The desert moon of Khepri-9 looked dead from orbit.
From the surface, it looked worse.
Rust-colored storms dragged across endless scrapyards and collapsed mining rigs while fractured cargo haulers rotted beneath layers of sand. Entire districts had been built from the bones of dead machines. Metal groaned constantly in the wind like the planet itself was trying to die quietly.
Brakk Mercer stood atop a wrecked transport hull overlooking the settlement below.
The evening heat rolled off the dunes in shimmering waves, but sweat no longer bothered him. Khepri-9 burned everyone eventually. You either adapted or got buried.
Below him, scavengers fought over stripped reactor parts while armed gang lookouts watched from rooftops made of sheet metal and engine plating.
Normal day.
Brakk adjusted the heavy cargo crate balanced on his shoulder and started down the slope toward home.
Home.
The word felt generous.
Their apartment was little more than two reinforced rooms welded into the side of an abandoned refinery tower. The lower level leaked during storms. The upper level rattled whenever the neighboring generators kicked on.
But it was safe.
Mostly.
And Rhea was there.
That mattered.
Brakk shoved open the metal door.
“I brought food.”
From the other room, Rhea’s voice answered immediately.
“You mean you stole food.”
“Borrowed.”
“You punched a smuggler unconscious this morning.”
“He started it.”
Rhea appeared around the doorway carrying a battered toolkit almost as large as her torso. She was smaller than Brakk by nearly a full head, but moved with sharp confidence that made people underestimate her exactly once.
Dark curls were tied messily behind her head and grease streaked one side of her cheek.
She eyed the crate.
“What is it?”
Brakk dropped it onto the table with a loud metallic slam.
“Protein packs. Water filters. Some medical supplies.”
Rhea narrowed her eyes.
“You definitely stole this.”
Brakk shrugged.
“The guy was overcharging.”
“That does not make robbery morally complicated.”
“He had two crates.”
“Oh well in that case.”
Despite herself, she smiled.
That alone made the day worth it.
Brakk leaned against the wall while Rhea dug through the supplies.
“You eat yet?” he asked.
She ignored the question.
Which was answer enough.
Brakk sighed.
“You keep skipping meals, you’re gonna pass out.”
“I was working.”
“You’re always working.”
“Some of us contribute intellectually.”
Brakk snorted.
“Some of us carry refrigerators for exercise.”
“Useful skill.”
Rhea tossed him a ration bar.
He caught it one-handed.
For a few quiet minutes the only sound was the distant hum of refinery engines outside.
Then the apartment lights flickered.
Both of them froze.
A second later came shouting from the street below.
Brakk immediately moved toward the window.
Rhea grabbed his arm.
“Don’t.”
Another shout echoed upward.
Then a gunshot.
Brakk’s jaw tightened.
Khepri-9 had rules.
Unofficial ones.
Violence inside the residential stacks usually meant gangs settling debts.
Or Republic patrols.
Neither option was good.
Brakk carefully lifted the rusted metal shutter and looked outside.
Three armored vehicles rolled into the settlement square beneath floodlights.
The Sage Republic.
Even from this distance Brakk recognized the insignia.
Around the transports, armed soldiers forced civilians back at rifle point while officers scanned identity records.
Rhea stepped beside him.
“That’s new,” she muttered.
Brakk watched silently.
The Republic rarely came this deep into the outer sectors unless they wanted something.
Or someone.
One of the officers grabbed a scavenger by the collar and slammed him against a vehicle.
Brakk felt anger rise instantly.
Rhea noticed.
“Don’t.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“That face says otherwise.”
Below, a child tried to run through the checkpoint.
A soldier shoved him hard enough to send him crashing into the dirt.
Brakk moved before thinking.
“Brakk.”
Too late.
He was already heading for the stairs.
The square erupted into shouting the moment Brakk stepped into it.
People scattered instinctively.
Most recognized him.
The giant from Refinery Row.
The idiot who picked fights he couldn’t afford.
The officer near the checkpoint turned toward him.
“You.”
Brakk kept walking.
The child on the ground couldn’t have been older than eight.
The soldier who shoved him stepped forward and planted a hand against Brakk’s chest.
“Citizen. Stop moving.”
Brakk looked down at the hand.
Then slowly removed it.
Not violently.
Just firmly enough that the soldier stumbled backward a step.
That immediately changed the atmosphere.
Safety catches clicked off around the square.
Several rifles snapped upward.
Rhea swore under her breath from somewhere behind him.
A second soldier moved in aggressively.
“You deaf?”
Brakk ignored him and helped the child to his feet.
“You hurt?”
The kid shook his head quickly before running back into the crowd.
The first soldier grabbed Brakk’s shoulder from behind.
Bad decision.
Brakk reacted instinctively.
He caught the man’s wrist, twisted, and shoved him hard enough into a nearby cargo crate that the metal dented loudly.
The square went dead silent.
Now every rifle was aimed directly at Brakk.
Rhea finally reached him, breathing hard.
“Brakk.”
Brakk’s jaw tightened as he slowly released the soldier.
The officer approached carefully now.
Not afraid.
But alert.
“Interfering with Republic operations is punishable under colonial authority,” the officer said.
Brakk crossed his arms.
