Sloan didn’t remember the exact moment they started moving. One second, Garnash’s sharp-toothed grin filled her vision, the next, she was walking through a corridor she had never seen on any known layout of the Grand Archive.

  Priest was slumped forward, half-conscious, dragged between the two Umi. Nobody talked. The walls became more and more featureless, and the silence more and more oppressive as they brisked forward.

  She had seen a lot of concealed structures in her lifetime, but this was the first time she had learned such a place existed beneath Mendax.

  She should have figured as much.

  The central authority here was weak—puppet leadership that barely functioned outside of pre-approved bureaucratic procedures. Someone else had to be pulling the strings, and if McPherson’s men had free rein in a place like this, then it wasn’t just influence. It was ownership.

  Garnash hissed, a sharp, sibilant sound indicating he wanted to start a conversation. Sloan peered at him at just the right angle, enough to acknowledge him, but not enough to appear overly interested.

  He spoke, “The head of McPherson Corp on Kestris-9 . . . What the name is. Shiya Mura.” He glanced at Garnash as though he expected a reaction from her. He didn’t get any. “He disappeared yesterday. Between yours and Mura’s disappearance, leadership is unsettled.” His voice was still hoarse but gaining strength. “Uncertainty makes nervousness.”

  Ahead lay a dead end. There were no markings, no door panels, and no indication of stopping from Garnash. He strode forward with the same lazy flick of his tail, reached out one clawed hand and placed it against the blank wall. A slightest decompressing noise rang out, and the surface rippled. The metal bent like a heat mirage before fragmenting into a dozen thin, near-invisible seams. The entire section of the wall silently split apart, its pieces retracting into the surrounding structure.

  A small, starkly furnished room lay waiting. The walls were the same cold, metallic alloy as the corridor, but here, they were lined with discreet acoustic panels, dulling sound and warping the space into an unnaturally insulated music box. A single circular table sat in the center, polished to a reflective sheen, surrounded by four chairs, each one strategically positioned to keep anyone seated at an equal distance.

  Garnash extended his clawed hand, “Sit down. We negotiate.”

  Sloan lowered herself into the chair, a subtle surprise met her fingertips. The fabric was impossibly smooth, the kind that couldn’t have been replicated from any leather nor synthetic weave. It had a liquid-like silkiness, cool to the touch, molding ever so slightly beneath her weight before settling into a firm but unnervingly comfortable hold. Sloan’s mind traced back to the decrypted message she received earlier. Prove your worth, Sloan Albrecht. It must have come from her father. Once again, he was the one pulling the strings, ensuring she got to sit on this silky smooth chair instead of some cold cell floor.

  She didn’t earn this.

  The Umi guided Priest to a chair as the latter stirred with a sharp inhale. As the soldier dragged him pass Garnash, the warlord studied him with an amusing snare, and said, “So your name is Dakarai Chibanda. I am familiar with your lineage. Your father served with my father in the Space Border Corp #48. Your father needs life support now, do you know, Dakarai? My father is still serving.” His teeth scraped against one another. “Such is the problem with humans. Your species endures old age too soon.”

  Priest’s head lolled forward, his eyelids fluttering as a sluggish groan escaped him. The soldier planted a heavy hand against Priest’s shoulder and shoved him from the seat with an unforgiving thud. Priest’s face smashed against the table, and his body went slack again.

  Sloan didn’t react.

  Garnash curled his tail as he took a seat opposite Sloan. His eyes, slit-pupiled and unblinking, fixed on her. “Mura,” he said, voice as coarse as grinding stone. “Was found taking more than he was owed. An unforgivable amount.” He bared his teeth slightly, the edges clicking against each other. “Right before his disappearance. It was rather convenient, but it is also convenient now that he will never return again.”

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Sloan said nothing. Garnash continued. “Kestris-3 sent a deputy. An interim replacement. It is a temporary measure.” He flicked his claws in a dismissive gesture. “But McPherson does not want another Mura. It is imperative that there are no more leeches. McPherson needs someone capable. Local.” His gaze sharpened. “And not part of Mura’s rot.”

  The warlord didn’t elaborate further. He was watching, waiting, testing.

