“Finally!”

  Inelius breathed a sigh of relief, checking the message terminal and seeing a response.

  “One of Riza's contacts get back to us?” Aurania asked.

  “Yep,” Inelius said. “Someone that just goes by the name ‘Pulse.’ It has coordinates of where to meet him. Just have to… done. Response sent.” He logged off the extranet terminal. “Let's turn this job in, get off this nightmare station, and get on with saving our planet.”

  They set out again, headed for the upper levels.

  Two weeks they'd been on Radiant Horizon—a less fitting name would be hard to find. The station wasn't a single structure, but a forest of them—massive, tiered pylons that clawed their way up from foundations of steel and ambition, hovering in the upper atmosphere of a planet whose surface was a beautiful but uninhabitable swirl of white clouds.

  The radiance here wasn't from a star, but from the incessant, flickering glow of corporate holoscreens. s in a dozen languages bled down the sides of the towers, their garish light painting the stacked, circular platforms in shades of chemical orange, desperate red, and cold blue. There wasn’t really a ‘ground floor’—there was a main floor, and then lower level. But if someone was unfortunate enough to fall over the wrong railing, they would find only space, thin atmosphere, and the eventual gravity of the nearby planet to greet them.

  Enclosed sky-bridges connected the pylons, the city’s lower levels stretching out in a dizzying lattice. Their polished metal surfaces reflected the neon chaos from above—a perfect mirror of the station’s vanity. Every tower was its own little kingdom, every light a different company screaming for attention. They were all connected, but none were together.

  The team was stuck waiting for a courier ship to arrive and update the extranet. With no methods of FTL communication available beyond the couriers, galactic society had evolved to using a blockchain style network that was routinely updated as messengers flicked around to different stations and planets. Riza had sent her ping out into the void on Garrick Station—but when they arrived on Radiant Horizon, no response had yet been sent back.

  So rather than going stir crazy and slowly broke aboard their ship, they had opted to find some side work to fill their time. When they docked and disembarked, Raine had almost sprinted off the ship to look over the exterior. Sure enough, sleek lettering now adorned the hull, having appeared at some point as they hurdled through space.

  The Cradle of Gravity.

  “Woahohoh!” Raine laughed when she caught sight of it.

  Everyone else gave similar reactions to the ship obeying Raine's request. Then the purple-haired CIPHER turned and said, “Hey Amalia, did it listen to you too?”

  She just responded with a satisfied, shit-eating-grin.

  After seeing no response from any of Riza's contacts, they’d cautiously explored the station, found some local food, spit it back out, then found some local alcohol to get the taste out of their mouths. Several days of waiting later, they made contact with a local corporate office with a decent paying gig posted up. ‘Omni-Genesis Corps,’ whatever the fuck that was supposed to mean, was paying a handsome reward for the return of one of their corporate officers that had been kidnapped by a rival company on-station.

  Inelius wasn't really sure why the guy had been kidnapped. The office had explained, and he'd listened, but after learning more about Omni-Genesis Corps, the rival kidnappers—‘Blue Chip Syndicate’—and pretty much every person involved, he'd arrived at the conclusion that they were all pieces of shit. The whole station was a blistering, repulsive mark on space, dominated by corporations, greed, cruelty, and…

  “Individualism,” Inelius said aloud, continuing their discussion. “Everyone here is so damn focused on what's best for themselves, they see no need to help others.”

  Mr. Giancarlo, their rescued corporate officer, let out a dry, condescending chuckle from his seat. He adjusted the lapels of his immaculate red suit, looking completely unfazed by the firefight they had just endured to save him. “Individualism is what built this station, Major. Ambition. The pursuit of capital. These are not flaws—they are the engines of progress. A society that doesn't prioritize the self, stagnates.”

  Soren stood mirroring the posture he’d learned from Aurania, the sheathed tip of his pre-owned, slightly-used greatsword on the ground, both hands on the hilt. “A society built on selfishness starves the masses of opportunity to flourish.”

