At the Envoy Suite, Kesh leaned back on the plush leather sofa, sunken into the floor of the suite, the cushions swallowing her as she looked at the card.
One target, neutralize, terminate any collateral, no guns.
All debts cleared upon confirmation.
—
She sighed as she tucked the card back into her sleeve. The room was dark and calm, a peaceful moment she so rarely got. Heat from the recessed fireplace pulsed in slow waves across the room, throwing shards of amber light that danced along her forearms. She lifted her hands and let her fingers drift through the flickers, tracing them as if she could shape the flames into something that made sense.
The suite was quiet in the way expensive places were quiet, with thick carpets, sealed windows, air scrubbers whispering behind the walls, and pumping designer scents throughout the room. It should have felt safe, but it felt like a prison.
Her gaze slid to the black plastic case half-hidden under the bed. The one cheap thing in a room built for diplomats and power brokers. It didn’t belong here, which made it stand out even more. She shook her head, a small, resigned motion. She knew what she had to do.
Someone had sent her a message, and they hadn’t bothered with subtlety. She wasn’t an innocent bystander anymore. She was involved, whether she wanted to be or not. The only question left was how long she could pretend neutrality before the whole thing detonated in her hands.
She exhaled, long and low, letting the breath drain the last of her hesitation. Then she dropped her arms to her sides.
“Oh well. Let’s get on with it.”
Kesh slid off the sofa. Undoing her cape and letting it fall. Her body suit was sharp and form-fitting underneath. She pulled the case toward her. Opening it. The latches clicked open with a sound that felt too loud, too sharp for the room. Inside lay the soft-sided backpack, scuffed, faded, and familiar in a way nothing else in her life was anymore.
She hadn’t used it in cycles, but she had never truly been without it. It was the one object that had survived every version of her. She slung it over her shoulder, feeling its weight settle against her spine. Then she crossed to the wardrobe and retrieved her hooded smock, heavy with memories of old obligations and twisted oaths. She pulled it on, drew the hood low, and paused for a heartbeat at the threshold before stepping out of the suite without looking back.
The elevator waited at the end of the corridor, its polished doors reflecting her silhouette back at her, a hooded, mysterious copy of who she had been just a moment ago. She didn't recognize this part of her anymore.
As she hit the service corridor and slipped out the delivery hatch, the station was quiet. It was calm and still at this hour, the kind of quiet that made every footstep feel like an exclamation. She paused beside the recycler, letting the hum of its processors settle her nerves. A thin metal case slid from her pocket into her palm. She cracked it open with her thumb and held her breath as she touched her eye, lifting the blue and red contacts free. They clung to her fingertips like wet petals. She blinked hard as her natural black eyes adjusted to the dimly lit corridor. The darkness wasn’t darkness to her. She could see in as little light as possible. It made the shadows simply another spectrum.
She moved deeper into the maintenance wing, counting the hatches from the message on the card. The air smelled of coolant and old oxidation, a scent she associated with childhood on Alumarium and danger in equal measure. When she found the right panel, she pressed her palm to the latch and slid inside, letting the hatch seal behind her with a soft magnetic click.
She shrugged off the hooded cloak, folding it once before stuffing it into the bag. Her hair came next. She rolled it tight, tucking it against her scalp, then pulled out the black hooded masks and layered them until her silhouette vanished into anonymity. The collar zipped up to her jaw, sealing her scent, her warmth, her identity. She clicked the visor shut, shielding her eyes from the growing light of the corridor, as she stashed the backpack in a recessed cubby. Then Kesh pulled on the black gloves, flexing her fingers until the fabric molded to her skin. She flexed her finger and thumb, activating the glove's static grip. Handy if she needed to climb.
When she moved again, she moved as she belonged to the dark. Her presence was silent, low, and certain. She slipped down the service conduit, leaving no trace of the woman who’d walked out of the ambassador’s suite minutes earlier.
The force of a train rattled the corridor, a deep metallic shudder that rolled through the conduit and made the tubing flex around her. She steadied herself against the wall and checked the display on her wrist. Eight hundred yards from the beacon. Eight hundred yards from the target, the Magistrate had charged her to find and neutralize. The number felt heavier than the distance.
