The Saurath Connection ch 7-13

A space mercenary is hired to help an investigator find missing children. part 2

Chapter 7: Justice in the Dust
         Matt strode away from the aid truck and the tied up slavers, the small girl cradled against his shoulder, her shallow breaths steady but faint. His faded leather duster brushed against the cracked pavement, stirring dust in the fading light. Anika matched his pace, her dark green city guard uniform stark against the slums' grime, her elongated Luparan ears twitching at every sound. Her dark hair, streaked with gray and silver, swayed as she glanced back, her claws flexing on her nightstick. The red crescent-marked truck and its bound slavers faded behind a cluster of corrugated shacks, the air thick with the stench of uncollected waste.
         Anika's boots scuffed the dirt, her voice sharp with urgency. "Matt, we can't leave. Those slavers need to be arrested--now. I'm a Tracker; it's my duty to see them in custody." Her ears pulled back, her gaze torn between the girl in Matt's arms and the path they'd left.
         Matt stopped abruptly, his boots grinding into the gravel, the girl's weight steady in his scarred hands. He turned to face Anika, his graying eyes calm but firm, the neon glow from a distant market stall catching his weathered face. "Anika, listen," he said, his voice low and deliberate. "If you haul those two in now, all you'll do is waste time and risk the kids the slavers already have. You said it yourself, the slavers have ties to your superiors--someone's redirecting the real aid trucks to cover for them. Arrest those grunts, and their bosses'll hear about it before we can do anything. The slavers'll cut their losses, bolt with the kids, and we'll never see them again. Plus, the sun's going down and the farm will be expecting these two back. If they aren't back before much longer, they're gonna know something is wrong. We've got to move fast to hit that farm before they scatter."
         Anika's jaw tightened, her ears flattening as her eyes moved toward the darkening sky, the violet-ochre haze of Saurath's dusk settling over the slums. Her claws gripped her nightstick harder, her voice strained but steady. "My duty's to the law, Matt. I can't just let slavers walk free, even for a night. If something happens to them before morning, it's on me."
         Before Matt could respond, shouts and screams pierced the air, raw and furious, echoing from the direction of the truck. Both turned, their eyes locking on the scene unfolding just beyond the shacks. A crowd of slum residents--humans in tattered kurtas, Luparans with twitching ears and bared teeth--had gathered around the bound slavers. The tall, dark-skinned man and his red-haired partner, still tied to the rusted steel bar, shrank back against the crumbling wall, their faces pale with fear. The locals' voices rose, a mix of Hindi and Luparan, their anger palpable. A Luparan woman, her fur matted and gray, clutched a broken crate, her yellow eyes blazing. A human man, wiry and scarred, spat on the ground, his fists clenched as he shouted, "<Kidnappers! You took our children!>" Matt's translator implant relayed the words, each one heavy with betrayal.
         Matt's lips curled into a grim half-smile, his gaze steady as he watched the crowd tighten around the slavers. "Those two aren't going anywhere, Anika," he said, his voice dry but certain. "The locals heard every word they spilled. They're not happy about their kids being stolen."
         Anika's ears twitched, her dark eyes darting between the crowd and Matt, her expression caught between duty and the pull of the kids' fate. Her claws loosened slightly on her nightstick, but her posture remained tense, her voice low. "They're my responsibility, Matt. If something happens to them before morning, it's on me."
         Matt shifted the girl's weight, his scarred hand gentle as he adjusted her against his shoulder. He raised his voice, calling out to the crowd in Standard, his tone clear and commanding. "Hey, folks! Now I don't care what happens to those two sacks of shit, but Tracker Veyr here needs them alive to be arrested in the morning. They're yours tonight so long as they're alive for the city guard to arrest come morning!" His words cut through the shouts, drawing wary glances from the locals. The Luparan woman's ears twitch, her grip on the crate easing slightly, while the human man nodded, his scowl unwavering but his eyes glinting with understanding.
         Matt turned to Anika, his voice softer but firm. "That'll have to do." He adjusted the girl in his arms, her small form curling instinctively against Matt's chest. "Nobody's come for her, so I'm guessing she's an orphan. You know a place we can take her? Somewhere safe?"
         Anika's ears leaned forward, her gaze softening as she looked at the girl, then back to Matt. "Yeah, I know someone," she said, her voice quieter now, a trace of warmth breaking through her tension. "A friend, lives nearby. She'll take care of her."
         They moved through the slums' twisting paths, the dusk deepening into a violet haze, the distant neon of Little India fading behind them. Anika led the way, her stride purposeful, weaving past crumbling shacks and murky ditches. Matt followed, his boots crunching on gravel, the girl's weight a steady reminder of what was at stake. They reached a modest shack, its corrugated metal walls patched but sturdy, a faint light glowing through a curtained window. Anika knocked twice, her claws tapping lightly, and the door creaked open.
         A human woman, middle-aged with deep-set eyes and a faded sari, stood in the doorway. Her face softened at the sight of Anika, then tightened with concern as she saw the girl in Matt's arms. "Anika, what's this?" she asked, her voice low, tinged with worry.
         "Found her," Anika said simply, her tone gentle but firm. "She needs a place to stay, Meera. Somewhere safe. Can you take her?"
         Meera nodded without hesitation, stepping aside to let them in. As they passed through the doorframe, the stench of the slums was replaced by that of incense. The shack's interior was sparse but clean, a small cot in one corner, a table cluttered with woven baskets and a flickering lamp. Matt carefully laid the girl on the cot, her small form curling instinctively under a thin blanket Meera pulled over her. Anika's ears twitched, her eyes lingering on the girl, relieved that she could help this one orphan girl.
         Matt reached into his duster, pulling out a small leather pouch that clinked softly. He handed it to Meera, who took it with a raised eyebrow. "For her care," Matt said, his voice gruff but kind. "Food, clothes, whatever she needs."
         Meera's fingers brushed the pouch, her gaze sharp but grateful. "Thank you," she said, her voice soft as she tucked the pouch into her sari.
         As they stepped back into the slum's dusty air, Anika's ears twitched, her eyes narrowing at Matt. "Where'd you get that money?" she asked, her tone sharp with curiosity. "You said you didn't have local currency--made me pay for the food at Mala's."
         Matt's lips curled into a wry half-smile, his brown eyes glinting in the dim light. "Pulled it off those slavers," he admitted, his voice low. "Probably their stash for buying kids when they needed to. Figured it's better used for her than their pockets."
         Anika's ears twitched, a hint of amusement crossing her face before her expression hardened again, her claws flexing at her sides. They walked on, the slums' narrow paths growing darker, the distant hum of hovercarts and market chatter fading into the night. The Ronin's silhouette loomed ahead, its dull gray hull a shadow against the spaceport's landing lights, its tripod skids glinting faintly.
         Matt slowed his pace, his boots scuffing the dirt as he turned to Anika, his voice low and serious. "You've got a decision to make, Tracker. I was hired to help with your investigation, but those kidnapped kids--I can't look the other way, not if they're gonna be saved. They're my focus now. You've got two paths: walk away, report everything, get those two slavers arrested--or maybe rescued, depending on how you look at it. Or you can follow me. If you come with me, you do what I say, follow my orders. I'm set on this, whether you're in or not, but could use you--your skill, your restraint. I could use your help. What I'm about to do, though, could bring a lot of trouble down on you. I wouldn't blame you for backing out."
         Anika stared at Matt, her dark eyes unwavering, the gravity of her decision settling like dust in the still air. Her claws flexed briefly, her ears twitching as she processed his words. He was sincere, offering her a way out, a chance to stay clean of the mess he was about to wade into. But he was also offering her a shot to cut out some of the rot festering in Vyrnathys's slums, to save those kids--Priya, Ravi, Lila, and the others on her list. Matt wasn't kidding about the trouble; her superiors, maybe even the Emperor's council, could bury her for this. But like Matt, she couldn't walk away. Not from those kids. Her voice was steady, edged with resolve. "I'm in."
         Matt nodded, his expression unreadable but his eyes glinting with approval. "Alright. First thing, you need to report an attack on that slavers' farm to the city guard. Say whatever you have to--make it convincing--but it's gotta get a security force out there. One strong enough to take the place."
         Anika's ears twitched back and forth, her brow furrowing as a question formed, but her ears stilled, remembering his words about following orders. Her claws tightened briefly on her belt, then she pulled out her comm device, its small screen glowing faintly in the dark. She keyed it on, her voice crisp but urgent as she spoke in Standard. "This is Tracker Veyr. I've got a report of a planned raid on an old industrial farm, south edge of the slums, past the water tower. About thirty individuals, looking to hit it for food and supplies. Send a heavy security team, now." She cut the call, her eyes on Matt, searching for confirmation she'd done it right.
         Matt gave a sharp nod, his voice low. "Good. How long till that force gets to the farm?"
         Anika's ears twitched, her gaze distant as she calculated. "Three to five hours," she said, her tone firm but cautious. "Depends on how fast they mobilize, but that's the range."
