"Pass the salt, please? If ye don't mind?" asked Nebalo with polite, yet wholly inauthentic emphasis.

  Cassandra wiped her mouth on a decorative napkin, scowl at full power, then slid the condiment down the table's length—champing at the fucking bit to end this charade.

  Nebalo snatched it up, eager and gluttonous, switching between plates with the fervor of a beast. Roast pig. Three whole chickens. The remnants of which had taken root in his beard alongside droplets of wine and spittle.

  He was a disgusting runt whose very diseased presence soured Cassandra's appetite. Mostly.

  And yet unfortunately, here aboard the Wretched Wench, Nebalo wasn't anywhere near the worst. She'd seen degeneracy on a whole new plane of existence in the last ten minutes.

  The ship deserved every corpuscle of its abhorrent namesake. Filthy, cluttered, rotten to the very core of its sherbet-orange durtanium soul. Down to the last rusted rivet, every loose bolt. A heavily armed junkyard crewed by pirates barely smarter than a barbarian.

  During their walk to the captain's mess, she'd committed the path from the airlock to memory. A journey marred by randy men and the foulest stench in the known universe—somewhere between fermented shit and an oozing corpse. It'd made the trek feel so much longer than necessary.

  Thankfully, this room was the cleanest part of the ship by far. A veritable microcosm of semi-acceptable hygienic splendor that eased some of her nausea.

  But not by much.

  Nebalo groaned with satisfaction at the far end, back to the door, incisors at war with a thick-cut wamu steak. The ceedrive vibrated through the walls with inconsistent thrums. Soft. Gentle. Like the purrs of a feline giant.

  James was sat across from her, at ease, stabbing a fork into his own meal. Barbecue pork tenderloins. Steamed broccoli. Well-mannered, uniform perfectly starched, a man utterly at home.

  The table was a long mahogany rectangle, with twelve guards stationed at both ends. Backs flush against the well-adorned bulkheads—gray, peeling, full of pictures and trophies—strange rifles in hand, with twin diodes aimed toward a disk in lieu of a barrel.

  An electrical weapon of sorts, obviously. Nonlethal, maybe. Couldn't be entirely sure until she witnessed it being fired.

  Which Cassandra hoped was sooner, rather than later.

  "So, Nebalo? What's your position on the Kesos' Accords?" James asked evenly, taking smaller bites than before. "From what I heard it splintered a lot of raidfleets down the middle doctrine-wise?"

  "Aye. That they did," Nebalo replied, barely discernible through a full mouth. "But I talk enough about Scrapper concerns as is, let's say we converse on about something much more...interestin'?"

  "What ya got in mind?"

  "You. Heard of ye kind from Kesos to Avansen, New Haven to Valoria. So unless ye meager crew can be all over at once? Perhaps, this mercenary army aforementioned, is entirely comprised of ye lot?"

  Cassandra and James' gazes met with an imperceptible flicker of irresolution.

  "Afraid it's not a topic we're at liberty to discuss in detail," replied James. "But, I'm willing to speak on what you already know, or think you know. Not much harm there."

  They hadn't conversed in private since coming aboard, and yet Cassandra knew James found Nebalo's interest equally pesky. This placation was for the mission's sake alone, and would buy time if nothing else.

  Plus, a meager increase in Nebalo's knowledge was inconsequential, when the little human was soon to die.

  "Just want to make sense of things, Richards. Heard that modifying human DNA was impossible. All that, what was it, concentrated gravelight radiation at Draco's galactic brim?"

  James smirked, a charming expression plastered across his dapper face. "I've heard similar things. Though the complexities of genetics are beyond me. Can't speak much to it."

  "Me as well. But that factoid alone would eliminate the possibility that ye'are enhanced, or even mutants of any sort? The exact scientifics escape me, but also beg the question of how ye all came to be?"

  "Can't argue your logic. The term is epigenetic resistance. Humanity's genomes are essentially held captive in an amber inclusion of radioactive rigidity. Unmalleable in any significant way." Cassandra downed a healthy swig of chardonnay, almost enjoying the turn in conversation. "Knowing this in a general sense, I assume that means you have other notions as to the truth, Cap'n?"

  Nebalo ceased gorging to unleash a boisterous belch. "Aye. So if ye weren't made in some lab, ye could only have come from Old Earth," he paused. "And as I am a student of history and muddled tales, a few possibilities come to mind. Fantastical as they may be."

  James civilly dabbed his lips. “Earth had a treasure trove of stories. Some true, most not.” He reclined with conversational disregard. “I'd think that a man of your station wouldn't have the free time to waste on conjecture? Least of all utilizing ancient hearsay."

  Nebalo gave a crooked grin, gold teeth catching the cool light of the mess. “Ye'd be surprised with what I'm willing to waste me time on."

  “I'm sure,” James conceded with a slow nod. “Speaking of time, how long did your navigators estimate until our arrival?”