  Aurania shot him a look of approval before turning her gaze to Giancarlo. “With rare exception, a warrior who fights alone, dies alone. Your station is filled with individuals, but it has no strength. No soul.”

  Giancarlo’s smile was thin and dismissive. “Charming philosophies. But a bit… communal for my tastes.”

  Soren’s brow furrowed, and he looked at Aurania. “Is he calling the lacravida communists?”

  Aurania’s jaw worked, her expression a mix of curiosity and distaste. “Communists? It’s not something we have a direct translation for. From ‘community,’ I suppose. In that sense, yes. But the word feels… clinical. Inaccurate.” She tilted her head, thinking. Neon light from a dozen competing billboards washed over them in shifting colors, while the chatter of crowds bled together into the endless hum of station life.

  “Communism is a political system, right?” Raine noted. “Designed to force a society to share.”

  “We are not communists, then,” Aurania concluded. “I would say collectivists might be a more accurate term. But it’s not a political structure, it’s our nature. It’s not a rule we follow, it’s who we are—it is survival.”

  “Across much of Earth,” Soren’s voice was grim, “it was never that simple. They always needed systems—draw imaginary lines to divide people up. The threat of punishment to keep them in line. They would ask, ‘Without God or government, what stops you from raping your neighbor?’”

  Aurania’s face twisted into a snarl of disgust. “The fact that I have no desire to rape my neighbor? Why would you need a law to tell you not to be a monster? Was empathy not their default setting?”

  Giancarlo just scoffed, shaking his head like he was listening to rambling children.

  The debate continued as they headed for the Omni-Genesis tower. As they passed through a neon-drenched plaza, Violet stopped, her posture taut as a bowstring. Inelius followed her gaze to the flickering sign of a nightclub across the wa—The Gilded Cage. Even from here, they could see the figures inside—some dancing, some serving, all of them wearing corporate shock-collars. A pair of armed guards stood at the entrance, laughing as they shoved a young, terrified-looking CIPHER back inside.

  Violet’s hand settled the grip of Morgan’s Mercy, the air around her coiling into ice. Nothing to be done about it, Inelius shrugged and looked around for a place to watch and wait.

  Giancarlo noticed her expression. “Ah, The Gilded Cage. Another Blue Chip Syndicate enterprise. Unsavory, but profitable.” He took a drag from a thin cigarette. “I wouldn’t concern yourself. You can’t expect to save every lost soul on the station. It’s a tragic, but necessary, part of the ecosystem here.”

  Violet’s eyes settled on him, cold as the void. “I don’t know how to explain to you that you should care about other people.”

  KRAK-BOOM!

  The sound of Morgan’s Mercy was a deafening slap in the crowded plaza. The left guard’s head vanished in a spray of red mist. The second guard barely had time to register the shock before Violet hip-fired again, opening his chest. She strode forward, a faint wind blowing through the station and pulling at her armored skirt. Two more guards ran outside to receive Mercy.

  Giancarlo’s eyes went wide. “Vigilantism defines that one, I think. Are you planning to let her just shoot up the nightclub or does one of you intend to stop her?”

  Inelius reached out and put a hand on his shoulder, forcing him to sit on a nearby bench. “I can think of no quicker way to die than getting in Violet’s way right now.”

  Aurania sighed, but a grim smile touched her lips. She looked at Soren and Amalia. “Let’s go give her some backup.”

  Soren’s greatsword sang as he drew the blade, and the three of them ran after Violet. Inelius watched them go, then turned back to Giancarlo. He was staring, utterly dumbfounded, the cigarette fallen from his lips.

  “Pragmatism,” Inelius gestured at Aurania right before she vanished through the door.

  The first screams from inside the club were followed by the distinct sound of rifle fire—Amalia’s. A window on the second floor shattered, and a body flew out, landing with a sickening crunch on the street below. The building began to shake with the dull thud of explosions.

  “This is insane and a waste of time,” Giancarlo spouted. “Take me back to the Omni-Genesis tower immediately so you can collect your reward and I can go about my day. If you’re too busy with your ‘extracurriculars,’ I can find the way back on my own.”

  He tried to stand up.