         Matt's lips twitched into a faint smile. "Alright. Follow me." He stepped onto the Ronin's lift platform, its circular surface humming faintly as it activated. Anika followed, her boots clanging softly on the metal, her nightstick swaying at her belt. The lift ascended into the Ronin's central airlock module, the spaceport's lights fading below as the ship's interior loomed ahead.



Chapter 8: Into the Ronin
         The Ronin's lift hummed, its circular platform ascending smoothly into the bright lights of the central airlock module, the Vyrnathys spaceport's lights fading below. Matt stood steady, his scarred hands gripping the rails, the small girl's weight still lingering in his memory though she now rested safely with Meera. Anika stood beside him, her dark green city guard uniform taut against her lean frame, her elongated Luparan ears twitching at the lift's faint whine. Her dark hair, streaked with gray and silver, caught the airlock's dim glow, her claws flexing lightly on her nightstick. The platform slowed, stopping within the cylindrical airlock, its clean but worn walls reflecting the soft light. With a soft hiss, the airlock door slid open, revealing a short entryway, leading to a corridor with four doors--two on each side--accessing the Ronin's bunkrooms. The corridor stretched toward the front of the living space compartment, out of sight from the entryway, a faint scent of recycled air and metal polish lingering.
         Cal's voice crackled through the Ronin's intercom, clear and precise. "Welcome back, Matthew. You seem to have brought a guest." The sound seemed to come from everywhere, resonating off the ship's metal walls.
         Matt stepped off the lift into the entryway, his duster swaying, the concealed pistol and knife taken from the slavers tucked in his waistband. "Cal, this is Tracker Anika Veyr, Vyrnathys city guard. Anika, meet Cal, my first mate and the Ronin's AI."
         Anika nodded, her gaze sharp but courteous. "Cal," she said, her voice steady despite the tension in her posture. "Good to officially meet you."
         "Likewise, Tracker Veyr," Cal replied through the intercom. "I am ready to assist. Matt, what is the plan?"
         Anika's eyes fell on Matt, her clawed hands on her belt, a silent agreement in her nod. "Yes, what's next?" she asked, her tone edged with urgency.
         Matt gestured toward a small, open platform lift in the entryway, about 1 meter square, set into the rear bulkhead next to the airlock door, its rails flanking the recessed rung ladder Matt usually used to move between levels. "Follow me," he said, stepping onto the platform, his boots clanging softly on the deck. Anika followed, her movements cautious, the lift humming as it ascended to the upper level. Matt spoke, his voice low and deliberate. "The security team'll take three to five hours to hit the farm. We need to get there first, make sure those slavers can't bolt with the kids. If there's a mole in the city guard, they'll try to tip the slavers off about your report. Cal, I want you monitoring all security department comms--intercept anything suspicious, track that mole if you can. Do what you can to expedite the security team's actions in any way possible. Either way, we're on a clock before those slavers scatter."
         Anika stood beside him on the lift, her daggers glinting faintly at her belt, her ears twitching as she processed his words, her jaw tight with resolve. The simple lift stopped at the upper level, a compact compartment split evenly: the right side housed the armory, its sleek cabinets and drawers brimming with Matt's arsenal--pistols, rifles, blades, all neatly arrayed. The left side held the sensor station, a cluttered console with a glowing display table at its center, humming softly with data.
         "I have accessed the Ronin's scans from our approach to Vyrnathys," Cal said through the intercom, her voice steady. "We passed over the farm during landing. The data is not as refined as I would prefer, but it provides sufficient detail for tactical planning."
         The display table hummed to life, projecting a holographic scan of the industrial farm. The image was grainy but clear enough: a sprawl of rusted silos, a collapsed roof, and a massive cargo ship parked in the back lot, its sharp conical shape looming with the circular flat side down, a hulking shadow against the farm's decay.
         Matt leaned over the display, his graying eyes narrowing as he studied the ship's form. "That's a Klythar cargo ship," he said, glancing at Anika. "Mid-range, designed by the Klythar--reclusive aliens, segmented limbs, hive-like engineering. You see 'em all over the borders of human space, built for efficiency. It's about 70 meters tall, 40-meter base, perfect for landing at farms like this to load grain for off-world transport. Wouldn't be unusual to spot one here. They'll land at a farm during harvest, pick up the grain as it comes in and take off when full." He pointed at the hologram, tracing its conical outline. "Three sections inside: engineering level at the bottom for engines and power plant, bulk cargo area in the middle, and crew deck up top. Normally runs with six to eight crew. This one's likely modified for the slavers' crew and the kids--90 or more. The cargo hold's big enough to hold 'em without packing too tight."
         Anika's ears twitched, her claws pausing on the hologram's edge. "Without packing tight?" she asked, her voice sharp with concern.
         Matt's jaw tightened, his eyes darkening. "Yeah. I ran into a slave op once where they didn't care. Packed people in so tight a third didn't make it--asphyxiation, overheating, or just crushed by the press of bodies. Worst thing I've seen. This ship's got space, so we won't face that horror here." He stepped to a table surface on the left side of the compartment, pulling the slaver's pistol and knife from his waistband and placing them down with a soft clink. Then he tossed his duster onto a nearby chair, its faded leather draping over the back, revealing the Makarov pistol still tucked in his waistband.
         Anika's eyes caught the Makarov, a flash of anger tightening her features. When she first met at the spaceport, she'd told him no firearms were allowed in Vyrnathys, and he'd played along, only to swap a large pistol for this smaller, concealed one. He'd tricked her, and the deception stung. Her claws flexed, but she quelled the spark of rage, reminding herself that the slavers had also been armed and if things had gone bad earlier, he might've needed it. He was right to keep it close. And now is not the time to bring it up, not with the kids in danger of being whisked off planet before they could do anything. She let out a slow breath, her ears steadying.
         Matt stepped to the armory, pulling gear from the cabinets, his voice steady as he laid out the plan. "Here's how we do this, Anika. You and I fly to the farm, Cal provides tech support--hacking, scans, whatever we need. We land in a copse of trees near the farm, use the darkness and any cover we can find to sneak to the cargo ship. We get inside first, secure the kids, take out any slavers we run into. Once the kids are safe, we split. You stay with 'em, while I head to the engineering section to sabotage the ship, make sure it ain't going anywhere."
         As he spoke, Matt pulled out a double shoulder holster, slipping it on. From a drawer, he retrieved his Colt .45 1911, sliding it into the left holster. For the right, he chose a smaller 9mm Beretta, its lower recoil better suited for his weaker left-hand aim. He took two full magazines for each pistol, sliding them into straps under their respective weapons. He grabbed a light armored vest, pulling it over his shoulders, then added greaves and vambraces for his forearms and shins, their matte surfaces clicking into place as he tightened the straps. He took out another vest, adjusting its straps to the smallest setting, and handed it to Anika. "Try this on."
         Anika shrugged out of her guard jacket and slipped the vest on, but it hung loose, the straps unable to cinch tight enough for her slimmer frame. She tugged her city guard jacket over it, the dark green fabric securing it in place. "It'll do," she said. It was still large on her, but the jacket would keep the vest from shifting around.
         Matt nodded, "That vest will stop most pistol and sidearms, but don't do much for a rifle or plasma weapon." He then pulled a boarding gun from the armory, its sawed-off, semi-auto shotgun design sleek but menacing. "This ain't a standard shotgun," he explained, holding it up. "Uses electromagnets like a railgun to fire. Quieter than powder, won't blow out your ears in a ship, and the shells are half the length--lets you load 12 rounds in the tube magazine." He opened the magazine, showing her how to manually load a round. "You slide each one in here, like a pump-action, but it's semi-automatic so no pumping the chamber." He checked the weapon, ensuring it was loaded, and turned to Anika. "You know how to use one?"
         Anika's ears tilted back slightly. "My firearm training was minimal," she admitted, her claws flexing. "Mostly daggers and nightsticks for me."
         Matt stepped closer, showing her the weapon. "Here's the safety," he said, pointing to the switch. "Flip it off to fire. To reload, you slide each round into the tube here, one by one. It's loaded with flechette rounds, tiny darts that shred flesh, but should leave anything else relatively unharmed. Keep it steady--it's got kick." He clipped the boarding gun to a harness on her vest, then handed her a bandolier with 40 flechette rounds looped on the belt and a box-pouch with another 40. "That's enough to hold your own. If you need more than that, we're in trouble."
         Anika adjusted the bandolier, her movements precise despite the unfamiliar weight. She looked at Matt, her eyes narrowing. "There's a problem with your plan. The slavers'll see the Ronin coming from a dozen clicks off, even in the dark. There's no way we'll sneak up on them that way."
         Matt pulled his duster back on, the leather settling over his shoulders. From the armory, he grabbed his EM carbine, its sleek design functioning like a railgun, using electromagnets to fire steel rounds. It had a pistol grip, a solid stock housing the power source, and a cylindrical magazine under the large barrel shroud, doubling as a forward grip, holding 80 rounds. He slung it over his back with the shoulder strap, then grabbed a second magazine and dropped it into his duster pocket. He turned back to Anika grinning. "That's why we're not taking the Ronin. Follow me," he said, turning toward the lift.



