First Quadrant, Zephir, commercial districts
The group moved through the crowded streets of the city. Lacrosse knew Zephir's urban zone was a prominent organ of trade, suited to enterprises both large and small; although he never went there personally. Unlike Etiénne, the capital city below the Opulence, here the skyscrapers rose so high they almost entirely blocked out the sky, linked by aerial bridges and transparent tunnels where shuttles streamed back and forth. Below, the pedestrian level was a web of markets, lights, holographic ads, and smoke. Everything was asymmetric, no nature, no patterns, no shapes, no regularity. He knew for a fact his siblings would lose it, here.
Across the building façades, holographic signs flashed in at least ten different languages, and every three seconds a voice pitched a discount on a bone enhancement, a life policy, or a digestive booster.
One building projected the stock exchange, where minor companies gained and lost points in real time.
Lacrosse held on tight to his bag, feeling quite lost. He walked behind the group silently, for a while, pondering on whether to ask a certain question or not.
Law, the man with the scars, must have felt him pondering, because he turned around and rolled his eyes with a dried out expression.
"Boy, you got something to tell? You've been hangin' with your mouth open for the last thirty minutes."
Lacrosse cleared his throat, embarrassed. "I apologize. I was just wondering… what is your goal, exactly?"
Amarel, the friend with ocher hair, scoffed. "It's hard to believe, actually."
The woman, Jean, lowered her step to get close to him. "We gotta take a score."
"A score?" The boy tilted his head.
To that, they patiently explained to him what they were supposed to do.
"Quoi?!" Lacrosse was incredulous. "I… I don't think this is safe."
"No shit," Law replied.
"Hey!" Amarel elbowed his friend, then turned back to Lacrosse with a placate expression. "We'll take care of you, don't worry. Plus, we'll plan this properly, right?"
"Bet. Let's take care of this ship so blue-collar here can stop bitching about it," Law said, pointing at Jean.
She glared at him angrily, grunting. "Yeah, the closest ship market is about half an hour on foot. I come here a lot to run errands with Dad."
Moving through the crowd were races Lacrosse had never even seen before, being accustomed to the usual Crestorians.
"I'm pretty sure we'll need other gear as well," Amarel added.
"Yeah, yeah, we'll see 'bout that later."
After roughly twenty minutes, the group reached Sector Twenty-Two, a lower area of the district accessible only by descending a long, slanted escalator bathed in artificial orange light.
The ship market was an open-air orbital parking yard, vast, irregular, built on a platform of concentric levels. At its center, a control tower managed docking and exit codes, surrounded by hundreds of ships parked on magnetic bases or stacked on temporary supports like precious scrap. Some had open hatches revealing luxurious interiors and leather seats. Others were little more than flying carcasses, with scorched hulls, poorly replaced components, and markings covered by emergency paint jobs.
Jean began gesturing. "Alright, for a job like this we'll need several factors."
"An engine?" Law joked.
She shot him a glare. He raised his hands, stepping back.
"Obviously, the ship needs to be fast. We'll have to move quickly to avoid trouble."
"Obviously," Amarel agreed.
"Then it needs endurance. Odds are we'll take a few glancing hits. A combat ship would be ideal. And finally… something to hide us from radar would be useful."
"Taking hits?!" Lacrosse gasped.
"Yeah, you know, private militia and shit," Law gestured.
"But I… I can't be seen! What will happen to the House if they see me?!"
"Boy, chill, you'll be on the ship the whole time."
Jean turned. "Well, what's our budget?"
Amarel and his partner clicked their tongues and exchanged embarrassed looks.
"…Uh…"
"…Yo, did they wire in for the shit we delivered?" Law asked.
"Yeah, I think so…" Amarel quickly checked his laptop. "Ah, yes, it's in."
"Alright, golden." Law nodded.
"..."
"..."
"..."
"... And?" Jean remained with hands on her hips.
"Oh! You wanted to know how much money we had…" Amarel tapped his head.
"That's literally what I just asked."
"Uh…" Law scratched his head. "... depends on how much we wanna spend, I guess."
Jean facepalmed. "You're some cheap fuckers."
Amarel clicked his tongue. "It's called economic responsibility!"
