CHAPTER 1: GHOSTWORK

  I don't take contracts for glory. I take them when I'm broke. Mercenary work might sound simple, but it's anything but. That's life.

  Checking my relay inbox, I got a message from one of my few regulars—Vull. He's a twitchy half-breed with too many teeth, a silver tongue, and ethics held together by rust. He always smelled like blood stim and warm plastic. A decent-sized drug dealer, Vull specialized in Lazaran—a mind-slowing narcotic that lets the user "live in the moment," or so they claim. For someone with an AI like mine, I didn't need it. Still, he paid his debts, whether in credits or blood. Usually credits.

  That meant I had to prep my shuttle. Twelve meters long with a matte-black hull, several of its panels were patched with salvage. Viewed from above, it formed a crescent. Twin rail cannons were mounted at the front with photon cutters integrated into the wings. The Phase-Shroud distorted incoming sensors but disabled my hardlight shield in exchange. That shield worked like a solid wall, stopping energy and ballistics. Inside, the pod-bed was recessed into the wall, a tinker station folded beside it, loaded with clamps and tools. Above that bench was my locker, stocked with ammo, clothing, and rations. Echo—my AI—was wired into the ceiling. It spoke when I asked for stuff or needed help with my equipment.

  After accepting the contract, Vull responded with coordinates. Charity didn't fuel my rifle or keep my ship flight-ready. The meeting occurred in an aging hangar bay stuffed with ships of every make and model, although most were not larger than a shuttle. He greeted me like an old friend, which we weren't.

  Vull's a Varnari. They're long-limbed, bug-eyed, and have skin like oil-slicked glass. Normally, his kind handles infiltration—slicing signals, cracking locks, slipping into high-security zones without a trace. But Vull? He peddles stimulants and secrets. He's the type who talks fast, runs faster and only finds courage when no one's looking—especially if he can duck behind someone bigger.

  "Slaka! The Ghost returns! I heard you cleared out that Helix pirate cell during the last cycle. Think you'll stay awake long enough to take this job seriously?" he called, holding out a datapad with mission details—the kind only handed out to leaders and heads.

  I didn't respond. I took the datapad, examined it, and walked over to a metal crate. I yawned as I sat.

  The bay wasn't quiet. Gangs and clans filled the space with tension and static. Dozens of species gathered, hoping this job would give them something to crawl out of the gutter with. A Sythari lingered near the shadows, its skin like living smoke, barely touching the floor. Nearby, another Varnari twitched by the wall—glass-eyed, all angles and nerves. A Havari was strapped into a turret harness. Short and twitchy, its power suit whirred like a dying insect. Then there was the Sporekin—motionless as rot, faint spores drifting from its mossy skin like it was thinking with the air.

  Then, the Dravaks arrived.

  They were big. Armored. Loud.

  Dravaks are ridge-plated death engines—bio-forged for close-quarters warfare and cultural dominance. Nothing they wear looks manufactured. It's all bone-metal, grown and scarred with pride. They rarely speak outside their own ranks, and when they do, violence usually follows. I've encountered a few before. They didn't like me. I can't blame them—I fight from a distance, and they hate that.

  Their ship was one of the few in the hangar larger than a shuttle—an armored carrier bristling with tribal banners and heavy plating, a clear sign of their influence. Most crews here appeared in patchwork junk; hers looked like it could punch through orbit.

  At their front stood the tallest one—a female who glanced at me briefly before continuing towards Vull with her warband behind her, numbering at least forty heads strong.

  "Cowardly merc," she muttered, loud enough to be heard.

  I've heard worse. I've said worse. She didn't know me. That was fine. I wasn't here for her or her blood-soaked pride. I was here for credits. Nothing more, nothing less.

  I stayed on my crate as a Sporekin offered me a canister of hydration gas. I waved it away without a word. Her eyes lingered. I closed mine and sank into drowsiness like a blanket.

  I woke to the sound of heavy breathing. The Dravak female stood over me, helmet off, red eyes narrowed with restrained fury. We stared in silence. I stretched slowly and stood like she was just another part of the scenery. She didn't speak, and I didn't need her to.

  Most of the ships had launched. I blinked at the near-empty hangar.

  "Didn't miss the launch, did I?" I muttered.

  She scoffed again and walked off. I boarded my ship, punched in the coordinates, and took off.

  The mission target was a crumbling base that had somehow been returned online. From a distance, it looked easy. As we got closer, the anti-air defenses came to life. Turrets swiveled. Energy signatures spiked.

  I dipped my ship down, low and hard, before touching the ground. Some of the other pilots tried to dodge the fire. They failed. Amateurs.

  As I exited my ship, I spotted Vull glaring toward the facility while peering through a set of energy binoculars. I joined him, rifle slung lazily over my shoulder.

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  "From what I can see, they've got working automated turrets and a shield generator," he said. He put the tool down and turned to me with that usual grin.

  He didn't need to say anything. I rolled my eyes, shouldered my rifle, and approached a rise in the terrain. I set up prone, surrounded by murmurs and glances. One gaze in particular was easy to track. It was her. Still watching me.

  I looked through the scope.

  "Echo. Set Riftpiercer power to one hundred percent. Ghost Rounds—ten."

  "Confirmed. Power output maxed. Ghost Rounds are active. Activating Stillpoint," Echo replied.

  The world slowed.

  Turrets locked onto targets. I lined up the first shot—one round. No sound. No flash. The turret turned to red ash.

  Vull hadn't mentioned how many defenses they had. It didn't matter. I was only here to clear the front.

  Another turret fell. Then another. The base was armed with two anti-air, two anti-vehicle, four anti-personnel, and six manned turrets—at least from this angle. There could be more around the sides or rear. But they didn't get the chance.