  “You just sit tight, Mr. Fancy Suit,” Veolo shoved him back down onto the bench. “Until we return you to your people, you’re our ‘guest.’ Don’t worry, Violet will be done in ten minutes tops.”

  Aurania and Inelius had technically put her in charge of their op today, so her job was to supervise and direct where everyone else went. She was currently directing people out of Violet’s path.

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  Inelius calmly turned to Giancarlo. “So, you were saying something about the engines of progress?”

  Giancarlo stared at him, aghast. “Progress? That’s an anarchic riot! Your friend is acting on pure, selfish impulse. Her idealism is going to get people killed.”

  “Correction,” Raine piped in. “Her idealism is currently killing people. The right people.”

  She had accompanied on this mission since she needed some field experience and they needed a CIPHER to help slice through Blue Chip’s security. She came over and propped an elbow up on Inelius’ shoulder. “Her ideal is that people shouldn’t be property, Mr. Giancarlo. I’d call that humanism. Something you and the Conservatory could learn a thing or two about.”

  The sound of bullets pinging off metal rang out from the third floor, then a wall exploded in a show of warped light. A shorn with freshly amputated legs flew out from the blast. He missed the station walkways, falling down into the expanse of space. He would inevitably be drawn down to the nearby planet, but he’d likely exsanguinate or succumb to hypoxia first.

  “Which ‘ism’ would you call that?” Giancarlo spat.

  “Uh…, Veolo leaned over the railing, watching the falling shorn. “Gravity.”

  Amalia’s cheerful war cry echoed from within.

  “Which are you, Miss Veolo?” Giancarlo questioned.

  She cocked an eyebrow at him, but didn’t answer.

  “It’s not their job to police this station’s morality,” Giancarlo said, his composure starting to fray. “It’s none of yours.”

  “It’s her job to be a decent person,” Veolo shot back. “It’s not complicated.”

  “It’s the very definition of complication! This isn’t justice, it’s vigilante behavior bordering on absolutism. She’s decided these people are evil, and she’s appointed herself their executioner. There’s no trial, no process. Just a verdict delivered from the barrel of a gun.”

  “Really?” Inelius barked a laugh, his gaze fixed on the club’s entrance. “You’re going to sit there, knowing exactly what goes on in that club, seeing with our own eyes the people living in hell, and tell us—’whoops, sorry. Hands are tied.’”

  The sounds of fighting inside began to die down. The screams had stopped, replaced by the muffled sounds of crying and urgent, reassuring voices.

  “Hedonism on a fun day,” Raine said with a casual smile.

  They all looked at her.

  “V,” Raine pointed. “But today I’d say more primalism. I’m surprised she hasn’t punched anyone yet.”

  Veolo turned back to the nightclub. “Job’s not done yet. Let’s see how much more Mr. Giancarlo feels like running his mouth.”

  A few minutes later, the forward team emerged from the smoky entrance. Aurania looked annoyed but unharmed. Soren’s clothes had a couple new bullet holes, but far less than if he didn’t have the greatsword. Amalia was practically vibrating with victorious energy while Violet walked behind her with a quiet, heavy calm, her wide-brimmed hat obscuring the view of her eyes.

  A hesitant trickle of people followed them out—men and women of various species, all wearing the same broken, dazed expressions. Their shock-collars had been deactivated, the indicator lights dark.

  “Alright,” Aurania’s voice cut through the stunned silence of the plaza. “Break time’s over. Let’s get our guest delivered and get paid.”

  As they continued, Giancarlo asked, “What about these two?” He gestured to Soren and Amalia.

  “Oh, they’re easy,” Inelius said. “Soren is altruism—he cares about nothing more than the well-being of others.”

  “And the bubbly one?” Giancarlo raised an eyebrow to Amalia.

  “Opposite of you, Mr. Giancarlo,” Violet patted her sister on the head. “She’s optimism.”