Chapter 9: The Hoverbike
         The lift stopped with a gentle thud, on the Ronin's living level. Matt led the way through the central airlock and pushed through the opposite hatch into the cargo bay. The bay was a cavernous space, its walls lined with cargo containers--some strapped tightly, others bolted to the deck--interspersed with storage cabinets and workbenches, their surfaces scuffed, scratched, and worn but clear of any tools or parts. The air carried a faint tang of oil and metal; the floor scuffed from years of heavy use.
         Matt moved with purpose to one of the cabinets, its sleek surface marred by scratches but sturdy. He opened it, retrieving a matte black crash helmet, its visor scuffed but intact, and two portable radio-style comms, each a compact collar with a wired earbud dangling from a thin cable. He handed one comm to Anika, his brown eyes meeting her golden ones. "You'll need this to stay in touch with me and Cal," he said, his voice steady. "These have limited range but should keep us connected and let us coordinate just fine."
         Anika took the comm, her claws brushing the collar's smooth surface. She examined it, her ears flipping curiously, then carefully inserted the earbud into one of her large, canine-like Luparan ears. The bud molded surprisingly comfortably, contouring to the interior of her ear and securing itself, the wire looping up over the edge and down to the collar, which she fastened around her neck. The fit was snug, designed for versatility across species, and didn't pinch her sensitive ears. Matt donned his own comm the same way, the earbud nestling into his ear, the collar resting against his weathered neck.
         Cal's voice crackled through their comms, precise and warm. "Testing communication link for Matthew and Tracker Veyr. Confirm reception."
         Matt nodded, his voice low. "Loud and clear, Cal." He glanced at Anika, waiting.
         Anika's ears twitched, her claws adjusting the collar slightly. "I hear you, Cal," she said, her tone firm but tinged with cautious curiosity.
         "Excellent," Cal replied, her voice resonating through the earbuds. "Comms are functional. Ready for your instructions."
         Matt turned back to the cabinet, pulling out a pair of flight goggles, their lenses clear but scratched. He handed them to Anika, his lips curling into a faint grin. "You're gonna need these."
         Anika's brow furrowed, her ears focused forward as she took the goggles, their weight light in her claws. "What do you mean? And if you say 'follow me' again, I just might shoot you myself," she asked, her voice edged with suspicion, her dark eyes narrowing at Matt's evasive grin.
         Cal piped in, "Matthew has never been good with verbal explanations Anika. You just have to be patient with his weaknesses."
         Matt somehow managed to glare at the open air of the ship. "Thanks Cal."
         Matt tucked the crash helmet under his arm and gestured for her to follow, remembering her threat to shoot him. He led her to the back of the bay, where a heavy tarp was draped over a large shape. With a quick tug, he pulled the tarp away, revealing an old but sleek hoverbike resting on its tripod skids. Its frame was scuffed, with scratches and a few dents marring its matte-black surface, but its lines were sharp, the thrusters and anti-gravity coils gleaming faintly under the bay's lights.
         Matt ran a scarred hand over the bike's handlebars, his grin widening. "She's a little rough around the edges," he said, his tone fond. "Scratches, couple of dents, but mechanically she's sound. Fast, too." He met Anika's gaze, his graying eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and determination. "You'll need the goggles because I don't have a helmet that'll fit those ears of yours."
         Matt set to work, his hands deftly unfastening the thick straps securing the hoverbike to the cargo bay floor. The straps, snapped free with a series of sharp clicks, coiling loosely as he set them aside. He unslung the carbine from his shoulder and opened a saddle cargo box on the rear of the bike. He slid the carbine inside, securing it in a set of secure latches with a soft click, then closed the box. Picking up his crash helmet, he pulled it on, the scuffed visor flipped up to reveal his weathered face, his graying brown hair tucked beneath.
         Matt swung a leg over the hoverbike, settling into the worn seat with practiced ease. He keyed the ignition, and the bike powered on with a low, steady hum, its anti-gravity coils activating. The parking skids retracted with a faint whine, and the bike lifted a few centimeters off the deck, hovering steadily, its thrusters emitting a soft blue glow from the exhaust. Matt turned to Anika, his graying eyes serious now, his voice low and deliberate. "It's not too late to back out, Tracker. Where we're going, there's gonna be blood, violence, and death. Once you're on this bike, there's no going back."
         Anika's ears twitched in thought, her dark eyes met his without hesitation. She pulled the flight goggles over her head, adjusting the straps to fit snugly around her elongated ears, the lenses settling over her sharp gaze. With a fluid motion, she swung onto the bike behind Matt, her claws gripping the seat's edges, her boarding gun and bandolier shifting slightly against her vest. "I'm in," she said, her voice steady, resolute.
         Matt nodded in approval. "Hand me the boarding gun," he said, extending a hand. Anika unclipped the sleek, sawed-off weapon from her harness, passing it to him. Matt slid it into a large leather holster mounted in front of the handlebars, its barrel housing glinting faintly as it slid securely into place.
         Anika's ears twitched, her gaze on the holster with the boarding gun. "Do you ride with that thing a lot?" she asked, her tone laced with curiosity and a hint of skepticism.
         Matt's lips curled into a wry half-smile, his hands resting on the handlebars. "Always," he said, his voice low and matter-of-fact, the weight of countless missions behind the word. "Amazing how much trouble ya'll avoid carrying a big gun."
         Anika couldn't argue with that kind of logic.
         Cal's voice crackled through their comms, precise and efficient. "Opening dorsal cargo bay doors." The overhead lights faded to a faint glow, casting long shadows across the strapped containers and workbenches. A low rumble echoed through the bay as the dorsal cargo bay doors began to part, revealing the violet-ochre haze of Saurath's night sky. The doors slid fully open with a soft groan, the cool night air rushing in, carrying the distant tang of dust and faint market spices.
         Matt worked the hoverbike's controls, his rough hands steady on the throttle and control grips. The bike lifted smoothly, its anti-gravity coils humming as it rose through the open doors, clearing the Ronin's hull with a graceful arc. Once outside, Matt twisted the accelerator, and the hoverbike surged forward, its thrusters emitting a low, almost silent whine as they accelerated through the night sky. The speed was startling, the bike cutting through the air with a sleek precision that belied its scratched and dented frame.
         Anika clung to Matt's back, her claws gripping his duster, her goggles shielding her eyes from the rush of wind. She tilted her head, her elongated ears twitching as she took in Vyrnathys from this new angle. The city sprawled below, a mosaic of neon-lit towers and gritty slums, their lights shimmering like scattered jewels against the dark. The scents of cumin, dust, and uncollected waste mingled with the crisp bite of the night air, familiar yet alien from this height. The sounds--hovercart hums, market chatter, the distant clatter of street life--faded into the roar of the wind, transformed by the altitude into something both foreign and intimately known. Her heart raced, not just from the speed but from the surreal beauty of her city, seen anew.
         Matt's mind, meanwhile, drifted as he guided the hoverbike, the flight path glowing faintly on his helmet's visor, a holographic overlay from Cal ensuring he wouldn't lose his way in the dark. Anika's presence, her arms tight around his waist, stirred something in him--a quiet respect that had been growing since their first meeting. She was trusting him, an off-worlder, to find her missing kids, to tear through the rot in Vyrnathys even if it meant breaking the laws she'd sworn to uphold. Her resolve, her skill, the way she'd taken down those guards without hesitation--it earned his respect. Feeling her so close, her warmth against his back, sparked a fleeting fantasy: the two of them, not as partners in a grim hunt, but as something more, sharing a quiet moment somewhere far from this dust-choked planet. He let the thought linger, a small indulgence, knowing it was safe because he'd be leaving Saurath soon. She'd go back to chasing cutpurses and burglars, and he'd be back among the stars, the Ronin's hum his only company.
         Within a few minutes, the farm came into sight, its silhouette stark against the violet-ochre night. Matt's eyes narrowed, picking out the faint glow of lights from the dilapidated farmhouse, clearly in use despite its crumbling facade. Floodlights blazed near the massive Klythar cargo ship, its conical shape looming in the back lot, its 70-meter height casting long shadows across the rusted silos and collapsed roof. Cal's holographic overlay on his visor highlighted the copse of trees they could use for cover, a dense cluster of gnarled branches and thick underbrush a few hundred meters from the farm.
         Matt approached cautiously, angling the hoverbike to keep the main thrusters pointed away from the farm, their faint blue glow hidden from prying eyes. His deft hands worked the controls with precision, reducing thrust to a whisper as they closed in. At a few hundred meters out, he killed the main thrust entirely, letting the bike coast silently on its anti-gravity coils. The momentum carried them smoothly toward the copse, and Matt applied minimal control thrusts, a faint hum breaking the silence as he braked, guiding the bike to settle gently beside a cluster of dense bushes.
