Maroon and marble. Glitter and gold. Silk and sin. Guess there’s two brands of underworld soiree—the kind that’s all mean mugs and side-eyes; and the kind that’s... well, this.

  Got little hoverbots passing out drinks, so chromed up they could blind a man. Outer walls got these little enclosures behind forcefields, filled with all sorts of animals I never seen before. Three-tailed cats. Reptomammals. Some kind of getinous blob. Real frontier space, putting-the-exo-in-exotic type stuff. Don’t even think they’re up for auction, might just be set-dressing. And then you got some kind of diamonds or crystals just floating overhead, held up by the anti-grav like raindrops frozen in pce. Liable to see if I can’t snag one when no one’s looking.

  Shouldn’t let myself get distracted. Here to do a job, after all. Not that there’s much job to be done. Bodyguard work is nothing new, but I’m used to wading through active warzones, prison riots, the like. Seeing the gallery of gathered ‘rogues’, each with their single allotted ‘enforcer’, starting to think I’m just a bit of arm candy. Seems a bit overkill to hire a Knight of Amarta to stand around and look pretty, but a contract’s a contract.

  Gaxy’s a big pce. Maybe these really are the tippy-top wheelers and dealers of the underworld. No way for me to know. But in all likelihood, they’re a bunch of white-colrs with more money than sense, cospying crooks for a bit of thrill. And if you don’t really know what you’re doing and just want ‘the best’, well... I guess you get me.

  Wonder if the bossman thought he’d snagged one of the tried and true ironcds. Feel a bit underdressed with just a winter coat and a few bandoliers over my envirosuit. Don’t need anything else to get the job done, but can’t help but ponder the perception. Then again, most don’t give a damn about the specific arsenal and accoutrement. Only one trademark that matters.

  “Careful, they say if you catch your reflection in their helm, you’re marked for death.”

  My patron and his fellow... businessman? Gonna be honest, don’t exactly know what their line of trade is. Even if not career criminals, I’m not about to assume they’re on the up-and-up. Regardless, the two of them do an exaggerated ‘quivering-in-their-boots’ thing before sharing a hearty—and tad inebriated—chuckle.

  “Go on, do that thing I like.”

  I draw and release a deep breath, which when pushed through my helm’s vocoder, produces a deep, electronically-tinged rasp.

  “That’s it! Should have seen the ferryman when he did that, thought he was going to piss his pilot’s chair!”

  Another round of ughter. And even after they go quiet, takes the rest of them a second to stop shaking. Bossman and his pal are Moruko. Morukoan? Fishfolk. Bit reductive, I admit. As far as demis go, they’re more amphibious than truly aquatic. Still, bright blue skin, those fleshy whisker things... the blubber. Mighty fish-like. At least they carry it well. Look right at home with all the other bigwigs.

  I’ll admit, the disregard is almost refreshing. Most folks see an Amartan, they completely disengage. And why wouldn’t you? Catch a glimpse of the reaper, just common sense to pretend you didn’t. But every so often, you get the privilege of walking amongst those who’ve never heard the tales... or those so blindingly overconfident to think them just that.

  “So, I gotta ask...” My patron leans in ever so slightly. “What’s the deal with the whole ‘Knight’ thing? You... uh, cut a fine figure, but... it doesn’t exactly scream ‘Knight’.”

  Well, he’s not wrong. I give him the same rundown I give anyone who asks.

  Few centuries ago, while all the other Iskarans were forced to live in sterilized strongholds or mingle with the masses in envirosuits, we found ourselves the only pce in the gaxy not toxic to our very being. But, much as we tried to keep ourselves entertained with games of noble houses and royal resplendence, we just couldn’t resist a return to the grandest stage of them all.

  We had soldiers the likes of which none could match, so why not loan them out? But we weren’t a band of common mercenaries, no... we were Knights, damn it. Immacute branding, all things considered. And back then, we truly fit the bill. Sure, it meant donning the envirosuits once more, but they’d be cd in so much pte you’d forget there was something so utterly frail and pale underneath it all. So we went out there and we left our mark. Made a name for ourselves. Of course, then came the day we lost our home—our paradise, and... and they’ve stopped listening.