"I… I don't mind helping," Lacrosse intervened.
"Great!"
"No!" Jean barked. "We're not gonna skin the poor kid."
"Bitch, he's like a prince or something, it ain't gonna sting! And we already gotta babysit him," Law complained.
Lacrosse chuckled nervously. "I apologize…"
"We're already getting paid for that!" Jean shook her head and approached one of the platforms. The vendor, a stocky reptilian, stepped forward and greeted them beside a fighter shaped like an agricultural transport.
Lacrosse was no expert, but that was hardly a coincidence.
"This beauty's done twenty-two uninterrupted runs between Val-Shem and Boreas!" the vendor assured them, thumping the hull with a wrench.
"Uh… does that usually happen?" Lacrosse asked, doubtful.
"No, no, that usually means we'd die before the job," Amarel replied.
"Does the reactor still work?" Jean asked, trying to stay diplomatic.
"If it doesn't, we'll fix it with a smile!" the vendor replied.
"…Goodbye," Jean murmured, already walking away.
"Have a nice day…" Amarel whispered, following.
"See ya…" Law muttered behind them.
"So that's a no?" Lacrosse caught up quickly.
The second attempt was a Monarch, a high-end brand Lacrosse was already way more familiar with. Fully chromed, quite literally splendent, sinuous shapes and contrasts with black and white and gold.
"Shit, that's some piece," Law commented.
"Indeed," Lacrosse agreed. Well, the one his sister had back home was a customized model made specifically for her, but still.
Amarel glanced at the holographic sign: Yours starting at thirty million pods!
Law and Jean talked with the seller for five minutes, trying to push the price down.
"I can remove the plasma loader…" the vendor conceded. "That brings it to… twenty-five."
"Thank you for your time…" Jean said quietly, following.
They were about to give up when a half-blind man led them to a hybrid between a transport and a very, very old bomber. Inside were still the seats with cross-belts.
"What is this, from the War?" Amarel murmured.
"She's a beast," the seller babbled. "Old school. Solid."
"Well, maybe…" Jean allowed.
"Not like we've done much better so far," Law echoed.
Lacrosse approached and ran a hand along an old side panel.
Wood. It was wood.
"Good luck with your business, sir…" Lacrosse mumbled sadly, walking away. Amarel dragged Law before he could say some slur to the vendor's face.
"Okay, you two gotta be more willing to spend," Jean said.
"Hey, good money isn't always good cloth," Amarel replied.
"You're just being cheap."
"Oh là!" Lacrosse exclaimed, catching the quote. "You saw 'The Devil Wears Schelling?'"
Amarel chuckled proudly. "Well, it is a classic. Do you like it?"
Lacrosse nodded, smiling. "Yes, me and my sister use to see it every month."
"Do you know they're making a sequel?"
"Guys, shut up a bit," Jean interrupted them, when she noticed a mid-sized ship under a tarp. In front of it lounged a very tall, extremely thin humanoid on a chair, wearing a long waxed coat, a scraggly beard, and two antennae on his forehead.
"Uh… excuse me…" Jean approached.
The man sprang up. He muttered something unintelligible, then began to articulate. "Huh? You want to buy something…?"
"Wouldn't happen to have a ship, man?" Law asked dryly.
The vendor lazily turned around. "Mm… it's not really on display," he muttered. "But it does business."
He pulled back the tarp, revealing something halfway between a space carcass. The paint, originally white, covered a surface full of bruises, dents, and patches.
"Oh heavens…" Amarel despaired.
"Okay, okay, wait," Jean stopped him after another look. "This is a combat ship. I mean… it was."
"Yeah, when I was bounty hunting, it did the job," the man said.
Law climbed the ladder as it descended with a metallic clang and peered into the cockpit.
"The plating's a blue-steel and Nylamite alloy," the seller continued. "Autopilot's there, cannons too, artificial gravity works well enough… I named her Fortwin."
The main panel blinked weakly with a crude-font message: We're still here… don't ask how.
Law chuckled. "Shit…"
Jean ran her hand along a burn mark on the left engine. "And… does it have a cloaker?" she asked.
He shrugged. "Might have one in storage. I can install it. The ship can be yours at… half a million, give or take."
