Kesh Ossaryn was Xanthodermian. Her ancestors were among the first colonizers in the verse, splicing Aulliram DNA into their own until the mix settled into the form she carried now.
A low vibration rolled through the room. She glanced toward the port and grimaced at how close the Envoy sat to the train depot. Too close. She closed her eyes and drew a steady breath. If everything held together, she’d be off this scrapbucket before the next cycle.
She was used to more dignified accommodations, but this close to the edge, the Envoy Suite had nothing better to offer. The bellhop drone zipped through the seldom‑used Ambassador suite in its frantic pattern, checking systems no one had touched in cycles. She waited in the corridor until it drifted to a stop in front of her.
“Ms. Ossaryn, we at the Envoy hope your stay is pleasurable.”
The drone dipped in a mechanical bow and backed out of the room.
Kesh exhaled and sat on the edge of the bed. She unfastened the fabric mask from her mouth. The air on her lips and cheek felt like release. She flicked her cape back and shook out her hair.
She rose and stripped off her robes and capes, leaving only a simple tunic over the skintight black jumpsuit. She unzipped the collar to her collarbone and inhaled.
Freckles dusted the backs of her hands, faint but present, the same constellation that marked her arms and traced the line of her spine. Her skin held a soft orange hue that faded to cream across her chest, stomach, and the inner lengths of her limbs.
The holoscreen blipped to life as she shook out her turquoise hair. The detangling brush paused halfway to her scalp. The man from the shuttle filled the frame, same jawline, same careless confidence. Now he was wanted by the Pinkertons. A quiet pulse of heat moved through her chest as she set the brush in her lap without looking away.
The news synthetics bickered in their polished broadcast voices.
“So you’re telling me this meatsuit stole three million credits from the magistrate,” the male said, deep and theatrical.
“I don’t know, Ten‑seven. Sounds like a Pinkerton setup to me,” the female replied.
“Well, we’ll see how this unfolds, Six‑four.”
“Yes, we will. More news at 1400.”
The feed cut to a tentacle wrestling match. Kesh shut it off with a flick of her thumb.
She sat there a moment, the room humming around her. She picked up the brush again and pulled it through her hair, slower this time.
“Of course he’s trouble,” she thought. “Of course.” She let out a breath that wasn’t quite a sigh.
She stepped back and reached for her travel case. The lock responded to her touch with a soft click. Inside, beneath folded tunics and diplomatic seals, lay something. Something she shouldn’t have, something from a forgotten life.
She brushed her fingers over the smooth surface. It felt, faint and warm, as if greeting her.
“Not yet,” she murmured.
A chime sounded at the door. Not the drone. Not housekeeping. A single, deliberate tone.
Someone was outside. Quickly, she shut the case and shoved it under the bed.
The door slid open with a soft hiss. No one stood there. A thin envelope lay on the metal. Kesh crouched and felt the faintest static hum through the paper. There was no seal or sender.
Her stomach tightened. She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. The corridor lights flickered once.
The elevator at the far end chimed.
A Pinkerton detective stepped out, crisp uniform, polished boots, hat tipped in a gesture that tried to look polite and landed somewhere closer to predatory.
“Ms. Ossaryn,” he said, voice smooth as lacquer. “We’d like to ask you a few questions about the shuttle flight.”
She slid the small envelope into her sleeve with a practiced motion.
“Of course you would,” she said, her tone even, her pulse anything but.
The Pinkerton detective approached, hands clasped behind his back, eyes scanning her face with the kind of interest she didn’t appreciate.
“Routine inquiry,” he added. “Shouldn’t take long.”
Kesh smiled the way diplomats smile when they’re calculating exits.
The detective stopped a polite distance from her door, though nothing about him felt polite.
“Ms. Ossaryn,” he said, tipping his hat again. “We’d like to ask you a few questions about the shuttle flight.”
She stepped aside, letting him see the room but not inviting him in.
“Then ask.”
He smiled. Too smooth. Too practiced.
“May I?” he asked, gesturing toward the doorway.
“No.”
Her tone didn’t waver. She didn’t blink.
His smile thinned.
“Very well. We received a report of… unusual activity on the shuttle. A passenger matching your description was seen speaking with a person of interest.”
Kesh folded her arms, the envelope disappearing beneath her sleeve.
“I spoke to many people. It was a shuttle.”
“Of course.” His gaze flicked to her hands, her freckles, her posture. He was cataloging her.
“Did you happen to notice a man traveling alone? Dark hair. Confident demeanor. Hard to miss.”
She let a beat pass.
“I notice many things.”
The Pinkerton studied her face, searching for something that betrayed her calm.
“You’re a diplomat,” he said. “You’re trained to observe.”
“I’m trained to mind my own business.”
A small crack formed in his composure. A smile crept onto his lips.
“Ms. Ossaryn, this man stole three million credits from the magistrate. He’s dangerous.”
“So are the magistrate’s friends,” she said.
The Pinkerton’s eyes sharpened.
“Is that a threat?”
“No, it’s an observation.”
He stepped closer, lowering his voice.
He hesitated.
“Yes. Did the man from the shuttle speak to you?”
Kesh let the silence stretch.
“He looked at me,” she said. “That’s all.”
The Pinkerton didn’t believe her. She could see it in the way his jaw tightened, in the way his hand hovered near the badge at his belt.
He tipped his hat again, but the gesture had lost its charm.
“We’ll be in touch, Ms. Ossaryn.”
He turned and walked back toward the elevator.
He knew she was lying, but he didn’t know why.
The elevator doors closed behind him.
Kesh shut her door, leaned against it, and let out a slow breath.
Kesh sat on the edge of the bed, pulled the envelope out, and studied it. She slid a finger beneath the edge. The paper parted with a soft tear. Inside was a single strip of thin, flexible film. No text, no seal, no signature. She held it up to the light.
A symbol flickered across the surface.
Not a word.
Not a threat.
A sigil. 로
Her breath caught. She hadn’t seen that mark since she left the Aulliram enclave.
She closed her hand around it, closed her eyes, willing the memory to fade. Her secret would have to wait.
The holoscreen blinked to life again, unprompted. A system glitch, or more likely, someone tapping her feed. A single line appeared before the screen cut to black.
Find him.