  The pair swallowed each other’s attention, chatting of recent losses and gains, unappreciative bosses and incompetent ckeys. Still can’t glean what their actual professions are. Could be a pair of true bck market moguls or just a couple of cheap corpos, the way they talk wouldn’t exactly change much. Part of me’s tempting to just turn off my audio receptors, but that’d just be unprofessional. Better to just mentally tune them out.

  Whatever they were saying, it came to an abrupt end the moment a chirp rings out over the main intercom. Seems the auction’s about to begin. Everyone begins to congregate around the showroom’s center stage, from which a hidden elevator produces a single fop with a headset. Swirling quiff. Glitterweave bzer. With that loud an ensemble, no wonder he needs the microphone.

  “Esteemed guests, welcome, welcome!” Honeyed words spill from the man’s mouth before being amplified by the room’s speakers. “Whether a buyer, a seller, or simply an onlooker, Sabbo Harzen hopes this will be a night to remember.”

  Harzen. What’s he called again? A ‘facilitator’? Pleasure magnate big on arranging meets, get-togethers, and sit-downs. Lacks the raw influence to establish any sort of true neutral ground, but the folks here seem to love him. Or at the very least, his star yacht.

  Announcer breaks things down, goes over the rules, the lot order, basic stuff. My patron—and a dozen others—retrieve a datapad from their coat pockets. Sigh. Don’t even get the spectacle of people shouting bids, just a bunch of stuffed suits poking at their screens.

  Projector built into the ceiling kicks on, releasing a swarm of magnetized particute that eventually takes the shape of the first item up for grabs. A statue. The hovering simucrum does a few spins, giving everyone a good look at every facet. But no matter the angle, it’s nothing special. At least, to me. Someone’s already opened with an offer of several thousand credits. A few more bids. And sold. Next item. Process repeats. Antiquities. Commodities. A ‘mystery box’? Okay, I think I get it. The auction’s just another garish garnish, isn’t it? An excuse to converse and cavort. Half the bidders aren’t even paying attention, only snapping to when their predisposed item of interest takes center stage.

  Don’t know what I was expecting, really. Maybe items of a more... exotic nature? Nothing truly depraved or deplorable, but surely something beyond the purview of polite society. Contraband. Plunder. A sampling of flesh. Come on. Entice me. Seduce me. Make me want and yearn and crave that which I may never touch. Tch.

  Shouldn’t compin. There’s security in the mundane. Pirates would need a pretty big take to hit someone like Harzen. Not because he’s a particurly vengeful sort or anything, just the type to have a lot of friends in high pces. Or maybe low pces. Regardless, simply not worth the backsh—wait. Oh no...

  “And for our next item, the helmet of Tolbren Valdus, st Prince of Amarta. Note how the reinforced panels encircling the bck dome pinch inward to give the visor the silhouette of a skull. We can imagine why the Amartans made it their signature, can’t we folks? Just think, an entire pnet, nay, an entire system gone in the blink of an eye, and yet this item stood at the precipice of the great rift and lived to tell the tale with nary a scratch.”

  I snatch the datapad from my patron, spping away any attempts to get it back. Lot 22, no seller, but otherwise a full listing. No attempt to obscure the item itself. Damn it.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “We need to go. Now.”

  “Oh pipe down. Did I compin about the topless Moruko in the foyer all painted in neon? Can’t fret over every little indignation. Sometimes you have to leave pride at the doorstep—”

  “This isn’t a matter of pride. Listen. You had no idea this was being auctioned off, understand me? In fact, if you want to live, you were never here.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “Yes. But not from me.”

  I am Amartan. Twice blessed. Twice cursed. Yada yada. But my pride has always been put toward my craft. Toward honing myself into a living weapon unmatched by any other in the gaxy. The Great Ruin was a tragedy to be sure, but it happened over two centuries before I was even born and I’m no spring chicken. Far as I’ve known, our ‘Castles’ have always been colony ships. Our ‘Knights’ have always been high-css mercenaries. A world in which we could live without our suits has always been a fantasy. Our creed was, is, and ever shall be a simple one. In staring death in the face, we chose to become its instrument. And with the reaper’s sickle we carved ourselves a new niche in the gaxy. One that could sustain us—elevate us into a people worthy of respect.