  The rest of the walk to the Omni-Genesis tower was somewhat quieter. The liberated slaves were quickly absorbed by a local aid network Raine found contact info for—a small pocket of decency in a station built on greed. Giancarlo was finally silent, his earlier arrogance replaced by a sullen resentment. Aurania escorted Raine to the ship to start prepping their trip to meet Pulse while Inelius continued with Soren, Veolo, Violet, and Amalia to return their ward.

  The air on the executive levels of the Omni-Genesis tower was cool and filtered—a world away from the grit of the plaza. The manager who had hired them, a human named Fotze, greeted them with an exaggerated smile. “Excellent work,” Fotze gestured for them to bring Giancarlo forward. “As promised, your payment.” A credchip slid across his polished desk.

  Veolo grabbed it and connected it with her own credchip. “Payment went through, we’re good.”

  “Hey guys?” Soren said. “There’s a dozen armed guards waiting for us back in the hallway.”

  “How…?” Fotze began to say.

  “Oh hey, your perception thing is back,” Violet noted.

  On the large screen behind Fotze’s desk, their own faces flickered to life. ‘Wanted.’ A Conservatory bounty that could buy a small moon.

  Fotze’s smile widened. “A pleasure doing business with you. But I’m afraid the Conservatory sent us this offer not five minutes before you walked in the door. Nothing personal, it's just good business.”

  “Five minutes?” Mr. Giancarlo sounded far too amused, walking behind the desk with Fotze. “Shame you took ten to stop and help all those little people.”

  “No it’s not,” Violet answered.

  Inelius’ expression didn’t even change. He looked at Veolo, then looked back to Fotze, letting out a slow, tired breath. “And here we see the issue with capitalism. They’re so damn focused on the money.”

  Fotze actually chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “It’s what makes the galaxy turn—a simple, honest motivation. You should try it.”

  Giancarlo adjusted his lapels once more. “So which one are you, Major Drozek? We’ve covered two dozen of these concepts on our grand adventure to return me home—which one defines you?”

  "Hey, yeah,” Amalia said in a loud, excited tone. “We never did an ‘-ism’ for Inelius."

  Inelius glanced at Amalia, looked back at the door where a dozen armed men waited for them, then looked at Soren.

  He looked Giancarlo dead in the eye.

  "Realism."

  Inelius drew his sidearm and shot Fotze in the chest.

  The blast was deafening in the pristine office. Fotze’s smug expression vanished as his chair was knocked backwards. The room erupted, doors slamming open and enforcers opening fire—

  Soren dropped into a focused stance, thrusting his free hand outward. All around their team, the light and air warped, a barrier of impenetrable gravity protecting them from gunfire.

  The sounds of gunblasts were loud but muffled inside the protective bubble.

  “How long can you keep that up?” Inelius yelled.

  “A lot longer than they can keep shooting!” Soren yelled back, voice like liquid thunder.

  “Oh, neat,” Inelius said. “V? What are we doing?”

  “Can we shoot out of this thing?” Veolo yelled.

  “Uh… try,” Soren answered.

  Violet raised Morgan’s Mercy and fired a blast out through the shield. The gravity shield accelerated the projectile even harder, taking her target’s arm off at the shoulder.

  “Dayum,” Amalia said.

  “This almost doesn’t seem fair,” Inelius said.

  They opened fire, trying to gun down their assailants, but Violet’s aim must have been dead perfect the first time. Depending on where they shot out of the sphere, their projectiles redirected, pulled just enough by the gravity to fly off in another direction.

  “Well… fuck,” Veolo looked around. “Soren! Can you make it bigger?”

  “Yeah, lemme try.”

  His hair and eyes ignited, and the bubble began to push out away from them. Anything that wasn’t floor was pushed away by the sheer force of gravity as he extended their shield.

  “Move to the exterior wall!” Veolo commanded.

  Soren began walking toward the armed assailants in the hallway, the team moving with him. The doorway, ceiling, walls—all of it yielded as Soren’s barrier made contact. The plaster cracked into dust, the glass shattered into a thousand pieces, lighting fixtures popped from the ceiling like champagne corks. Any structural metal in the way was pushed back like melted taffy.