It's nothing… Lacrosse thought.
Law and Amarel's faces brightened. "Deal."
Jean lifted her eyes. "Cheap bastards."
–
Second Quadrant, Interquadrant Frontier
"Talking 'bout a budget cut," Law huffed.
"Shut up," Jean replied. "Not like we were in an authorized market. But still… no more public transport." She clasped her hands in thanks.
"Well… if this works, we're set for life," Amarel reassured them.
"If…" Law sighed.
Lacrosse spent the last few days following the group in preparation for the plan and tools needed for the long-awaited hit. At that moment, the Fortwin was parked amid a debris belt near the border between the First and Second Quadrants: a mandatory gate route for transport ships, and a confirmed convoy waypoint, according to their employer's document.
The boy looked at the scenery outside: around the ship stretched a ring of rusted satellites, small meteors, and the skeletons of abandoned merchant vessels, suspended in tomb-like silence. Some bumped into each other slowly, dragged by imperceptible shifts in gravity; others seemed asleep, hulls intact but blackened by old explosions. Tiny lights blinked here and there, like fireflies in the void.
Such silence… Lacrosse thought.
"So, the attachment Snow gave us says it'll look like a standard convoy, so a routine transit to frontier eyes," Amarel read.
"They wanna hide in plain sight," Law deduced.
"Yeah. Probably the best way to avoid attention," Jean echoed.
"And here's the clause that says 'the convoy may be remotely surveilled,'" Amarel added.
"Shit, sounds like cereal warnings," Law commented.
"Does anyone here have Guild-related food intolerances?" Amarel played along, drawing a laugh from Lacrosse.
Then the boy paused. "Wait… Guilds?"
"Yeah. Corps usually do that," Jean explained. "They contact the IGO, which sets up contracts for protection, off-Quadrant ops, or temporary backup to add to their private militia."
"Taking hits…" Lacrosse gulped.
"Taking hits." Law chuckled.
"In theory, we should have enough time to bail and avoid direct contact," Amarel reassured the boy. "In theory."
"Okay, roll call," Jean went aft and checked the "shopping list" (which Law and Amarel complained very loudly about). "We've got eight EMP grenades; two shock-blasters; mag-belts; two portable lasers; a comms intercepter; four functional space suits; magnetic grapples; masks; and… beer?" She looked up.
"Oh, yeah, that's me," Law admitted.
Inventory done, Lacrosse set the tablet down and stretched. Amarel tried mounting blasters on the suit belts' magnetic mounts, but one kept falling on him. Jean prepared the masks, while Law tried to open a beer, causing Jean's severe glare.
"What? I wanna test the grav," he said.
"Sure, sure."
"Shit, can't open it in zero-g, right?" He murmured.
—
After a few hours' wait, heading to the frontier, a large cargo ship emerged from a gate, marked with a stylized leaf inside a green pentagon: the Futura Life logo, Lacrosse recalled. Five smaller shuttles with the same insignia escorted it.
The convoy advanced slowly toward the frontier.
"Check the comms," Law said.
"Yeah." Amarel replied, turning on the interceptor. The small device emitted white noise for a few seconds, which faded more and more, until it turned into distinguishable words.
"Is the coffee gone?" asked one of the pilots.
"There should be some left in the back," a crewmember replied.
The steps paused. "Hey, slow down. Don't you see traffic ahead?"
"What are you talking about? There's nothing there," the pilot replied. "Tell the ones behind to get their customs papers ready. And grab yourself a coffee, you're the one who needs it."
"Bran, literally just turn around!"
A grunt.
"Oh, damn, you're right. Must be some anti-reflective coating. Better slow down, a collision would be a mess."
Outside the ship's window, Lacrosse could see all vehicles slowing down.
"Okay, it's time," Amarel and Law were fully suited up. Their Omnitech-marked suits were tight and thin, black and red fabric with a smooth, matte surface and metallic edging. Elastic inserts showed at joints; the red hexagonal O logo glowed in microfibers on chest and back.
"They got a webcam too," Law chuckled. "Ever played some FPS, boy?"
Lacrosse shook his head.