  But for some people, that respect is... a fragile thing. Easily wounded. And the salve? Fear. Pure, uncompromising fear.

  The lights flicker as a hush washes over the room. Just a matter of time now. There. A low rumble causes a few of the less sure-footed guests to stumble. Meanwhile, just about every enforcer readies themselves, stances wide, eyes frantically scanning their surroundings. Explosion of that size? Had to be the rear hangar. Good. We still have time. Just have to—

  A crion overtakes the room’s speakers. Yep. That’s an arm all right. And just as quickly as he popped up, the auctioneer drops beneath the stage via express elevator.

  “Esteemed guests,” his words continue to spill out of the intercom, “I must regrettably inform you that a shipwide security alert is in effect. Advanced lockdown protocols have been engaged. Please stay where you are unless otherwise directed by official security personnel. Your well-being is Sabbo Harzen’s top priority.”

  Afraid his priorities don’t amount to shit right about now. I tug on my patron’s arm, just enough to drag him toward the showroom’s exit. Too te. One of Harzen’s heavies passes through the sliding doors, an entourage of carbine-wielding automatons marching in his wake. Meathead’s not much to write home about. T-shirt with a shiny little badge and a bit of tac-gear. Utilitarian. But in a way, it’s just as much a fostered aesthetic. I’m guessing Chief of Security. As for the bots, standard humanoid skeleton. Emphasis on ‘skeleton’; the kind of gaunt, rigid chassis that a stiff wind could knock over.

  In all, six targets. Hardy, but nothing I couldn’t handle. Any commotion would be sure to draw the ire of the other guests, though. Again, nothing I couldn’t handle, but I don’t need my patron getting caught in the crossfire. Already, some of the hired guns begin to protest. Assigning bme, demanding answers. The kind of powderkeg I’d love to ignite were this a simple havoc job, but as. Still, a distraction is a distraction.

  New pn. Tornado protocol.

  I reaffirm my grip on the fishman’s arm, this time dragging him toward one of the enclosures. Some kind of overgrown lizard lounging in a fake tree. Slovenly thing. Just hope it’s not venomous. Control panel nearby; hand scanner. Biometrics? Or subdermal passkey? No time for finesse, have to go for the hard bypass. Pce my gloved palm on the reader. Alright, time to do your thing. HUD fshes the usual exposure warning before getting to work. Analyzing. Communicating. Synchronizing. Ugh. Rotten taste, but we’re in.

  As soon as the forcefield drops, I drop any pretense of precaution and shove my patron inside.

  “Hey! What are you two doing?”

  Got Chief’s attention. Takes everything in my power not to leap into the fold, but the contract comes first. I swing into the enclosure just in time for the forcefield to return. The invisible barrier crackles a bit beneath the big man’s fist, but otherwise holds firm. He then pces his palm on the reader, only to get an error in return. But that’s not all he gets. As he pulls back his hand, he grimaces at the bck residue now staining his skin.

  “What in the hell is this?”

  “If i told you, I’d have to kill you. Which isn’t to say you’re not about to die anyway, but... well, I’ll leave that to the other Amartan currently carving a warpath through your vessel.”

  Clenched fists and gritted teeth. Predictable. “So, what, you just gonna hide in there until your partner arrives?”

  “‘Partner’? Oh, we’re not working together. My only concern is the well-being of my client. That said, I’ve no intention of working against them, either. You brought this on yourselves, putting an Amartan relic up for auction.”

  “If they want the helmet, they can have it,” Boss’s fish friend decres from the other side of the barrier. Smart. Sensible, even. But not enough.

  “It’s not even here! It’s in the vault!” another adds.

  “Then have someone go open the vault!”

  “Nobody’s going anywhere!” Chief puts his foot down.

  “Sorry, but this isn’t a heist. This is about sending a message. Now, there’s a chance... a chance, mind you... that the hired help might be spared if you all y down your arms. But if you so much as gnced at that lot number ahead of time, well, now would be time to pick a god and pray.”

  Some furtive gnces shared amongst the various bodyguards, heavies, and lieutenants. Never an easy thing to do, admitting utter and total defeat. Especially when surrounded by a dozen bosses and peers. Seems none are willing to make the first surrender. I know I certainly wouldn’t. Shame. My patron, to his credit, had a cooler head than most.

