation world in the Nova Rim for what my opinion’s worth. Yes, most of this will be going to a resort moon orbiting the planet itself—ah, we’ve arrived!”

The guard nodded and pressed a button on his vis-screen, opening the door. Zaina stepped into a huge, open room with a decorative chandelier; marble statues and sculptures were positioned in every corner, while dead flower-boxes were positioned between them. Several desks and benches were scattered throughout, having been moved to make way for ten one-person tents. Six or seven people were loitering throughout the room, attending to different tasks.

A Delegaran woman with green, smooth-looking skin covered in colorful tattoos snapped her head toward Zaina and Xyrthe. Her black eyes were wrought with suspicion as she stood and walked over. Her movements were graceful, even in bulky body armor.

She turned to Ondor and asked, “These them?”

Ondor nodded and replied, “Yes, indeed. These are the lancers who so graciously agreed to sort out this little mess.”

The woman stopped next to Ondor and said, “Heretics—and lancers? I’ve never met a lancer before, to be honest. Never even seen one. But I’ve met plenty of heretics. Not very pleasant people, overall.”

“Is that so?” Zaina asked. “Well, maybe your opinion will change after meeting us.”

“Doubtful,” the woman replied.

Ondor rubbed his hands together and said, “All right, now, let’s get the introductions done so we can get down to what we’re here for—Fredan, Ardual, get over here.”

A bald human male with robot arms attached to his backpack turned toward them. He wore black-tinted goggles and a sleeveless shirt, and carried an odd tool in his hand. On the table behind him was a glyph emitting sparks. With a sigh, the man walked over.

Then, a Jovelian stood, dressed in black battle-armor similar to the woman’s. He had great, thick tusks jutting upward from his lower lip, and stood over nine feet tall, with broad shoulders and massive hands. A long, thick tail was wrapped around his waist as a makeshift belt, and his skin had light-green fur covering nearly every inch of his body. His eyes were red and angry, and a large frown was plastered beneath his protruding snout. The ground shook as he approached.

“So these are the ones who you trust to bring Fell to justice?” the Jovelian asked, effortlessly bellowing his deep voice. “They’re puny—just like the last ones.”