"Shame. It's about the same thing. Stay tuned."
Amarel and Law went up the ship, ready to head out. Jean stayed inside with Lacrosse, turning on the tablet to see the webcams and checking the communications.
"You hear me?"
"To be clear, if you hear a burp or something, it's Law," Amarel said via call.
"Fuck you," Law replied.
"Okay, call you back in five."
Jean nodded and turned around.
Lacrosse stayed staring outside the window for a while, when he noticed that the woman was anxiously bumping her knee.
He timidly approached her. "Is… there something wrong?"
Jean straightened her back. "No," she said firmly, but as she saw the boy leaning back, her expression softened. "Sorry. I'm a little worried, that's all. This… means a lot to me."
Lacrosse nodded. "I see… have you waited long for this?"
Jean tilted her head. "Kinda… I mean, for this stuff specifically, no. Absolutely not. It was so random."
"I totally understand where you're coming from."
She chuckled. "Yeah. I don't know about you, but I feel like I hopped on a running train, and I have no idea where it's going."
Lacrosse leaned on the window. "Well, I cannot say the same. I did not have much choice in the matter, but…"
He remembered his sister's words, about knowing people, about moving in the dark.
"... if you jumped on this train, it must mean that anywhere you're heading now is better than anywhere you were before, oui?"
Jean nodded. "That's the hope about it, not that there's any other choice. I can only go forward."
Going forward. "Why?"
She glanced at him. "Because if I stay still, things get bad. Really bad. This is my shot at changing that."
"I… I can't imagine how that must be."
"Bombs away in two," Law said via comms.
"They're not bombs, come on," Amarel corrected.
"Oh, I gotta prepare the grapples," Jean said.
Lacrosse nodded and went to a couch. He took his tablet and started a videocall.
After a few rings, a beautiful and familiar face picked up. "Ah bon? Did a certain someone really remember my existence?"
"But… I called you yesterday!" Lacrosse protested.
"Infrequent, mon coeur," Clarisse Rouge shook her head. "Well? Is the deed proceeding?"
The boy nodded.
"And what do you think?"
"The plan for this was so well crafted, I couldn't believe it!"
"It seems you took a liking."
"We'll see," Lacrosse chuckled.
"Very well, you'll tell me more when we're back home."
"All ready," Law declared. "Ten seconds,"
The moment someone was saying something on the interceptors, Amarel clicked something: "Now."
"Hey, Bran, here's the cof—"
A boom cut him off, followed by a low rumble. Outside the window, Lacrosse could see that the shuttle's lights went out.
"Oh shit. Now?!" a pilot complained.
"Convoy, Arrow 1, blackout. Hold position."
"Arrow 2, blackout too."
"Arrow 3, blackout."
"Arrow 4, same."
"Arrow 5, same."
"What the hell happened?!"
"Aux battery down?"
"No, won't even power on. Could be a targeted pulse."
"Are we under attack?!"
"Check the air, if pressure drops…"
The technician cursed.
"Pressure's dropping!"
"Contact outside!"
"Only the private channel works!"
A bit of silence. "The tanks!" he blurted. "Is refrigeration down too?"
"It's autonomous. Isolated module with inertia battery. Restarted on its own," replied another one.
"Hey, kid, check this out," Jean called Lacrosse to see the webcam: beneath the cargo ship's hull, Law and Amarel worked their portable lasers to cut through the bottom. Using the chaos from their EMP grenades, they'd attached two magnetic grapples, pulled themselves up, and stabilized for the cut. Along with their gear, they had a "phase shifter," a device that spoofs radar and tracking, showing an object where none exists, Jean explained. They'd used it to project a fake ship ahead of the convoy, forcing the slowdown. Combined with the cloaker installed by the ex–bounty hunter, it hid the Fortwin directly beneath the cargo ship.
"No, Law, a bit farther over. If you cut there, the tanks drop. Look…" Amarel advised over comms, showing a projected interior layout on his tablet.
"Alright, alright, my bad," Law shifted back on the grapple. "Let's hurry."
After a solid fifteen seconds, they traced a full rectangle. "Ready," Law said, drawing his blaster.
Amarel nodded. "Okay, you can pull," he told Jean.