She reached a Y‑junction and paused, letting the beacon recalibrate. The signal pulsed again, three hundred yards, but below her. She stared at the Vac train line below, the rails humming with residual energy. Maybe she’d taken the wrong bypass. Maybe she’d missed a ladder. The corridor gave her nothing but stale air and the fading echo of weary travelers.
Another rumble passed overhead, shaking dust loose from the seams. She moved on, slipping down the junction until she found a ladder chute. She dropped into it and slid to the next service corridor. This one was older, narrower, colder, the walls stained with years of condensation and neglect, a place the station had chosen to forget. The Vac train access hatch waited at the far end.
She stopped. She knew what this meant. She was going to have to Vac walk.
She hated Vac walking. It always felt like letting a monster swallow her whole, like being sucked down a trash chute with the hope she’d come out the other side intact. And she didn’t know the train schedule. If she misjudged by seconds, she’d be pasted on the tunnel wall.
The corridor trembled as another train screamed past. Steam hissed from a loose pipe, fogging the air. She held her breath, pressed her palm to the button, and felt the hatch yank her inside with brutal force, and then slam shut behind her.
She was upside down in the tunnel, gravity confused, senses swimming. The Vac line stretched ahead in a long, dim throat of metal. Far down the tube, a faint indicator light marked the next hatch. It was over one hundred yards away.
And another train was coming.
“Fuck,” she thought, and launched herself forward.
The tunnel pulled at her, the pressure differential tugging at her limbs. She clawed her way along the maintenance grips, each movement a fight against the vacuum drag. She clicked her static grip on the gloves; only the left hand activated as she gripped for a handle.
The rumble behind her grew louder, brighter, closer. Her arms burned. Her chest tightened. She didn’t look back. She kicked off a brace, reached for the hatch, missed, and reached again. The train’s light washed over her legs. Heat and vibration crawled up her spine.
She slammed her palm against the access button.
The hatch blew open, and the Vac system spat her out into Atmos like a mechanical serpent regurgitating a meal. She tumbled onto the grated floor, air rushing back into her lungs in a violent gasp. She was shaken, but she was alive.
She gasped and panted as she scurried into the shadow of a support strut, letting the metal cool her back while her lungs fought to settle. She lifted the visor and undid her mask. She blinked hard, clearing the dizziness from the Vac walk. The air here tasted stale, untouched, and metallic. This zone had been active once, maybe decades ago, maybe longer, but now it felt like a forgotten cancerous lung in the station.
The corridor stretched ahead in a long, narrow line. Rusted drums slumped against the walls, oozing various forgotten fluids, and their labels peeling away from time. Old cargo cases sat where someone had abandoned them, corners dented, hinges frozen. Nothing had been moved in years. The silence was heavy, thick, and watchful.
She moved through it with careful steps, pausing every few meters to listen. No voices. No machinery. Only the distant hum of the station’s spine, or a passing train.
The corridor opened onto a courtyard through a broken hatch, once a communal hub. The working overhead lights flickered in a slow, dying rhythm. Dust floated in the air like drifting spores. And at the far end, half-swallowed by shadow, stood an old capsule hotel. The metal siding warped from age and neglect. It had seen better days, she thought.
Her target was inside. The beacon on her wrist com pulsed once, a steady, insistent blink. Closer now. Close enough that she could feel the moment settle across her shoulders like a weighted yoke. No excuses.
She touched the case she’d strapped to her left thigh and eased it open with practiced care. The knives inside caught the faint courtyard light. They were a mix of matte metals, balanced, and silent. Tools for when noise wasn’t an option. She checked each one by touch, not sight, letting the familiar shapes calm her, remind her what she had to do. If this needed to be discreet, she was prepared.
She drew a slow breath and let it settle deep in her chest. The air tasted of rust. She sighed, a long and deliberate breath. The weight of the task drained out as she shook her arms loose and wrapped her face again, clicking the visor down.
The hotel’s entrance yawned ahead, a dark mouth framed by warped metal and flickering signage. It was a welcoming sight, a human fragment in the crumpled remains of station progress. Somehow, it was a warning to her. This was not going to be routine and simple.