  Nebalo’s brow lifted a fraction.

  “The buoy? A few hours based off the information ye provided."

  “Excellent. Might want to also inform them to exit ceespace a little short. Minefields tend to drift a little. Hate for us to arrive and find both of ours ships blown to shit by mistake.”

  A chuckle rumbled from Nebalo’s chest.

  “Have some faith, boy. Me crew may look and act like gutter rats, but they know space better than the stars. And how to properly wade through the dangers wherein.” He picked his teeth with a greasy finger. “We’ll slide into realspace nice and gentle like.”

  “Good. I’d prefer our partnership not end before it even started."

  Cassandra watched them continue to exchange words over the rim of her glass.

  James' discursive redirect was cunning enough that Nebalo hadn’t objected. A sly pivot from supposed myth back toward practical matters.

  The ceedrive hummed deeper. Like rolling thunder trapped inside the ship’s metal bones.

  She drank more of the wine, then refilled it with the practiced ease of a diplomat. Might as well. It'd take a whole lot more to get her drunk.

  It tasted fine. Cheap, but decent. A little more metallic than the preceding sips, but then the provided tin cup wasn't exactly of the highest quality either.

  She frowned when the idle thought of poison resurfaced, swirled the liquid around, still unable to see or smell any oddities. Their aggressive immune systems took care of most toxins without issue, but caution was her middle name.

  Cassandra Del-Caution Zervas...

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  Nebalo leaned back, full belly straining the seams of his flight suit. “That buoy of yours, plenty of supplies there, aye?”

  “Enough to keep a few ships going for a while,” James said. “Food, munitions, repair parts. BioMech likes its operators well-fed and well-armed. The feud with Omni-Corp has picked up. They're increasing their operations in the systems adjacent to the Corridor.”

  “Aye, it's brought many opportunities, and even greater risk to the raidfleets spread about.”

  Nebalo tapped a finger on the table, then unceremoniously went to work on another steak with renewed enthusiasm.

  But Cassandra found herself less concerned with his greed, or even the conversation. More focused on the warmth that had begun to settle at her ribs. Not painful. Not uncomfortable.

  Just…odd.

  She shifted in her chair, rolling one shoulder to loosen a stiff joint. Her stomach tightened. A tingle zigged and zagged beneath suddenly flush skin.

  Cassandra looked toward her half-empty cup. Then to James. Still talking, calm, still smiling that politician's smile.

  But his broad shoulders had sunk ever so slightly. Less self-assured and proud. With a faint sheen of sweat percolating above his blonde brows.

  Their eyes met with a quiet note of suspicion that rang like a bell. She sniffed again more intently, discreetly. Directed at her steaming Shepherd's pie. Citrusy chardonnay.

  The sensitive fibers of her powerful nose began to prickle with steady breaths. Inhale, exhale. An olfactory chromatograph in the hands of an experienced wolf.

  First, the ground wamu in the pie became more pronounced. Meat that'd been frozen for a good while too. Then came yellow onions. Garlic. The plastic veneer of the velvet table cloth. James' barbecue breath. Black mold in the vents. The filth and sweat covered bodies of the guards all around.

  There was nothing out of the ordinary...

  ...until there was.

  Within her food and drink, there was an aroma obfuscated by the savory fog of rendered fat and alcohol. Treacherous. Infinitesimal. Something sulfuric mixed with bitter almonds—perhaps some variation of hydrogen cyanide?—working in tandem with another substance she couldn't deduce.

  Could possibly be thioarsenate, which to her memory shared a similar scent to a widespread, ultimately benign preservative. Regardless. Whatever its chemical makeup, it had helped sell the deception. A masking agent of sorts.

  Cassandra glared at Nebalo's silhouette from the safety of her periphery, and smiled. A wolfish twinge of the lips. At the same time his gaze purposefully shifted from James and settled on her, as if he'd read her thoughts.

  “But enough talk of business. I find meself far more curious about ye, lass. Quiet type. Always the ones worth paying attention to me Pa always said.”

  “Curious? How so?” she asked coolly. "I'm not that interesting truth be told. Ask anybody."

  "It's true," James added with a squeeze of genuine mirth, ever a professional smart-ass. "Bores me often enough."

  Nebalo grinned wider, scraggly beard akin to a tangle of sandy moss.

  “I find that hard to believe. Here ye sit. Pretty as a painting, calm as still waters, patient as a sheathed dagger.” His blue gaze sharpened, drained of all humor and pretense. “And I find it even harder to believe ye could tear a man apart with ye bare hands."

  "Who said I have or can?"

  "Don't be coy. Twas sorta amusing at first, but honestly beneath ye both. But as I suppose my words could be defined as an assumption, I'll rescind the point. And in return I want a straight answer. What exactly are ye?"

  "As Commander Richards previously stated, we can't confirm nor deny. We're not at liberty."