  I dropped them in seconds.

  Exhaling slowly, I stood up. Vull looked thrilled.

  "That'll be extra, Vull. All front turrets are gone. But they won't drop the shield soon, not with us at their doorstep," I said, glancing at the Dravak woman again. "The shield's weak, though. My rounds flickered it on impact."

  "Bombardment, then?" Vull asked.

  I nodded.

  He turned back to the crowd. "You heard Ghost! Bring down that shield! Everything inside is salvage. I just want the datapad. Whatever's left—equipment, weapons, even the idiots dumb enough to surrender—is yours."

  The Dravaks roared, raising their weapons. They rushed to their ships, eager for the breach. I returned to mine. As the other mercenaries flew in, I swapped out Riftpiercer's mag and prepped a fresh clip.

  "Echo. Set a path to the base's front."

  "Course locked. Do you wish to assist in the assault?"

  "No. They've got that covered. I already did the hard part."

  I watched the battle from my ship's holoscreen. The shield took a pounding. Heavy turret fire from the base lit up the air, cutting down smaller ships. Larger vessels absorbed the hits until a few well-placed rockets detonated against them. One ship exploded in midair.

  Then the shield cracked.

  The mercenaries surged.

  I stepped onto the forward wall—charred bodies everywhere. The main door was torn wide open. Dravaks.

  I walked to the console and placed a hand on it. Echo scanned the internal systems.

  "Multiple hostiles detected. Barricades established. Additional explosive traps confirmed," it said.

  "Smart," I muttered.

  Inside, I passed a room where a group of Havari were feasting on a rogue soldier—alive. I didn't stop. Upstairs, I moved along a catwalk overlooking the base's interior. The firefight grew louder.

  Down the hall, rogue soldiers held the line with two heavy turrets. They'd already dropped several mercenaries—two Dravaks among them.

  I activated my cloak and readied my rifle.

  "Echo. Output at fifty percent. Enable twenty Wisp rounds."

  "Confirmed."

  I aimed. One shot. One gunner gone. Second shot—same result.

  The moment their fire ceased, the female Dravak charged. Her warband followed like a tidal wave.

  I kept moving, slipping through the catwalk until I reached the hangar. The remaining soldiers had fortified a position in front of a cargo ship. Their weapons were basic—rifles, DMRs, and maybe some engineers. That last part made me uneasy.

  Echo pinged a signal from deeper within the ship.

  What stood in that hangar wasn't just a threat. It was a relic of war—refusing to die not out of resilience but apathy.

  A Manticore-Class heavy infantry mech. Eighteen meters tall. Scarred plating, exposed hydraulics. The kind of machine built to break sieges—and the people inside them.

  Its nano-steel shell was scorched from years of battle. Its spine was layered with conduits designed to be rerouted mid-combat. Whoever last tuned this mech knew what they were doing. Whoever piloted it now knew exactly why it was made.

  No AI. Pure neural sync.

  It had no head—just a chest-mounted dome for visual sweep. Thrusters were present but limited—good for dodging or charging, not flight.

  Its weapon? A molten hand axe—glowing orange, dripping energy. A Molten Reaver. It oozed heat when exposed too long. It also had a tower shield of pure energy.

  It wasn't pristine. No mech this old should be. But every weld was solid, every system stable. This wasn't scrap. This was survival incarnate.

  Vull ran. Figures.

  The Dravak woman didn't hesitate. She charged the soldiers. Her warband tackled the mech head-on with war cries and their maces at the ready. That's Dravak pride—never retreat.

  I watched her reduce the remaining soldiers to a pulp. But the mech wouldn't fall easily. It cleaved two Dravaks in half with its axe. The rest of the strikes bounced off its tower or personal shield.

  I rolled my eyes and raised my rifle.

  Changing ammo mid-combat would destroy the weapon. I had to commit. I cursed under my breath and fired at its knee.

  "Providing cover fire! Take that damn thing down!"

  Dravani met my gaze, her eyes narrowing with a predatory gleam. Without a word, she surged forward, hammer raised high. The weapon descended with a thunderous impact, striking the mech's compromised knee joint. A resonant crack echoed as the joint shattered, sending a tremor through the ground.

  The Manticore staggered, its balance disrupted. Dravani's warband seized the moment, converging with ferocious precision. They assaulted the mech's flanks, their weapons a blur of motion. Sparks erupted as steel met steel, the cacophony of battle filling the air.

  With a final, guttural roar, the Manticore collapsed, its massive frame crashing into dust and debris. The hangar fell silent, the only sound the heavy breathing of the victors before the female raised her hammer along with the mech's axe high overhead in glory, which her warband followed.

  I sighed and descended.

  At ground level, Vull emerged with the datapad. Job done. "Credits are sent. Enjoy your looting!" he called as he bolted after looking my way for a mere instant.

  I raised an eyebrow. I knew he would flee, but not this quick, especially when I could feel the fear in his eyes when he saw me.

  The Dravak female approached. Towering. Proud. She bowed her head slightly.

  "I am Dravani Skullguard, the firstborn of Clan Skullguard."

  I blinked and scratched the back of my neck.

  "Slaka. No last name."

  She tilted her head. "No clan?"

  "Nope," I said, popping the P.

  "Shame."

  "Not really. I did my part, and now I'm heading out."

  I turned, watching as other gangs scavenged the fallen. Weapons, drugs, prisoners—they took everything not bolted down.

  "Till next we meet, Slaka!" she shouted.

  I raised a hand and activated my cloak.

  It wasn't about glory. It was about staying paid—and staying quiet.

  Let the others chase death. I walked in its shadow.

  And sometimes, I whispered back.