         Matt and Anika dismounted, their boots sinking slightly into the soft earth. Matt handed the boarding gun back to Anika, its weight unfamiliar in her claws as she clipped it to her harness. He pushed the hoverbike deeper into the copse before setting on it's parking skids and killing the power, its old matte paint blending seamlessly with the shadows of the bushes. He pulled off his crash helmet, setting it carefully beside the bike, and retrieved his carbine from the saddle cargo box.
         The two moved silently to the edge of the copse facing the farm, crouching low among the trees and shrubs. Matt scanned the layout: the bright lights in the farmhouse windows, the floodlit cargo ship, and the open lot between, littered with rusted machinery and debris. Anika's ears twitched, her goggles reflecting the distant glow as she studied the terrain, her claws flexing on the boarding gun. They began to scope out their approach, Matt's mind mapping a path through the shadows to the ship's cargo hold, when movement in the shadows caught his eye to their left.
         A figure approached through the dark, their silhouette indistinct but moving with purpose. Matt's instincts flared, his scarred hand tightening on the carbine's grip. All he could think was, FUCK!



Chapter 10: Shadow of the Scales
         Matt and Anika froze, crouched low among the gnarled trees and dense underbrush, their breaths shallow in the cool, dust-tinged night air of Saurath. The violet-ochre haze of the sky cast faint shadows, blending their dark clothing--Matt's faded leather duster and Anika's dark green city guard uniform--into the natural camouflage of the darkness. The figure approaching through the dark moved slowly, his steps deliberate but lacking caution, as if the routine of his patrol had dulled his senses. Matt's eyes narrowed, his heart pounding as he assessed the situation, his hand tightening briefly on the carbine slung across his shoulder. The realization hit him: this was a guard, patrolling the perimeter of the slavers' farm, and he hadn't seen them. They'd been lucky--their dark attire and the copse's shadows had kept them hidden. If they had come in any later, they might have been caught.
         Matt took a few slow, deliberate breaths, steadying the adrenaline spiking through his veins. His instincts, honed by years of hunting threats across the frontier, cataloged every detail as the figure drew closer. The guard wasn't human--green scales glinted faintly under the distant floodlights from the cargo ship, their sheen catching the dim glow like polished jade. The figure's form was lean, almost serpentine, with elongated limbs that moved with an alien grace. In his arms, he cradled a long, sleek rifle-like weapon, its barrel angular and unfamiliar, likely of non-human design. The guard's head swiveled outward, away from the copse, his yellow-slitted eyes scanning the open lot littered with rusted machinery and debris, not the dense thicket where Matt and Anika crouched. He'd probably walked this patrol a dozen times each night, Matt thought, his lips tightening. Sloppy. Complacent.
         The guard's path would bring him perilously close, his boots crunching softly on the dry earth, less than a meter from their position. Matt's mind raced, mapping the terrain--the open lot to their right, the cargo ship's floodlit bulk looming ahead, the farmhouse's lights in the distance. They couldn't afford a confrontation now, not this close to the cargo hold where the kids were likely held. A single shot or shout could alert the entire farm, scattering the slavers and dooming their chance to save the children.
         Anika's ears twitched, her claws tightening on the boarding gun clipped to her harness. Her goggles, strapped over her dark eyes, reflected the faint glow of the ship's lights as she shifted, her body tensing like a coiled spring. She knew that if they were caught, those kids were lost. She began to raise the weapon, its sawed-off barrel glinting faintly, her movements silent but deliberate, ready to neutralize the threat. Before the barrel could clear her shoulder, Matt's scarred hand shot out, gently but firmly pressing the weapon down. His eyes met hers, sharp and commanding, a silent order to hold. Anika's ears flicked back, a flash of frustration crossing her face, but she stilled, trusting his experience despite the tension radiating from her frame.
         Matt's hand slid to the small of his back, fingers closing around the grip of his bowie knife. He drew it silently, the matte blade reflecting no light in the violet-ochre gloom of Saurath's night, its razor edge and clipped point a dark promise in the shadows. His graying eyes locked onto the green-scaled guard, the alien's careless steps crunching closer on the dry earth, oblivious to the danger lurking in the copse. Matt's lips tightened, noting the sloppiness--too close to the trees, too lax for a guard on patrol. The guard's weapon dangled loosely in his arms, his yellow-slitted eyes still scanning outward, missing the predators crouched mere meters away.
         The guard passed their position, his scaled back fully exposed, his movements mechanical, dulled by routine. Matt moved, a shadow peeling from the underbrush, his boots silent on the soft earth. He crept behind the guard, his steps fluid and predatory, mirroring the precision he'd used on the slaver in the slums. This time, though, there'd be no mercy, no knockout. The stakes were too high, the kids too close. His left hand shot out, seizing the guard's collar--a rough, synthetic fabric over the alien's scaled neck--yanking him back with a sharp tug. In the same instant, Matt thrust the Bowie knife forward, the blade slicing into the guard's back, just left of the spine, piercing the lung with surgical precision. The guard's body jerked, a choked gasp escaping as Matt yanked the blade free. A spray of dark, viscous blood arced into the night, the air hissing through the wound, stifling any cry.
         The guard's knees buckled, but Matt was already moving. He pulled the alien's trembling form back against his chest, before his left arm coiled around the guard's head, pinning it in place. With a swift, brutal motion, Matt drove the Bowie knife into the guard's neck, the blade severing arteries, veins, and throat in one clean thrust. Blood poured, warm and slick, soaking Matt's hand and splattering the front of his faded leather duster. The guard's struggles were weak, silent, his scaled limbs twitching as life drained from him. Matt dragged the body back into the copse, the guard's weight sagging in his grip, dead by the time they reached the dense cover of the trees.
         The entire act took three, maybe four seconds. Matt crouched beside the corpse, his breath steady, his graying eyes scanning the darkness for any sign of alarm. The farm remained quiet, the distant hum of the cargo ship's floodlights unbroken, the farmhouse still and silent despite the violence. Anika stared, her dark eyes wide behind her flight goggles, her elongated Luparan ears pinned back in shock. The boarding gun hung limp in her claws, her breath catching as the sharp, coppery stench of blood mingled with the sour tang of death--bile, loosened bowels, the grim perfume she'd come to know from her years as a Tracker. Matt rejoined her, his duster's front marked by a dark, wet patch, the blood invisible against the black leather in the dim light but glistening faintly when it caught the glow from the ship.
         Matt took a moment to wipe his hands and knife on the guard's clothing to get as much blood off as he could before sheathing his knife. His dark eyes on Anika, studying her in the dim light of the copse. Her gold eyes, wide behind the flight goggles, were fixed on the spot where the guard's corpse lay hidden among the trees, her elongated Luparan ears still pinned back, her claws tight on the boarding gun. The faint tremor in her posture betrayed her unease, though her jaw was set, her silence a testament to her resolve. Matt's voice cut through the stillness, low and steady. "You okay, Tracker? Take your time."
         He knew what he'd just done had rattled her--the swift, brutal efficiency of the kill, the blood still slick on his duster. She hadn't said a word, but her reaction was clear. She understood the stakes, the need to keep the slavers unaware, but the violence, so raw and final, sat heavy with her. Anika's gaze snapped to him, her ears twitching forward as she forced a breath. "Let's just get this done," she said, her voice tight but firm, turning her focus to the farm's floodlit sprawl, deliberately avoiding the shadowed corpse behind them.
         Matt studied her for a moment longer, noting the steel in her expression despite the discomfort of the situation. He gave a sharp nod, his own focus shifting back to the mission. "Alright," he said, his voice low as he crouched lower, his EM carbine resting lightly in his hands. His eyes scanned the farm's layout, mapping their path to the ship looming in the back lot. The terrain offered plenty of cover: tangled bushes and overgrown shrubs, rusted hulks of abandoned machinery, and scattered supply crates, carelessly dumped by the slavers. Matt shook his head, a wry twist to his lips. The incongruity gnawed at him--the slavers had set up a slick operation, faking aid trucks, infiltrating the city guard's oversight, even posting guards, yet their patrol was sloppy, and the farm's layout was a sieve, practically inviting intruders. Smart enough to kidnap kids under everyone's noses, but too arrogant to secure their own base.
         Matt touched his com. "Cal, can your drone pick up any other surprises around the perimeter?"
         Cal responds, her voice coming in clear from the drone hovering high above the farm. "Negative Matthew. No other guards appear to be present near your location. There are 2 other guards patrolling, but they each appear to be following the same path circling the area about 120 degrees apart. Neither is in your line of sight and it will take substantial time for them to even be in position to see you. You got lucky with that first guard. There is movement within the farmhouse, but no other slavers appear to be present outside the house or the ship."
         As they watched and listened, a low rumble broke the quiet. Two white trucks rolled into the lot, their red crescent markings barely visible at this distance, the chipped paint blending into the floodlights' glare. Matt raised his EM carbine, flipping up the small scope and adjusting the magnification. The enhanced view sharpened, revealing two human men climbing out of each truck, their movements hurried but practiced. Each pair hauled a coarse sack from the truck beds, their shapes disturbingly familiar--bulky, shifting slightly, just like the one Matt and Anika had found with the girl in the slums. Matt's jaw tightened, his voice a low growl as he kept his eyes on the scope. "Two fake aid trucks just pulled in. Four guys, all human. They're carrying sacks--same kind we saw before. I think we both know what's in them."
