Docking at Whisper’s Edge was like getting swallowed by a whale made out of scrap metal, neon, and very bad decisions. Ben watched the approach from the bridge viewport, while the Ember squirmed into the mess of angular shadows and spinning rings.

  The station looked even bigger up close, a cat’s cradle of asteroids, magnetic scaffolding, and slapdash towers orbiting the blue marble of Helix-9. It was nowhere near as big as the Gnomish Technocracy’s orbital city, but it was still the kind of place that made Ben’s skin crawl with possibility and threat.

  The bridge lights dipped as the station’s authority pinged them. Thimble jumped on the comms, barking back in a bad imitation of the local accent. The authentication ritual was pure paranoia: challenge phrase, countersign, then a five-second window to transmit a rotating code. If you missed it, the station’s hidden batteries would turn your ship into a fine mist.

  Ben’s new commlink buzzed with a message from Thimble: Be careful out there. No worries, me and Embie are right in your ear. Also, if you see anything that looks like an egg sac, leave it alone.

  He sent her a thumbs up with his wrist-holo.

  On the main screen, the docking slip unfolded like a mechanical flower, guiding them into a sub-bay packed with ships that looked like they’d been built by committee and welded together by drunk pirates. Ben counted at least three hulls with Syndicate tags.

  The Drifting Ember dwarfed most of the yard, but size didn’t matter here—reputation did, and Ironbelly’s name opened more doors than it closed.

  The captain stood at the rail above the exit hatch, claws flexing in steady rhythm. “Note the time, people!” he shouted. “Four hours of shore leave. If you're late, you get to give Ember a break and clean my shower. Clear?! Supply! Make sure we're topped off and get with the galley and see if you can consolidate some trips this time?”

  Henry Nash, resident veteran marine, nodded. The Mossmere twins, both acknowledged, inspecting their rifles and checking their loadouts. Quillian was better at close quarters than his sister, but Elowen could hit targets more than half as far as her brother.

  Ironbelly turned to Ben. “You’re with me. The contact insisted you come in person. Don’t touch anything, don’t say anything, don’t even breathe unless I tell you.”

  “What if I see an egg sac?” Ben asked.

  “Hush.”

  ***

  Docking completed with a seismic shudder. The airlock hissed open into a hangar lined with loading bays. The steel catwalks showed signs of cold-weld damage and pipes wrapped in insulation that looked suspiciously like old rags. Ben kept his hands in his pockets, pretending not to notice the way the twins’ eyes darted to every shadow.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  They broke off toward a grav-sled where two crew members Ben hadn’t met yet waited.

  A tall dragon man thing, and some type of giant insect that sat in the seat like a human.

  Following his gaze, Thorn whispered, “That's the chef, Krell, and before you ask, he's a Komodon, and yes, his food is amazing. You have to try his mood pops! Somehow his gates let him infuse different emotions into his food, but the emotion has the same shelf-life of the food, so naturally, popsicles were the next step. Next to him, is Whisk, a Chrysalid, Krell's sous chef. Its real name is a series of chirps that no one could pronounce, so it chose an easier name. And apparently, in its culture, names are picked based on things that you love. Rumor has it one of the Mossmere's managed something real close one time but ended up insulting it instead. Supposedly, whichever one it was, found some extra protein in their stew.”

  My demon is a fucking gossip. I have seen so much that's hard to believe, but this is almost too much.

  The main concourse was a riot of smells. Ozone, hot oil, fried protein cubes, and the perfumed stink of imported flowers that someone, somewhere, thought improved the atmosphere.

  There were enough weapons in open carry to start a mid-sized war, but nobody so much as twitched at the sight of Nash’s rifle or Ironbelly’s custom plasma pistol.

  Side by side, the twins chattered about some new VR combat sim, their voices overlapping with excitement. Nash kept his eyes locked on the path ahead, face carved from stone.

  They ducked through a tunnel of flexiglass, then up a ramp, then into a cramped elevator that Nash had to wedge his shoulders into. Ironbelly led fast, feet silent on the deck, and Ben had to skip to keep up.

  The elevator opened into a soul parlor. Ben had never seen one in person, but he’d read enough in his “learn this shit or die of ignorance” crash course to recognize the signs: the greenish glow of containment tanks, the whine of centrifuges, the clientele with eyes too bright for their faces. The place reeked of blood and fake citrus. Ben watched a woman at the bar crush a crystal between her molars, then breathe out a plume of violet smoke.

  Ironbelly ignored it all and pushed straight to the back, where a black curtain hung between two velvet ropes. The bouncer—a golem with a helmet for a head—stood aside wordlessly at Ironbelly’s approach. One of the patrons tried to protest, but Nash flicked the safety off his gun and the whine shut down all conversation.

  Beyond the curtain, the world got smaller and quieter, the kind of quiet that made your ears ring. Metal stairs led down and down, past pipes vibrating with the station’s heartbeat. Ben lost track of the turns after the third landing. At the bottom was a hatch with no handle.

  Ironbelly pulled a battered coin from a leather string around his neck and pressed it to the wall beside the hatch. The wall beeped and a section of floor dropped away, slow and silent, revealing a spiral staircase lined with glowing red markers.

  They went single file. Ben felt his boots start to stick to the steps, some kind of residue that he really hoped was just spilled synth-wine. At the landing, a plain wooden door waited. Ironbelly knocked five times: one, two, pause, three fast. The door opened on its own.

  Inside was not a lair, or a lab, or a torture den, but a condo. Not just a condo—a fucking designer one, with white leather couches, a panoramic vidscreen showing some mountain sunrise, and a kitchen island covered in imported liquors. Behind the bar, a woman in jeans and a faded t-shirt poured herself a drink.

  She glanced up and smiled at the group, like they were neighbors popping by for a cup of tea.

  “I made margaritas,” she said. “Who wants one?”