  The eleven remaining enforcers scrambled backward in a panic. Their discipline broke into a terrified mob as the sphere of warped reality advanced, peeling the corridor open like a tin can. The smarter ones began diving into open elevators as the team advanced forward, forgotten weapons snapping like twigs under the gravity’s pressure.

  “Better find somewhere to go!” Veolo yelled at the last remaining enforcer. He was trapped between the barrier and the panoramic window at the end of the corridor, overlooking a dizzying drop to the station’s ‘ground’ floor.

  “Sssssorry…” Soren said as the barrier pressed into the man.

  He was sandwiched between them and the window, until the thick glass gave way to the pressure, exploding outward. The man flew out of the building with alarming momentum.

  “What now, Boss?” Inelius shouted to Veolo.

  They all looked back in the direction they came. For the moment, no one was pointing guns at them.

  “Hey Soren!” Amalia yelled out. “Remember how you caught me?”

  “Please don’t—” Soren said.

  Amalia ran forward, forcing Soren to drop the barrier so the gravity didn’t shoot her out like a rocket. At the last second, Amalia grabbed her sister’s hand, pulling Violet with her as she leapt out the newly made hole in the wall.

  “What the fuuuuuuuuck!!” Violet yelled on the way down, holding her hat onto her head.

  Soren’s hand shot out and caught them just before they landed on the ground—then he dropped them.

  “Hey, it worked,” Veolo said, looking down at Violet and Amalia.

  Inelius heard noise behind them, turning to see more armed guards arriving.

  “Shit, jump!” He pushed Veolo out and followed an instant later.

  The world became a dizzying, terrifying rush.

  For a long second, there was only the blurry panorama of Radiant Horizon—the canyons between the towers, the endless, shimmering grid of lights below, and the distant curve of the planet's atmosphere as Inelius plummeted.

  His stomach lurched.

  The ground rushed up to meet him.

  He instinctively braced for the impact, but a soft, impossible catch took hold. The crushing momentum bled away, replaced by a strange, buoyant sensation, like being caught in a current of thick water. He looked over and saw Veolo suspended in the air beside him, her expression a mask of adrenaline-fueled shock.

  Soren drifted past them, landing on the plaza floor with a controlled click of boots on stone. He went to one knee, one palm held up toward them. The air shimmered around them with the faint, invisible pressure of his power. Then he lowered them to the ground with a grunt, the strain evident on his face. The moment Inelius's boots touched the concrete, the feeling vanished, and the full weight of his own body felt startlingly heavy.

  “Run!” Violet yelled.

  She and Amalia opened up, providing covering fire up at the hole in the Omni-Genesis tower.

  Inelius broke into a dead sprint with Veolo, Amalia and Violet following close behind. Soren brought up the rear, swinging his wide blade around in a multitude of flourishes as a cacophony of bullets rang off it.

  “Now you’re just showin’ off!” Veolo hollered.

  “I’ve always wanted to try this!” Soren yelled with glee.

  The dock was pure chaos.

  Alarms blared and red lights strobed across the hull of The Cradle of Gravity. People scrambled everywhere to get out of whatever impending danger was descending around them. Raine had the ramp down, its interior light a beacon of safety in the madness.

  They sprinted up the ramp, the sounds of approaching merc skiffs growing louder. Tamiyo was already in the cockpit, the Aether Core singing and ready. The ramp began to retract as they scrambled inside, gun blasts pinging harmlessly off the hull.

  The hatch sealed shut, cutting off the alarms and the shouting. For a moment, there was only the sound of their own ragged breathing. Inelius leaned against the cool metal of the bulkhead, the adrenaline starting to recede. For a moment, no one spoke—tense quiet permeating the air.

  Aurania sprinted down the stairs, freezing in place when she caught sight of them.

  Soren locked eyes with her and a single, loud, “Hah!” escaped him.

  And then they all were laughing, falling over, clutching their sides in exhaustion and adrenaline withdrawal as they laughed with everything they had. They'd gotten their money. They'd gotten their contact. They'd left a trail of chaos, bodies, and a thoroughly pissed-off corporation in their wake.

  Just another day in the Corporate Expanse.