  “Surely there’s a course of action that benefits everyone, yes? If you’re not working together, then... might a... bonus entice you to extend your... protective services to the rest of the ship? I’m sure more than a few of us would be willing to... to pitch in—”

  “I’m sorry? ‘Us’?” one of the other bidders chastizes. “There is no ‘us’. Not with you hiding in there with one of them.”

  “He’s just trying to save himself,” another adds. “He knows the moment the intruder’s dealt with, he’ll be put on Harzen’s bcklist.”

  “I’m trying to save us all!” Boss barks back. “But if you don’t want my help, fine! I’ll enjoy watching you lot get put down!”

  Is he fickle? Perhaps. But I can’t say he’s choosing the wrong side.

  Meanwhile, Chief offers a few hand motions; swirls and waves and such. The machine detachment takes the vanguard, carbines trained on the room’s exit with bnd, mechanical precision. And with five synchronized pulls of their respective charging handles, the guns emit a symphony of droning hums. Energized internals. External magazines. Thinking superheated metal slugs, cryptokinetic propulsion. Something built to chew through personal shields. Any random pirate or marauder, it’d probably be enough. But as...

  “Everyone, take cover at the back of the room.” Another round of hand motions, though the other attendees seem less responsive than the mechanical men. “Come on, move it! Attaches can keep an eye on our dubious duo if they want, but I don’t want any amateurs mucking up our defensive line.”

  “Amateurs?” A scoff from one of the enforcers. Cyborg. Mechanical arm. Funky facepte. Could have masked any prosthetics or impnts with synthskin, but opted for the btant look. Feeds my theory that most of us were hired for appearances more than anything else. “You think you and a few bots capable of dropping an Amartan?”

  “He’s got a point.”

  “Shut it.” Chief’s composure is faltering. Was probably expecting an update at this point. For one of the other teams to sound the all-clear. As. It’s very quickly dawning on him that the inevitable is coming. “Fine! Take positions. Staggered lines, I don’t want anyone getting shot in the back.”

  Everyone moves into position. A cyborg. A desperado. A speed freak. Quite the cadre of characters. A bevy of bsters, bdes, and batons at the ready. A shame they won’t be enough.

  They’re getting close now. And if I can sense them, they can sense me. Probably why it’s taken them so long to breach. Hesitation. Pondering my purpose. But no attempts to open communications. Unnecessary. We know our own parts to py. That’s good enough.

  It’s the kind of trust that’s foreign to outsiders. Surely there’s a lot of infighting, yes? Contracts constantly at odds? Houses competing with one another for that oh so lucrative bounty? They don’t understand. They can’t understand. Amarta was more than just a pnet. It had to be. When it was swallowed by the rift, those offworld had a choice. Go back to being regur Iskarans, begging for scraps from a gaxy that reveled in their their infirmity... or become something greater.

  In the comforts our Castles, we may challenge one another. We may csh and spar and vie... but in the field, never shall a Knight work against another Knight.

  I look to my client. While unsure if it’s a yer of flop sweat or if he’s just naturally moist, the now-very-real quivering makes it fairly easy to gauge his state of mind.

  “May want to close your eyes for this next part.”

  The doors part, and a flood of fck is sent flying into the adjoining hallway. I’ll give the automatons one thing, they’re precise. Good shot management and spread. Unfortunately, their programming didn’t account for staggering their volleys. When one had to reload, so did the whole unit. And that’s the kind of reprieve a skilled fighter could exploit. And the intruder was nothing if not skilled.

  A pair of discs fly through the doorway, adhering to the metal chassis of two separate bots. Microexplosives? No, nothing so crass. The pucks offer a sharp hum before being magnetized toward one another, causing their targets to collide with a mighty cng. Damage was minimal, but it was never intended to destroy. Stuck together, the pair stumble and spin, bumping into their fellows before firing wildly into the air. The other defenders are forced to abandon their line, searching for whatever cover they could. And having ceded the entrance, their fates were sealed.