“Pushing around kids part of the operation?”
Several nearby civilians immediately backed away further.
Nobody spoke to Republic officers like that.
The officer’s expression hardened.
“What’s your identification?”
“Don’t have one.”
“That’s illegal.”
“So is starving half the planet.”
Rhea forced herself between them before Brakk could make things worse.
“Sorry,” she said quickly. “My brother enjoys losing arguments with armed soldiers.”
Brakk frowned.
“I was winning.”
“No, you were moments from being executed publicly.”
The officer looked between them.
Then his gaze paused on Brakk.
Longer this time.
Assessing.
“Name.”
Brakk didn’t answer.
Rhea did.
“Mercer. Brakk Mercer.”
Brakk shot her a look.
She ignored it.
The officer tapped something into a wrist console.
A moment later his expression changed.
Subtly.
Interest.
“Well,” he said. “That explains it.”
Brakk’s instincts sharpened immediately.
“Explains what?”
The officer smiled faintly.
“You’ll be receiving an offer soon.”
Then he turned and walked away.
Brakk stared after him.
Rhea exhaled slowly.
“I hate when powerful people talk like that.”
The offer came three days later.
A Republic recruitment transport descended directly into the settlement square.
That alone caused panic.
Officials rarely landed personally unless they wanted to make a point.
Brakk and Rhea stood among the crowd while a sharply dressed Republic commander addressed them from an elevated platform.
“The Sage Republic offers citizenship, employment, food security, and military advancement opportunities to qualified individuals willing to serve.”
Nobody trusted it.
Khepri-9 had been exploited by governments for generations.
Promises meant nothing.
Then the commander’s eyes landed directly on Brakk.
“You,” he called.
Murmurs spread instantly.
Brakk didn’t move.
“You demonstrated exceptional physical capability during our previous visit.”
Rhea quietly muttered:
“That’s one way to describe assaulting an officer.”
The commander continued.
“The Republic is prepared to offer you formal military placement.”
The crowd stared.
Military placement meant food.
Money.
Off-world transport.
Survival.
It also meant ownership.
Brakk looked at Rhea.
She looked back silently.
He already knew what she was thinking.
Leave.
Escape this place.
Maybe finally live somewhere people weren’t dying over water filters.
But he also saw fear in her eyes.
Fear of losing the only life they understood.
Brakk leaned closer.
“Doesn’t matter where we go,” he said quietly. “We stay together.”
Rhea studied him for a long moment.
Then nodded once.
The commander smiled.
“Excellent.”
He had no idea what he had just recruited.
Or what it would eventually cost him.
Far above Khepri-9, beyond the polluted atmosphere and scrapyard storms, a small stolen cruiser drifted silently through deep space.
The Ghostline.
Inside the engine room, Elias Rune hung halfway inside an exposed reactor panel while muttering aggressively at wiring.
“This ship hates me.”
From somewhere above him came Malak Voss’s voice.
“She hates everyone equally.”
Elias smacked the side of the panel.
“Tell her to stop overheating then.”
Malak dropped from the upper maintenance ladder carrying two steaming cups of terrible coffee.
The former military pilot moved with relaxed confidence that somehow made every disaster around him feel temporary.
Which annoyed Elias immensely.
“You know,” Malak said, handing him a cup, “most engineers don’t insult the engine while repairing it.”
“She started it.”
“Fair.”
Elias took the drink suspiciously.
“This smells toxic.”
“It builds character.”
“I’m pretty sure it dissolves organs.”
Malak leaned against the railing beside him.
For a while neither spoke.
The ship vibrated softly beneath them.
Old metal.
Prototype systems.
Too many patched repairs.
Home.
Finally Malak glanced toward the cockpit corridor.
“We’re low on fuel.”
“We’re always low on fuel.”
“We’re also low on food.”
“We’re definitely always low on food.”
Malak grinned.
“So we need work.”
Elias groaned immediately.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“The last ‘simple cargo job’ ended with three bounty hunters and a reactor fire.”
“To be fair, the reactor fire wasn’t our fault.”
“It became our fault when you accelerated through it.”
Malak considered this.
“Good point.”
A warning light suddenly flashed across the engine bay.
Elias blinked.
“Oh no.”
“What?”
“That’s a Republic relay signal.”
Malak straightened.
“Tracking?”
“Broadcast.”
Elias moved quickly across the console, fingers flying across holographic controls.
A distorted transmission filled the engine room.
PRIORITY MILITARY RECRUITMENT INITIATIVE
OUTER COLONY IDENTIFICATION: KHEPRI-9
SUBJECT OF INTEREST: BRAKK MERCER
Malak raised an eyebrow.
“Well that sounds ominous.”
Elias frowned at the screen.
The attached personnel image appeared grainy and incomplete.
But even distorted, the figure looked massive.
Republic recruitment tags scrolled beneath the image.
Potential military candidate. Exceptional combat indicators. High adaptability.
Elias leaned back slowly.
“That guy’s either about to become a war hero…”
Malak took a sip of coffee.
“…or a problem.”
The Ghostline drifted onward through the darkness.
Toward Khepri-9.
Toward the future crew of the Voidjackals.
And toward the people who would eventually become family.