         Anika's ears rotated back, her claws tightening on the boarding gun, her breath hitching as she processed his words. Her dark eyes narrowed, glinting with a mix of rage and resolve. "They're not even trying to hide it," she muttered, her voice barely audible, laced with disgust.
         Matt lowered the carbine, his gaze steady as he met hers. "They don't think anyone's watching. That's their mistake." He tracked the men as they carried the sacks toward the cargo ship, disappearing up a ramp and through a side hatch into the ship's bulk. The trucks remained empty, their drivers climbing back in and pulling out, parking the vehicles near the farmhouse before getting out and entering the structure. The lot fell quiet again, the floodlights casting stark shadows across the scattered crates and rusted silos.
         "Do not worry Anika," Cal chimed in. "I am most definitely watching these filthy examples of sentience closely. Matthew, I was telling you that this drone needs a weapons system. That farmhouse would make a prime target." Anika thought she could detect genuine anger in Cal's voice, something she hadn't expected from an AI.
         "Now's our chance," Matt said, ignoring Cal's weaponized drone comment, his voice low and decisive. He pointed to a cluster of overgrown shrubs about twenty meters away, their tangled branches offering a low, dense cover. "We move to those shrubs first. They're close enough to the ship to keep eyes on it, far enough to stay hidden. Stay low, move fast, and keep quiet."
         Anika nodded, her goggles reflecting the distant glow as she adjusted her grip on the boarding gun. They waited a beat, ensuring no new patrols emerged, then moved as one. Matt led, his boots silent on the soft earth, his carbine held low but ready. Anika followed, her movements fluid despite the unfamiliar weight of the weapon, her ears twitching for any sound of alarm. They darted across the open ground, the shadows of the copse stretching behind them, and slid into the shrubs' cover, the branches snagging lightly at Matt's duster and Anika's uniform. They crouched low, the scent of damp earth and rotting leaves mixing with the faint tang of oil from the nearby machinery, their breaths steady as they settled into the new position.



Chapter 11: Beneath the Ship
          Matt and Anika darted from cover to cover, their movements swift and silent through the farm's cluttered lot. The violet-ochre night of Saurath cloaked them, their dark attire--Matt's faded leather duster and Anika's dark green city guard uniform--blending into the shadows of tangled shrubs, splintered crates, rusted machinery, and a reeking pile of trash. Matt's boots barely stirred the dry earth, his EM carbine held low, a steady weight across his shoulder. Anika moved with equal precision, her boarding gun clipped to her harness, its bandolier of flechette rounds shifting slightly as her elongated Luparan ears twitched, catching every distant creak and hum. The air carried the sharp tang of oil and decay, the farm's dilapidated sprawl a stark contrast to the calculated menace of the slavers' operation.
          Matt's graying eyes scanned over the terrain, his mind grappling with the contradiction that had gnawed at him since the slums. These slavers were sharp enough to infiltrate Vyrnathys's aid system, painting fake trucks with red crescents, exploiting the city guard's oversight, and snatching kids under the noses of an entire city. Yet here, their base was a mess--patrols sloppy, cover scattered like an afterthought, the farm a sieve of vulnerabilities. Professional enough to pull this off, careless enough to leave holes a rookie could exploit, he thought, his lips tightening. It was arrogance, plain and simple, and it gave them a chance.
          They reached the final cover--a rusted hulk of a grain processor, its jagged edges looming like a decayed beast, just twenty meters from the ship. The ship towered ahead, its 70-meter conical form a shadowed monolith against the night, its circular flat base resting on supports that raised it two meters above the ground. Floodlights blazed over the ramp and entrance, casting a harsh white glow that sliced through the dark, illuminating the sloping path into the cargo hold. Beyond that lit zone, the rest of the ship's hull melted into shadow, the thruster bells beneath its underbelly cloaked in darkness. Matt crouched low beside the processor, Anika mirroring him, her goggles reflecting the distant floodlights as her claws flexed on her boarding gun.
          They broke from cover, sprinting across the open ground toward the ship, boots scuffing softly on the dry earth. The ship's underbelly loomed, its thruster bells suspended two meters above the ground, their scorched metal glinting faintly in the violet-ochre light. Matt led, his movements fluid and silent, Anika matching his pace, her ears pinned back, senses razor-sharp for anything that might be wrong. They slid beneath the ship, the dark shadows of the thruster bells enveloping them, the air thick with the acrid tang of burnt fuel and metal. As they crept among the thruster bells, Matt had a fleeting thought of what would happen if someone decided to test the engines right then. He tried not to think about the results. Crouching low, they edged forward, staying in the darkest patches, the back of the lit ramp ahead casting a soft glow across the dust. Matt's hand hovered near his EM carbine, Anika's claws clicking faintly on her boarding gun as they reached the ramp's edge, its incline leading into the ship's brightly lit airlock.
          Matt's scarred hand signaled a pause, his eyes scanning the farmhouse in the distance, its glowing lights casting uneven glows across the rusted silos and collapsed roof. No movement. No figures spilling from the door. The night air was still, save for the distant hum of the floodlights bathing the ship's ramp in stark white light. He took a deep breath, steadying himself, his scarred hand tightening on the EM carbine as he prepared to lead Anika out from under the ship and up the exposed ramp. The brightness was a death trap, but speed and silence were their only shot.
          Before he could move, Anika's clawed hand shot out, gripping his arm with surprising strength. Matt froze, turning back to her, his brow furrowing. Her elongated Luparan ears twitched rapidly, angled upward through the ship's underbelly, her dark eyes opened wide behind her flight goggles. She'd heard something--her hybrid senses sharper than his. A faint hum echoed from within the ship, the unmistakable whine of a lift moving through its shaft. Matt's heart pounded, adrenaline spiking as he nodded his thanks, realizing what had almost happened. Moments later, two slavers emerged, their silhouettes sharp against the floodlights as they strode down the ramp toward the farmhouse. One was human, broad-shouldered with a shaved head, carrying a compact energy weapon in a holster. The other was Luparan, his gray fur matted, a blade sheathed at his hip. They moved with purpose, their voices low, unintelligible at this distance, disappearing into the farmhouse without a glance back.
          Matt exhaled, his pulse steadying. He met Anika's gaze, her ears still twitching, and gave a curt nod of gratitude. Anika gave a slight smirk. They waited, crouched in the shadows of the thruster bells, the cool night air mixing with the faint heat radiating from the ship's underbelly. Matt signaled for Anika to listen again, her ears tilting as she focused on the ship's interior. After a tense beat, she nodded sharply--no movement inside. The lift was still, the slavers gone. Now was their chance.
          They broke from cover, sprinting across the open ground to the ramp, their boots barely touching the dirt. The floodlights blazed overhead, casting their shadows long and stark, but no alarms sounded, no shouts rang out. They hit the ramp at a run, the metal surface clanging softly under their weight, and ducked into the airlock just beyond. The airlock was brightly lit, its sterile walls reflecting the harsh glow, but they were out of sight from the lot. Matt's eyes darted to the lift controls mounted on the wall, a sleek panel with five illuminated options instead of the four he'd expected. His jaw tightened as he processed the layout: Ground airlock at the bottom, engineering above that, cargo hold in the middle, crew quarters up top. Five levels means they've split the cargo space--extra quarters for the slaver crew, ship crew and command on the fourth. He pressed the button for the third level, banking on the cargo hold being the same as a standard Klythar ship, where the kids would likely be held. He doubted the slavers would want quarters below the slaves. It's just how a slaver's mind works.
          The lift hummed to life, its doors sealing with a soft hiss as it ascended. The platform was cramped, its three sets of doors--left, right, and behind them to the airlock--boxing them in. Matt slung his EM carbine over his shoulder, the weapon settling against his back, and drew his Colt from the left holster, its polished blue metal steady in his two-handed grip. He took position by the left door, his body angled to cover it, his eyes sharp. Anika mirrored him on the right, her boarding gun raised, its short barrel glinting faintly as she aimed at the door, her claws steady despite the tension in her posture. Her goggles reflected the lift's harsh light, her ears twitching as she braced for what lay beyond.
          It didn't take long to reach second level, only a few moments. Both side doors slid open with a quiet hiss, revealing the ship's interior. Matt's side was empty--a dim corridor stretching left and around the perimeter of the ships cone, its walls lined with sealed storage panels, no movement or sound. On Anika's side, she'd frozen, her boarding gun locked on a slaver just five meters away, sitting on a crate outside a heavy cargo bay door. The slaver, a human with a scarred face and greasy hair, jolted at the sight of them, his hand scrambling for a pistol holstered at his side.