  A bck blur in trademark helm storms the showroom. Never quite know what you’re going to get with a Knight. A few choose to truly adhere to the old namesake, but most of the time it comes down to the particur stylings of one’s House. Each one likes to put their own spin on things. Have their own ‘fvor’. But this one was bitter distillment of creed. Type-0 Diaderma Reinforced Bodysuit; the Amartan’s ‘second-skin’ that could be covered with whatever garb and gear one saw fit. Yet this one remained decidedly bare. No armored ptes. No tac-vests or bandoliers. Just a length of red cloth wrapped around their right arm... and the scabbard of a high-frequency bde.

  Straight sword. Single-handed. Perfect bance of length and maneuverability, of strength and speed. With a shimmer and a shing, it makes short work of the mechanical line, slicing through metal chassis as if they were made of paper. But rather cutting them in half and sending them cttering to the floor, these were tactical cuts. A removal of hands. A piercing of CPUs. Enough to eliminate the threat while leaving their bodies standing to soak any incoming fire.

  Eventually, a stray round catches the Knight, causing their shield to crackle as the molten slug fttens and sticks to their suit. A setback, but nothing debilitating. Cryptokinetic fields love simple shapes, which means the ck of excess pting is actually doing them a favor. Gives their shields enough juice to endure the persistent burn. Riding the momentum of the impact, they roll across the floor toward their next target before running them through. Wait. The slug’s gone. Must have scraped off against the ground. Saves them a shield pulse attempting to dislodge it. This one’s good. Real good.

  A stab to the heart. A swipe across the neck. One by one, they fall. But the Knight can only move so fast. More and more enemies steady themselves. Ready themselves. But the shadow refuses to be overwhelmed. A jab through the wrist of one enforcer, and suddenly the Knight has a gun to py with. They squeeze off a few rounds. Looks like the others were smart enough to wear shield packs as well. The projectiles don’t penetrate, but they’re enough to stagger and scatter, giving the Amartan the break they need to advance. And while they might be great for halting bullets, a personal CK field isn’t built to rebuff a bde.

  The few brutes and bruisers fare a bit better, dodging or blocking a few hits before eventually succumbing. Their protectors dwindling by the second, some of the bidders make a break for the entrance. A sweep of the leg sends one crashing to the floor, earning them a quick thrust to the back of the head. One actually looks like they might reach the door. Can’t let that happen now can we?

  I’m still synced with the enclosure’s control panel. Are they connected? I probe the system with my mind. Never was the best at psynamic interfacing. Can’t quite ‘see’ the ‘code’. Just a jumble of vague impulses. Mechanical vibes. But as I clench my fist, sure enough the exit locks tight.

  The Knight throws their sword, skewering the fleeing so-and-so and pinning their corpse to the door. Their foe momentarily disarmed, the surviving enforcers see their chance. But an Amartan is a weapon. And just as cryptokinetics can make things stop, so too can they make things go. The energy field enveloping their body shifts and flows in accordance to their master’s whims. Suddenly, a punch hits that much harder. A flick of the wrist threatens to rip one’s arm out of its socket. And a headbutt proves the effigy far superior to its natural inspiration, skulls cracking under the brunt of a pristine visor.

  Someone attempts an attack from the rear, but the Knight has it scouted, spinning on their heel to deliver a devastating kick. Enhanced audio feedback? Or are you borrowing my eyes? Got no reason to protest. Already lied about not helping. By the way, st one’s under that table.

  The Knight swings around, approaching the arrangement of lightly disturbed appetizers, Reaching beneath the tablecloth, they drag the final bidder out kicking and screaming before silencing them with a quick snap of the neck. And with that, quiet.

  “Is it... is it over,” asks my client, peeking out from behind me.

  “Not quite.”

  The other Knight retrieves their sword. A flick of the wrist and a charge of the vibrating mechanism shakes the blood from its bde. Their suit had a bit more trouble cleaning itself. As they continue their approach, I could see little motes of steam rising from the various splotches as they burned under the Amartan’s shields.

  This is about the part where I’d drop the forcefield and step out of the enclosure, but I’m afraid there’s some details that need ironing out first.

  “Well met,” I finally speak up.

  “Well met.” The other Knight traces a hand along the enclosure’s control panel, rubbing the bck residue between their fingertips. “Did you seriously sync with this?”

  “Spur of the moment thing.”