  Sloan finally understood why her name had been on the drive—Mura was the mole, the Republic’s hidden safeguard all along. The project he’d signed off on had likely funneled resources to the Republic in some form, and Sloan had been the one greenlighting those projects without knowing. That would explain all the shadow entities she had never heard before being on the recipient side. Sloan had thought they were Mura’s personal shell companies. In fact, they’d been carefully constructed fronts—Republic-run pipelines buried beneath layers of bureaucracy. She’d missed it. All of it. And now her signature was on half the transfers.

  That alone could be seen as gross negligence on Sloan’s part. Yet Garnash hadn’t brought any of it up. For now, she was safe.

  Sloan gave a single reply, “The only crime on my record is shooting Mura’s right-hand man.”

  “You are a potential candidate, Albrecht. But you must know, there are people who would kill to get your seat.” He reached from inside his suit and brought out a mini-drive. “You must have known about the drive on Namor-4.”

  Sloan neither confirmed nor denied. She rested her arms on the table. “Tell me more.”

  Garnash bared his teeth, the reptilian equivalent of a knowing smirk. “We are rallying support. From Gilneas and from Austjsocs. McPherson is a business, and a business always looks for the most profitable move. The most profitable move now is control, Albrecht.” His claws tapped against the table. “This is bigger than you. Bigger than me. Bigger than McPherson.”

  He let the weight of his words settle before continuing. “The Republic is no longer just governance. It is experimentation. Mutation. And necromancy.” The scraping of his teeth turned into a quiet rasp. “We are the only ones who can stop them.”

  We, he said.

  Sloan gave him a small nod.

  This was it. Her chance to slither back into corporate, to take the position she’d always wanted. The Executive seat at McPherson Kestris-9 wasn’t just a title. It was control over all inflows and outflows of the planet. It was a position more powerful than any faction leader, any crime lord, any so-called government official pretending to hold sway over that volatile planet.

  No longer would she have to waste her time on meaningless busywork, the kind of mind-numbing tasks Mura had saddled her with just to keep her out of real power. Reviewing shipment manifests that had already been altered before they even reached her desk. Approving requisition orders that funneled Vascarite into the wrong hands under the guise of “logistical errors.” Signing off on budget reallocations that somehow always left her department underfunded and overstretched.

  She would gain control over the supply of one of the galaxy’s most prized minerals—Vascarite.

  But she knew better than to show her hand too early.

  “I need to know this,” she said. “Why did the Republic leave an important drive in an abandoned research facility in the first place?”

  Garnash replied after a second, “They did not leave it. The research facility belonged to their subsidiary Scholdfield. We had a few insiders. Once the planet was infested with too many rogue creatures, uncontrolled, they abandoned. Researchers were screened as they leave the planet. Ensure they do not sneak out information. So our insiders left the drive there out of necessity. All is left is to retrieve it without the Republic alarmed.”

  That was a satisfactory response.

  Sloan leaned forward. “The Republic relies on Vascarite for their secret research, but they don’t fully control its supply. That’s their weakness.”

  Garnash listened.

  “There are ways to tighten the grip. Supply chain disruptions. Market fluctuations. Regulatory shifts.” She let the rest remain unsaid.

  Garnash gave a slow nod. “Scarcity.”

  She continued, “A slow shift can be disguised as market trends, logistical inefficiencies, regulatory bottlenecks. And our weapons programs will be the only ones operating at full capacity while the Republic struggles to maintain their fleet.”

  She was confident she had said just enough to convince him. Garnash studied her in silence, his claws idly tapping against the table. Finally, he bared his teeth in something that wasn’t quite a smile.

  “McPherson will need the right hands on this.” His voice was low and deliberate.

  Sloan didn’t respond immediately. She met his gaze, let the silence stretch, let him feel the inevitability of it. Then, she leaned back, folding her arms. “And?”

  Garnash exhaled through his nostrils, the sound sharp. “And we are forming a new Task Force, Ms. Albrecht.” He tilted his head, watching her reaction. “You will lead it.”

  She tilted her head, exactly mirroring his tilting. “And my assets?”

  “The Black Fang crew.”