          Anika pulled the trigger. The boarding gun's electromagnets fired with a loud, high-pitched whump, the sound slicing through the air. The sound wasn't nearly as loud as a powder burning shotgun, but it was more than enough to make Anika wince at the enclosed sound on her sensitive ears. Her aim veered slightly right from the rushed shot, but the flechettes tore into the slaver's torso and half his face, shredding flesh and bone in a spray of blood and tissue. The man collapsed, his body slumping against the crate, a gurgling gasp fading into silence. The air grew thick with the coppery stench of blood, mingling with the sterile tang of the ship's interior.
          Matt spun at the sound, his Colt raised, but the threat was already down. His eyes glanced at the carnage--half the slaver's torso and face reduced to a mangled ruin, blood pooling on the metal deck. Anika stood rigid, her boarding gun still aimed, her breath coming in hard, ragged bursts. Her dark eyes were wide behind her goggles, her ears pinned back, the weight of her first kill with the weapon sinking in. Matt stepped closer, his hand gently touching her shoulder. She flinched slightly, her claws tightening on the gun, but met his gaze and gave a sharp nod, her resolve hardening despite the tremor in her frame.
          Matt gestured toward the cargo bay door, his voice low and steady. "Move, Tracker. We're close and still on timer." Anika nodded again, stepping forward, her boots silent on the deck as she approached the door, its heavy frame sunk a meter into the outer bulkhead. Matt fell in behind her, his Colt raised, eyes scanning the corridor for any slavers drawn by the boarding gun's whine. The ship remained quiet, the distant hum of machinery unbroken, but his instincts screamed to stay sharp. The kids were behind that door--Priya, Ravi, Lila, and dozens more--and every second brought them closer to either salvation or a fight.
          Matt and Anika reached the heavy cargo bay door, the metal scarred but solid. The air was still, the sharp whine of Anika's boarding gun fading into the ship's low hum, the coppery stench of the slaver's blood lingering behind them. Matt gestured for Anika to cover him, his eyes examining the corridor as he holstered his Colt, the pistol sliding smoothly its holster. Anika nodded, her ears twitching as she raised her boarding gun, its sawed-off barrel steady despite the faint tremor in her claws. She positioned herself to watch both ends of the corridor, her goggles reflecting the dim light, her dark green city guard uniform taut against the borrowed armored vest.
          Matt studied the door's control panel, its sleek surface out of place against the Klythar ship's utilitarian design. Cargo doors like this are an add-on, he thought, his jaw tightening. The standard Klythar layout relied on wide hatches for grain loading, not reinforced doors like this, built to keep something--or someone--in. Somebody had professionally modified the cargo space, their skills showing in the retrofit, yet the slavers arrogance left it unguarded save for one sloppy sentry. He shook his head, his hand reaching for the knife at his back. The blade's matte finish caught no light as he wedged it under the panel's edge, prying it free with a soft pop. The panel clattered to the deck, revealing a tangle of wires and circuits--more familiar, more like the jury-rigged setups he'd seen on countless smuggling rigs across the galaxy.
          Matt's fingers worked quickly, his knife cutting through insulation to expose the wiring. He hotwired the circuit, twisting leads together with practiced precision, his eyes occasionally glancing at Anika to ensure she had the corridor covered. Her ears rolled back and forth, her gaze sharp as she scanned for any sign of movement, her boarding gun unwavering. A spark flared under Matt's hands, the acrid scent of burnt wiring mixing with the blood in the air, and the cargo door shuddered, grinding upward with a low groan. The dim light from the corridor spilled into the cargo bay, revealing a cavernous space cluttered with crates, scattered bedding, and discarded food and ration containers. Ninety kids--human and human-hybrid, their ages matching Anika's list--were strewn across the floor, some curled on thin blankets, others slumped against crates, their faces gaunt, eyes hollow in the faint glow.



Chapter 12: Securing the Hold
         The cargo bay's dim light cast long shadows across the scattered bedding and crates, the air thick with the musty scent of unwashed bodies and stale rations. Ninety kids, human and human-hybrid, lay strewn across the floor, their small forms curled on thin blankets or slumped against cold metal crates, their faces gaunt, eyes hollow. Matt and Anika stood just inside the heavy cargo door, its frame still vibrating faintly from its reluctant ascent. Matt's graying eyes swept the room, his Colt .45 steady in his scarred hand, scanning for threats. Anika's ears twitched, her goggles reflecting the faint glow as her claws gripped the boarding gun, its sawed-off barrel still warm from the slaver's death outside.
         The room, if you could call it that, was a mess. The smell told him that if there was any plumbing, it wasn't functioning. The lighting was barely sufficient, far above. Blankets and crates strewn everywhere. Food and wrappers scattered about, though there were bins that were obviously used for trash. If there was any order, Matt couldn't see it. The only way in or out of the bay was the doorway he was standing it, though he could see where panels had been welded over access points that would have been used to load grain or other loose cargo higher up the curving wall.
         Matt had to keep reminding himself that he had to make sure the kids were safe before he could hunt every single slaver down.
         Matt nodded sharply to Anika, his voice low. "Hand me your gun and check the kids. I've got the door." He stepped to the side, taking her position to cover the corridor, his Colt raised, eyes locked on the dim passage beyond.
         Anika handed him the boarding gun, its weight heavy in his left-hand grip as she moved swiftly into the cargo bay, her breath catching at the sight of so many small, still forms. Her claws tightened on instinct. Her dark green city guard uniform blended into the shadows as she knelt beside the nearest children, her claws gentle but urgent. Her eyes scanned their faces, recognizing them from her list--Priya's sharp cheekbones, Ravi's tousled hair, Lila's small frame. "It's okay," she whispered in Standard, her voice soft but firm, switching to Hindi for the human kids. "<We're here to help. You're safe now.>" Her elongated Luparan ears twitched, catching their shallow breaths, some stirring faintly at her voice, others too deep in drugged sleep to respond.
         Near the door, Anika's gaze fell on the two children she and Matt had seen carried in sacks by the slavers. Their small forms lay just inside, still unconscious, their breathing slow but steady. She crouched beside them, her claws brushing their wrists to check for pulses, her jaw tightening at their pale, gaunt faces. With careful strength, she lifted the first--a boy, no older than eight--and carried him deeper into the cargo hold, tucking him behind a stack of crates out of sight from the doors. She returned for the second, a girl with matted hair, and placed her beside the boy, arranging a tattered blanket over them for warmth and concealment. "<Stay hidden,>" she murmured, though they couldn't hear, her ears rotating back as she scanned the other kids, ensuring none were too exposed.
         Satisfied, Anika returned to Matt, her movements swift and silent. She reached for the boarding gun, her claws closing around its grip as Matt handed it back, their eyes meeting briefly--a silent acknowledgment of their shared purpose. "They're secure," she said, her voice low, edged with resolve. "Some are waking, but they're scared. I told them we're here to help."
         Matt nodded, holstering his Colt and turning to the control panel beside the cargo door, its exposed wires still dangling from his earlier hotwiring. "Good work, Tracker." He knelt, his scarred hands deftly sorting through the tangle of circuits, his Bowie knife cutting away more insulation to isolate a specific lead. "I'm rigging this door to lock tight. If you pull this wire--" he pointed to a red lead, its insulation frayed but distinct--"the door slams shut and won't open from the outside. Only way to get it up again is from in here, using the emergency hand pump." He gestured to a manual crank set into the bulkhead, its handle rusted but functional. "You got that?"
         Anika's ears twisted forward, her gold eyes sharp as she memorized the wire and pump. "Got it," she said, her voice steady, though her claws tightened on the boarding gun. She stepped back into the corridor, taking up position just outside the door, her goggles glinting as she scanned both ends of the passage, the weapon raised and ready.
         Matt glanced at her, his graying eyes firm. "Hopefully I'll be back before you need it. Tell the kids to take cover--behind crates, under blankets, whatever they can find. If things go south, they need to stay out of sight."
         Anika nodded, turning to the cargo bay and raising her voice just enough to carry without echoing. "<Everyone, listen,>" she called in Hindi, then Standard, her tone calm but commanding. "<Hide behind the crates or under blankets. Stay quiet, stay low. We're keeping you safe.>" A few of the waking kids stirred, their eyes wide with fear, but they obeyed, shuffling behind crates or pulling blankets over themselves, their small forms disappearing into the shadows.
         Matt worked quickly, twisting the red lead into a makeshift trigger, his fingers steady despite the faint hum of the ship's machinery vibrating through the deck. He tested the circuit, a faint spark confirming the rig would hold. Satisfied, he stood, dusting off his hands, and met Anika's gaze. "There's a utility lift opposite the main one we came in on," he said, his voice low and deliberate. "I'm taking it to the engineering level to sabotage the ship--make sure it can't lift off. If you hear the main lift moving, assume it's a slaver. Shoot first, don't ask questions. I'll call you on the comms if anything changes."
         Anika's ears twitched, her jaw tightening as she nodded. "Understood," she said, her voice firm, her boarding gun steady in her claws. The weight of his words settled over her--kill or be killed, no hesitation. Her resolve hardened, her dark eyes glinting with determination behind her goggles.