  "Then allow me, lass. The denizens of the Heartland are a superstitious and woefully uncreative breed. Supermen and shadows, they often say. But I meself personally prefer the ancient nomenclatures."

  Cassandra held his stare inquisitively, even though she decently well knew what he was about to say.

  "Vampir and werewolves.”

  Across the table James’ food stopped just short of his mouth. Not surprised, per se, more annoyed actually. For the briefest moment his amber eyes flickered in the ambient light. Deadly. Focused.

  "Seeing that ye crew isn't dramatically dressed in black, or carrying swords? The latter must be true. Maybe this is an opportunity I shouldn't let slip between me fingers? To buoy, or not to buoy."

  James' fist tightened around the fork, bending the flimsy metal like straw. Ready. Primed. A silent gesture that said more than a verbal order could ever manage:

  Now.

  Cassandra found her steak knife in a flash of fingers—a keen metal missile fast enough to whistle through the air.

  Nebalo vanished out of its path like a phantom.

  He dropped with a metallic snap as a trapdoor swallowed the chair whole. The blade struck the bulkhead where his head had been with a thunk and a spark, buried to the hilt in the durtanium.

  The guards moved in unison. Compact masks snapped over their eager faces, sealed tight over nose and mouth. In the same blink, the vents spewed azure phosphorus vapor in a thick haze, the gaseous prelude to the pirates opening volley.

  The strange rifles barked with loud electrical pops, glowing spheres of crackling energy that zoomed across the mess like furious blue comets.

  They had an airy buoyancy. Not slow, but a decent dozen feet-per-second less than bullets.

  James and Cassandra were already up. They seized the table on either side, heaved—cracked the slab of mahogany widthwise at the center, then jerked the halves upright—in a clatter of meat and dishes.

  Barely in time to block the first barrage.

  Projectiles detonated across its wood surface in hot bursts of flame. Lances of their residual charge surged through the porous fibers to electrify Cassandra's soul, wormed its way from head to boot.

  Agonizing, but manageable.

  The gas tightened around them like a noose. Spines joined in a soldier's inverted embrace. Her vision obscured, legs slightly wobbly from the remnants of Nebalo's poison.

  Smelled like somnathane, Nebalo wanted them alive...for now.

  They both inhaled deeply once, then again, drawing relatively unsoiled air before the gas swallowed them whole.

  After exchanging a calm glance, they sprang into action. Using the broken table like ramparts they stalked in opposite directions. Steady. Like Leonidas. Into their own personal hellstorm of high voltage fire.

  Salvo after salvo sizzled against the impromptu shield. Cassandra whipped it around laterally, easier to wield, her claws perched in its fine finish.

  The gas burned her eyes now, too bright as well. She listened instead. Boots shifting. Breath behind rubber masks. Fixed on the twelve proud heartbeats foolishly in her path.

  They had faith in their numbers. Who wouldn't?

  But with each prick of pain caused by their onslaught, they added more fuel to the righteous inferno of Cassandra's rage.

  Dead, men, walking...

  With a growl of unfiltered bloodlust she charged, slammed with an echo into their midst, pinned several against the wall with yelps of pain. Cracks of brittle bone.

  Trophies fell as the table splintered, as sporadic spurts of human blood jetted onto her face. Under the sheer weight of her might. Warm. Metallic.

  Intimately familiar.

  Cassandra dropped low, then hurled a greasy platter into the nearest fixture. It dimmed in a hail of incandescent specks.

  Their persistent fire faltered as they stumbled to reposition, but Cassandra leapt in a sidelong tumble, ponytail afly as she cut them off.

  She spun around, her initial punch caved in a man’s throat—crunch, gurgle. The second folded under a knee shattered with an oblique kick, let out a scream before a stomp rendered his skull to pulp.

  Another’s mask flew free with a backhand, exposed to the chemical cloud, eyes teary as he too kissed durtanium.

  Her curatine claws caught a cool gleam, shrieked against armor plates and weapons in a twirl of fatal precision.

  Five-finger riposte here. Stop-cut there. The pirates tactics far less effective in close quarters.

  With brief glances, she saw James glide from pirate to pirate in a fluid streak of murder. Every bit the stock of his renowned reputation. A blend of haymakers, jabs, and claws, perfectly balanced between man and beast.

  A guard got a shot off, bright misery fizzled down James' back with a snarl—he snatched the weapon—smashed it over the man’s temple like a bat. Dead before even old man gravity caught on.

  The last of James' prey lunged past his guard with a knife. Vengeful. Nothing at all left to lose.

  Too slow. He was caught mid-stride in a grapple, lifted overhead like a child, then brought down hard on James' shoulders with a crackle of vertebrae.

  "Hraheeyyah!" he screeched, a sack of bones that hit the floor in a pathetic heap.

  The room had so quickly dissolved into chaos. And had just as fast, aside from the hiss of gas, and whir of alarms out in the hall...

  ...fell silent.