The grapples reeled in. The cut panel detached, opening a hole.
The vacuum violently sucked the air out. As it vented, guards were blown clear; Law and Amarel shot them the instant they emerged.
Bodies drifted, with masks on, but lifeless.
"Oh…" Lacrosse gulped. Seeing his perplexed face, Jean reassured him. "Don't worry, they're shock-blasters, non-fatal."
"Ouf, I see… but they're without suits!"
"Ah, they'll grab them in time. Hopefully."
When pressure allowed, Law and Amarel pulled themselves inside to face rows of tanks, each emitting a milky vapor, as if holding something cold and alive.
"Weird," Amarel murmured, eyeing the twelve cylinders in three rows of four, each waist-high.
"Shit, imagine if Snow's lactose intolerant," Law said, making Lacrosse laugh below.
"Anyway, the attachment says they must stay below a certain temperature," Amarel added. "We can't take the whole cooling system, but there's a single unit."
"Bet. On it," Law said.
Meanwhile, Jean went to the controls, ready to turn on the autopilots.
"Oh, my, this looks thrilling…" Clarisse commented from the tablet.
Lacrosse chuckled. "Indee-"
"HOLY HELL!" a curse echoed over comms.
"THIS FUCKING BITCH SHOT MY FINGERS!"
"???"
"What happened?!" Lacrosse looked up.
"Looks like a pilot survived."
From the webcam, there was Law's first person visual, shooting at someone with an emergency breathing mask and a blaster.
Law retreated fast; only his pinky and ring finger on the synthetic arm were hit, severed cleanly, bits of suit glove torn away. From the stumps spilled countless microscopic wires crackling with electricity, and a rigid core meant to emulate bone.
"Hey, look, you're a reptilian now," Amarel joked from behind the tanks.
Law spun and shot at the pilot in the head. "Shit. Maintenance on this crap costs a fortune," he complained.
"Looks like you'll need the cyber arm again, Mr. Freelance," Amarel smirked.
"HELL, NO!" Law barked.
They took a tank and descended. The Fortwin had two airlocks, aft and roof. They used the latter, directly beneath the cargo ship.
"I suppose something went wrong?" Clarisse commented. Lacrosse shrugged.
"Uh, no! No worries, Miss Rouge!" Jean called from the cockpit.
"Madame Poetesse, thank you," Clarisse corrected lightly.
"Okay, we're back. Now let's—oh, shit!"
Thud!
The tank slipped from Law's three-fingered synthetic hand and dropped onto Lacrosse's head, knocking him down.
The arm beeped and locked.
Law stared at it, then lifted a guilty look.
"What is wrong with you?!" Amarel yelled at him.
"You! You lot—" Clarisse began, but Jean rushed over and cut the call.
"Oh god, are you okay?" Jean gently helped Lacrosse up.
"Hah! Yes, yes, I'm fine," he laughed, unhurt.
Relief washed over Jean. Law and Amarel emerged from the airlock into the main bay.
"My bad…" Law murmured.
"Okay, we should have everything," Amarel said.
"Let's move before the convoy powers back up," Jean continued.
She set the autopilot: first a gate to an abandoned mining colony a few light-years away to shake pursuit, then the Stella Nova station, then another gate to finally reach Alay.
"A hundred million…" Jean said dreamily.
The ship pulled away far enough from the convoy.
"Holy hell, we really did it," Amarel said.
—
The ship glided silently above the mining colony built on twin moons of the abandoned planet Mexa Secundus. Ahead rose the Silver Pillars, vast blue-gray nebular columns.
"Wow…" Lacrosse commented.
Law stared sadly at the two stumps on his left hand. "Looks like some of the money's going to—"
"Oh, shit!" Jean swore.
"What is it?" Lacrosse asked.
"Outside!" she shouted.
A few hundred lumens away, three small, fast black fighters appeared.
"So they really did hire a Guild," Amarel said, worried.
"Raven," Law noted, spotting the color and emblem, an argent wing inside a diamond.
"And now…?" Lacrosse asked.
"Eh, we'll improvise," Law said casually. "I doubt—"
The ship suddenly shook so violently it threw all four to the floor.
They were firing.