         Matt tapped his comm collar, the earbud crackling faintly. "Cal, give me an update on that security team. Anything on the mole?"
         Cal's voice came through, precise and warm despite the tension. "Security team is mobilizing faster than Tracker Veyr's estimate. Current ETA is still at least two hours. The mole in the city guard is attempting to contact the slavers, sending urgent encrypted messages. I have intercepted and blocked all communications linked to this location, but I cannot guarantee I have found every system. Proceed with caution."
         Matt's lips tightened, a flicker of approval in his brown eyes. "Good work, Cal. Keep those comms locked down." He turned to Anika, giving her a sharp nod. "Two hours. We hold out till then."
         Matt moved out, his boots silent on the deck as he slipped into the curved corridor wrapping around the cargo hold. The passage was dim, its walls scuffed and utilitarian, the faint hum of the ship's systems vibrating beneath his feet. He kept his carbine low but ready, his hand steady on the grip as he headed toward the secondary utility lift, its position marked in his mind from previous experiences he'd had boarding this class of ship. The kids were close to safety, but the slavers were closer still, and every step toward the engineering level brought him deeper into their lair.
         Matt moved swiftly along the curved corridor, the dim lighting casting long shadows across the scuffed metal walls of the cargo ship. The faint hum of the ship's systems vibrated through the floor, a low pulse that kept his senses sharp. His eyes scanned every corner, every recessed panel, as he approached the secondary utility lift at the rear of the corridor. Smaller than the main lift, it was designed for personnel only, its compact frame barely wide enough for two people, unlike the cargo-capable main lift they'd used to reach the hold. Matt pressed the call button, the panel glowing faintly under his hand. The lift arrived with a soft hum, its single door sliding open to reveal a cramped, unadorned interior. He stepped inside, the space tight against his broad shoulders, and hit the button for the engineering level, the lowest deck of the ship. Unlike the cargo lift, this one didn't go to an airlock before engineering.
         The lift descended smoothly, its faint whine blending with the ship's background hum. Matt's Colt rested in his right holster, the Beretta in his left, both within easy reach under his faded leather duster. His mind churned, piecing together the slavers' contradictions--professional enough to infiltrate Vyrnathys's aid system, sloppy enough to leave their base vulnerable, and now, as the lift slowed, he braced for what lay below.
         The doors slid open, and Matt's eyes swept the engineering level, his carbine at his shoulder, held low but ready. What struck him first was the cleanliness. The vast, open space wasn't polished to a shine, but it was meticulously maintained--hardly a speck of rust marred the metal surfaces. The three massive main engines, arranged in a triangular formation around the ship's center, loomed like silent titans, their casings scuffed but pristine, no signs of neglect. Twelve smaller atmospheric engines encircled them, three clustered at the core of the triangle and nine spaced equidistantly around the engineering bay's perimeter. Six fusion plants, their surfaces worn but functional, hummed steadily, powering the ship's systems. This wasn't the grimy, jury-rigged mess Matt expected from a slaver operation. It looked like a high-end cargo ship, maintained with a discipline that clashed with the slavers' arrogance elsewhere.
         Matt's jaw tightened, his mind grappling with the disconnect. Slavers don't keep their ships this clean, he thought. They cut corners, let things fall apart. This level of care suggested a crew with pride in their work--or strict oversight. His plan solidified: sabotage two fusion plants, one main engine, and four of the smaller atmospheric engines. The ship needed five plants and nine smaller engines to break atmosphere safely. Crippling those would ground it--only the most desperate slaver would risk takeoff with the main engines, spewing toxic radiation and scaring the planet. Even they weren't that reckless. Usually.
         As he stepped forward, his boots barely whispering on the clean deck, a voice broke the silence, sharp and insistent. Matt froze, his senses snapping to high alert. The voice came from deeper in the bay, near a console nestled between two fusion plants. Someone was speaking over a comm, the words clipped and frustrated. "I'm telling you, I heard something--check it out!" a pause. "I can't leave my post; orders are clear. Stay in the engineering bay, no matter what." Another pause, the voice growing sharper. "I tried the cargo bay guard--nothing. No response. Send someone now!"
         Matt's lips tightened. The engineer was arguing with someone, likely about the noise from Anika's boarding gun when she'd taken out the cargo bay slaver. The man's refusal to leave his post, even to investigate, was another anomaly--slavers weren't known for following orders with such rigidity. Rotating shifts, strict discipline, Matt thought, his mind racing. This operation's tighter than it looks. He slung his EM carbine across his back, drawing his Colt with his right hand and his Bowie knife with his left, the blade's matte finish invisible in the bay's dim light, the long D-guard covering his knuckles. He moved silently, stalking toward the voice, using the fusion plants' bulk for cover.
         The engineer stood at a console, his back to Matt, a human in a worn jumpsuit, his hair short and graying. He was lean, his movements tense as he gripped a comm unit, his other hand reaching for a metal flask on the console. "Finally! Send someone, but hurry!" he snapped, his voice echoing faintly in the cavernous bay. Matt crept closer, his Colt steady, aiming for a silent takedown. He wanted to close the distance, drive the Bowie into the man's back, and end it quietly. But as he stepped within striking range, something--a creak of his duster, a shift in the air--made the engineer turn.
         The man's eyes widened, spotting Matt's dark silhouette. He reacted fast, hurling the flask with surprising speed, the metal glinting as it spun toward Matt's head. Matt was quicker, spinning to his left, the flask sailing past and clanging against a fusion plant's casing. In one fluid motion, he brought the Colt to bear, the pistol's polished blue metal steady in his scarred hand. He fired, the shot a loud crack in the bay's open space, making the ear without a comm go deaf. The .45 caliber round slammed into the engineer's chest, punching through his sternum and blowing out his back in a spray of blood and bone. The man staggered, his knees buckling as he collapsed against the console, his body sliding to the deck, leaving a smeared trail of crimson and shattered vertebrae across the controls.
         Matt lowered the Colt, his eyes scanning the bay for any sign of alarm. The hum of the fusion plants continued unbroken, the distant clatter of the flask fading into silence. The sharp tang of blood and gunpowder mingled with the bay's clean, oily air. He stepped over the engineer's body, his boots avoiding the pooling blood, and crouched to check the console. The comm was still active, a faint static crackling from the other end. Whoever the engineer had been arguing with was likely sending someone now--Matt had minutes, maybe less, before slavers came to investigate.
         He tapped his comm collar, his voice low and urgent. "Cal, it's Matt. Just took out an engineer in the bay. He was onto the noise from the cargo hold--someone's coming to check. Keep those comms locked down and warn Anika if you pick up anything."
         Cal's voice crackled through his earbud, precise and steady. "Understood. Comms remain blocked. I will alert Tracker Veyr if I detect movement toward the cargo ship. Security team ETA remains two hours minimum. Proceed with sabotage."
         Matt nodded to himself, holstering his Colt and sheathing his Bowie. At the nearest fusion plant, he dropped to one knee, pried open the access panel, and got to work. The slavers were coming. The clock was ticking.



Chapter 13: Holding the Door
          Anika pressed herself into the alcove carved by the cargo bay door's heavy frame, her back flush against the cold metal of the cargo ship's interior. The corridor curved gently, dimly lit by humming overhead ight panels. The cargo bay door loomed behind her, its heavy frame a cold reassurance at her back. Her elongated Luparan ears twitched, straining for any sound beyond the faint hum of the ship's systems vibrating through the deck. The boarding gun rested steady in her claws, its sawed-off barrel glinting faintly in the dim corridor light. Her hands shaking only slightly, she slid a fresh one home into the magazine from the bandolier looped across her borrowed armored vest. The click of the round locking into place was sharp, grounding her as she ran through Matt's instructions in her mind: Shoot anything that comes from the main lift. If you can't hold the position, get inside the cargo bay, pull the red wire to seal the door. Keep the kids safe.
          Her dark eyes, still shielded by the flight goggles, focused on the corridor stretching to the main lift, its curved walls dimly lit and silent. She tried not to look at the slaver's body slumped against the crate not five meters away, the air thick with the coppery stench of blood and the acrid tang of torn flesh. The enclosed ship trapped the odor, heavier and more suffocating than the open-air slaughter of Matt's guard in the copse of trees. Her stomach churned, but she forced her focus back to the task, her claws tightening on the boarding gun's grip. The kids--Priya, Ravi, Lila, and dozens more--were behind her, hidden among crates and blankets, their shallow breaths a quiet reminder of why she was here.
          A sharp bang echoed from below, the sound reverberating through the ship's frame. Anika tensed, her ears pinning back as she leaned slightly around the alcove's edge, her goggles catching the corridor's faint glow as she peered toward the main lift. Her heart pounded, adrenaline spiking, but Matt's voice crackled through her comm collar, low and urgent, speaking to Cal about the engineer he'd taken out. "Just took out an engineer in the bay. He was onto the noise from the cargo hold--someone's coming to check." Anika exhaled, her shoulders easing slightly, though her grip on the boarding gun didn't waver. Matt was still out there, fighting the same fight. They only had to hold out a couple of hours until the security team arrived. With Matt, that didn't seem impossible.