  “I bet. Taste bad?”

  “Horrible.”

  “Hmm. Well, can’t judge, especially after you helped me out. You good on—“

  “Mind what you say,” I interrupt. May have been blunt, but they don’t register it as hostile. They know how it is. I shuffle to the side before nodding toward my patron. “We do have an audience.”

  That wasn’t bluster, before. The whole ‘I’d have to kill you thing’. We Amartans have quite a few trade secrets, but that stuff’s a big one.

  “I noticed. While the auctioneer hiding below remains my priority, surely you realize that everyone associated with these proceedings, barring yourself of course, must pay the blood price.”

  “I understand. But this man hired me to be his bodyguard. And I intend to see my contract through to completion.”

  “I see. Won’t bother asking how long said contract is in effect, I’m afraid my mission takes priority regardless.”

  “Should two opposing contracts overp, priority will be granted to—”

  “Not a contract. A high-edict,” they interrupt. Again, blunt, but not hostile. I know how it is.

  I look the other Knight up and down, eventually focusing on the red sash encircling their arm. “House of Thorns, right?”

  “That’s right. And you?”

  “House of Dusk.”

  Amarta has hundreds of Houses, each varying in composition and creed. But all fall under the purview of a High-House. I serve the High-House of Bdes. Were we aligned as such, this would be a simple matter. Unfortunately, they belong to the High-House of One. We’re not enemies. Not even rivals. Just a few more complications to consider when you’re not tugging the same chain of command.

  “Tell me, is that a splinter or a subsidiary of the Dawn?” they ask.

  “Eh, that’s all politicking above my head. I’m just out here earning tribute.”

  “You know, I’ve heard rumors that you don’t even have your own Castle, that Knights of the Dawn just swap their gear depending on whether or not the contract suits their... image.”

  “I wouldn’t go believing in conspiracy theories. Next thing you know, you’re out here listening to the people who say the House of One ‘loses’ relics on purpose just for an excuse to carry out terror missions.”

  “Crazy stuff, right? Though it’s a shame there’s no data on the helm’s seller.”

  “I’m guessing no time to crack the ship’s records?”

  “Oh, I’ve no interest in syncing with any database of Sabbo Harzen’s.”

  “Fair enough. Not looking forward to the headache when I desync from a measly control panel.”

  Doesn’t take long for the silence to return. Just two Knights standing faceless to faceless with a forcefield between them.

  “Still pn to fight me on this?” they ask.

  “The honor of myself and my house is at stake,” I reply.

  Opening direct channel.

  “So what do you need?” No more external vocoders, the other Knight’s words instead feed directly into my ear.

  “A writ of annulment. And recompense equal to the contract’s original payout.”

  “Done. Anything else?”

  “Can I take some loot back with me?”

  “I don’t know... I really need this to look like a proper butchering more than a heist. I mean, I gotta spend the next few hours arranging bodies so that no one mistakes it for the animals busting out and going on a rampage.”

  “What about the diamonds, can I take those?”

  The Knight looks up, then back to me. “If you can get them all down, sure. I still gotta hit the vault and a few stragglers. You good to handle him?”

  “Leave it to me.”

  With that, the Knight bows out, hopping onto the center stage before prying open the chute that ferried the auctioneer away.

  Meanwhile, my former patron tugs on my sleeve. “Is... is that it? Did you manage to convince—”

  A quick jab to the throat. Windpipe crushed, the Moruko colpses to the floor, clutching and cwing as he struggles to breathe. A boot on the neck and a bit of extra weight expedites matters. He flops around for a bit, but eventually goes still. That’s that.

  A waft of my hand bids the forcefield to lower. I drag the corpse into the showroom with me; don’t need the lizard chewing on him after I’m gone. Forcefield back up... time to... disconnect. Deep breaths, now. I’d given a piece of myself to the machine. There’d be no reciming it. Only excising it. Concentrate. Aaaand... ugh. Like a bolt of electricity arcing across my mind. Whatever. It’s over.

  But first... I reach up and pluck one of the hovering diamonds suspended overhead. Doesn’t take much to free it from the weak anti-grav field. Brush the thing against my jacket before tucking it into my pocket.

  Might take a while, but hey, my schedule was just recently freed up.