          She couldn't forget the way Matt had moved when he'd taken that slaver at the trees. He was quick and efficient, not a wasted move. Anika knew she was good, but Matt was far better. He looked like he could hold off an army if he had to and enjoy himself doing it! She absently wondered if there would be any slavers left to arrest if they came after her and the kids with Matt around.
          "Anika," Cal's voice crackled from the comm in her ear. "There are two individuals approaching the cargo ship from the farm house, presumably to check on the noise the engineer had heard. Be alert."
          "Thanks Cal," was all Anika could manage. She was starting to feel the exhaustion from the constant adrenaline rush. She did manage to turn to warn the kids that the bad men were coming and to take cover.
          Minutes crawled by, the silence oppressive, broken only by the distant hum of machinery and the faint rustle of the kids shifting in the cargo bay behind her. Anika's ears twitched, catching a new sound--the low whine of the main lift stirring to life. Her pulse quickened, her claws flexing as she adjusted her stance, the boarding gun raised and steady, pressed against the corner of where the alcove and inner wall of the corridor met, its power cell humming faintly. She braced herself in the alcove, her dark green city guard uniform blending into the shadows, her goggles glinting as she aimed down the corridor. Matt's words echoed in her mind: Shoot first, don't ask questions.
          The lift doors slid open with a soft hiss, and two slavers stepped out, their silhouettes stark against the lift's harsh light. One was human, broad-shouldered and roughly Matt's size, his shaved head gleaming, a compact energy pistol holstered at his hip. The other was a towering reptilian, nearly two meters tall, his green scales shimmering faintly, his yellow-slitted eyes scanning the corridor with predatory calm. A wickedly curved blade hung at his side, its sheath strapped to his muscular thigh.
          Anika didn't hesitate. She pulled the trigger, the boarding gun's high-pitched whump cutting through the air like a scream. The flechette rounds tore into the reptilian, the taller of the two, slamming into his scaled chest with a dull thud. The human froze, his hand fumbling for his pistol, confusion etched across his face as he registered the attack. Anika fired again, the second burst catching the human square in the chest. The flechettes shredded through his jumpsuit, blood spraying as he staggered back, collapsing against the lift wall with a wet gurgle, his body sliding to the deck in a lifeless heap.
          The reptilian, though, didn't fall. The flechettes had pierced his scales, embedding in his flesh, but the tough hide absorbed much of the impact, leaving him stunned but standing. His yellow eyes flared with rage, a low hiss escaping his fanged maw as he charged. Anika's ears pinned back, her heart hammering, but before she could adjust her aim and fire again, the reptilian's clawed hand shot out, seizing her left arm in a crushing grip. His claws dug into her flesh, ripping leather, piercing muscle and scraping bone, a searing pain lancing through her as he lifted her off the deck. Anika grunted, her left arm going numb, the boarding gun nearly slipping from her right hand as her feet dangled.
          Her vision blurred with pain, but her training kicked in, her Luparan instincts screaming at her to act through the haze. With a desperate twist, she swung the boarding gun up, jamming its barrel against the reptilian's scaled neck, the metal scraping against his hide. She pulled the trigger. The whine of the electromagnets and the whomp was deafening for Anika's ears at point-blank range, and the reptilian's head exploded in a spray of blood, bone, and brain matter, the force splattering across Anika's goggles and uniform. The slaver's grip slackened, his body collapsing in a heavy thud, dragging her down with him as she hit the deck hard, her left arm throbbing, blood seeping through her sleeve.
          Anika gasped, her breath ragged as she scrambled to her knees, her claws fumbling to wipe the gore from her goggles. The lenses smeared, the blood streaking just enough to let her see blurred shapes--the corridor, the lift, the two bodies sprawled before her. Her ears twitched, catching no new sounds, but the fight had cost her time and position. She couldn't hold the alcove any longer. Clutching the boarding gun, her left arm hanging uselessly, she staggered to her feet and lurched toward the cargo bay door. Her claws found the red wire Matt had rigged, and she yanked it hard. The heavy door groaned, its motors whining as it began to lower, the metal sealing shut with a slow, deliberate thud, locking her inside with the kids.
          Anika tapped her comm collar with her right claw, the earbud crackling faintly as she spoke, her voice low but urgent. "Matt, it's Anika. Two slavers came off the main lift. I took them out, but one got me first. I'm in the cargo bay now, door's sealed."
          Matt's voice crackled back through the comm, sharp with concern, cutting through the faint static. "You hurt, Tracker? How bad?"
          Anika's jaw tightened, her ears flattened back as she glanced at her left arm, blood soaking through the sleeve, the pain a dull fire under her skin. "My left arm," she said, her tone steady despite the strain. "One of the slavers had claws, dug in deep--two holes, maybe hit bone. It's numb, but I'm still moving."
          Matt swore, his voice a low growl over the comm. "Damn it, Anika. Do what you can to patch it up--stop the bleeding, brace it if you can. I'm in the engineering bay, working on the engines still. Hold the door, Tracker. We'll get out of this."
          Anika's lips twitched with a faint, grim smile, her voice dry as she added, "And Matt? Try not to blow up the ship with your sabotage. I'd hate to get my jacket torn up like this just to end up space dust."
          Matt's laugh crackled through the comm, rough but warm. "No promises, Tracker. Stay sharp." The line went silent.
          Anika turned her focus on her injury. She tried to shrug off her city guard jacket, hoping to use it as a makeshift bandage, but a sharp jolt of pain lanced through her shoulder as she moved. Her left arm refused to cooperate, the numbness giving way to a searing ache that forced her to stop. She hissed through her teeth, abandoning the attempt, her claws flexing in frustration.
          Her dark eyes scanned the cargo bay, searching for something to use as a bandage. She turned to the kids, her voice soft but commanding, carrying over the quiet rustle of their hidden forms. "<Hey,>" she called in Hindi, then Standard, "<I need a blanket or a piece of cloth--something to tie around my arm. Can anyone help?>"
          A boy, no older than ten, with tousled hair and sharp cheekbones--Ravi, from her list--emerged from behind a crate, his eyes wide but resolute. He clutched a worn shirt, its fabric stained with dirt and sweat, and held it out to her. "<This is all I've got,>" he said in Hindi, his voice small but steady.
          Anika nodded, smiling warmly with gratitude. "<It'll do, Ravi. Thank you.>" She took the shirt, the fabric rough in her claws, and carefully wrapped it around her left arm, focusing on the two deep punctures where the reptilian's claws had torn through. The cloth wasn't clean, but it was tight enough to slow the bleeding, the pressure sending a fresh wave of pain through her. She gritted her teeth, securing the knot with her right hand and teeth, her claws trembling slightly from the effort. It was all she could not to scream.
          Another child, a small girl with matted hair--Lila, Anika recognized--approached, dragging a scrap of tarp that had been used as bedding. It was too stiff and coarse to serve as a bandage, but Anika's eyes lit with an idea. "<Good find, Lila,>" she said, her voice gentle despite the pain. "<Can you and Ravi help me make a sling out of it?>"
          The kids nodded, their small hands working together to fold the tarp into a rough triangle. Anika guided them, her right claw pointing as she explained how to tie it around her neck and under her injured arm. Ravi's fingers were nimble, Lila's careful but hesitant, and together they crafted a makeshift sling, the tarp cradling her left arm against her chest. The weight eased off her shoulder, the pain dulling slightly, though it still pulsed with every heartbeat.
          Cal's voice crackled on the comm. "Matt, Anika, 5 more slavers are heading to the ship. I think they know you are there."
          "Thank you Cal," was all Anika could say to the open air.
          With the sling in place, Anika turned her attention to fortifying her position. "<Ravi, Lila, help me move this crate,>" she said, pointing to a sturdy metal crate nearby, its surface dented but solid. The kids scrambled to assist, their small frames pushing alongside her as they dragged the crate across the deck, positioning it about four meters inside the cargo door. It formed a low barrier, offering cover while keeping the door in her line of sight. Anika knelt behind it, her right claw steady as she reloaded the boarding gun, sliding fresh flechette rounds into the magazine with a series of sharp clicks. She placed the weapon on top of the crate, its barrel pointed toward the door, within easy reach of her uninjured hand.
          Anika sank to the deck, her back against the crate, her left arm cradled in the sling. The pain, now cutting through the fading adrenaline, was a sharp, insistent throb, but it kept her alert, anchoring her when exhaustion threatened to pull her under. Her ears twitched, catching the faint whine of the main lift moving again, the sound echoing through the ship's frame. Her heart quickened, her claws tightening on the boarding gun as she carefully turned, peering over the crate's edge. Her goggles, still smeared with blood, hung uselessly around her neck, but her dark eyes were sharp, locked on the cargo door. Her left arm throbbed in its sling, her right hand steady on the boarding gun, its barrel trained on the sealed entrance. Whatever came through that door next, she was ready.