Page 57 of Honor Bound

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Haul Barer IIFreighter: Enroute to Cryon II

The storage room reeked of stale air and musk from the assorted containers, the dim lighting casting long shadows across the walls. Rows of metal crates were stacked in uneven piles, the labels faded and scratched beyond legibility. Steam hissed softly from a cracked ventilation pipe, curling upward like ghostly fingers before dissipating into the gloom.

Zoak sat on an overturned crate near the back of the hold, the only illumination coming from the dim light above him and the small display of the tablet in his hand. The combination of his black combat suit and his skin coloring absorbed the shadows, making him almost invisible against the dull metal bulkheads.

The door opened with a soft hiss. Zoak’s eyes snapped toward the entrance, his body still yet inwardly coiled with the kind of readiness that could explode into violence at a moment’s notice.

Hodge stepped inside, glancing around nervously before crossing the room, his boots clanging softly against the metal deck. He carried a small tray of food, which he set on a crate next to Zoak.

“Anything new?” Zoak asked, his voice low and gravelly.

Hodge nodded, wiping his palms on his trousers. The young Garian’s eyes darted around, never resting on Zoak for long. His molted blue and green scaly skin looked dull and grayish in the bad lighting.

“Word is that the Legion is making a move, but no one knows where yet. There’s been a lot of chatter, but nothing specific.”

Zoak leaned back slightly, his eyes narrowing. “And Plateau?”

“The younger General Landais escaped,” Hodge said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “The Plateauans put up a fight. Rebel forces joined in. Word is that two of the Ancients were there and helped him.”

Zoak’s lips curled into a slow, feral smile. “Where are they now?”

Hodge swallowed nervously. “I don’t know. They disappeared. You should know that the captain was saying that Dorane knows there’s a bounty on him. Dorane’s being extra careful. Rumor is, he’s initiated new security protocols on Cryon II.”

Zoak’s smile didn’t falter. “He can hide behind his protocols and mercenaries all he wants. He’ll still bleed all the same.”

Hodge shifted uncomfortably, glancing at the tray. “The supply shuttle you requested is ready. Boil will have the last of the security clearances an hour before we dock. The clearances change regularly. It couldn’t be done sooner.”

Zoak nodded. “Make sure it is ready. If you and Boil mess this up, there won’t be enough of you left to find.”

Hodge paled but nodded quickly. “It’ll be ready.” He hesitated, then backed toward the door, keeping his eyes on Zoak the entire time. The door closed behind him with a soft hiss, leaving Zoak alone once more.

He sat in silence, staring thoughtfully at the door, his mind already moving several steps ahead.

Pulling up his tablet, he tapped the screen, bringing up a schematic of Cryon II. The artificial moon was an engineering marvel, with levels that spiraled deep into its metal core. The top levels housed docking bays, administrative offices, and merchant hubs, but the real heart of Cryon II lay far below.

The core—a labyrinthine maze of machinery and environmental systems—regulated the artificial atmosphere and gravity. The moon’s survival depended on it. Destroy the core, and Cryon II would collapse in on itself, imploding from within.

Zoak traced a path on the schematic with his finger, his eyes gleaming with anticipation.

“Kill Dorane first,” he murmured. “Then burn the whole thing to the ground.”

He leaned back, folding his arms across his chest. The thought of the chaos that would follow sent a dark thrill racing through him. The destruction of Cryon II would send a message—one that couldn’t be ignored. That not even the most powerful person was invincible.

Not the great Dorane LaGaugh nor Director Andri Andronikos.

Now there was something else. Something that intrigued him even more than Dorane’s death or the destruction of the moon.

The Ancients.

He tapped his finger against the edge of the crate, a slow, deliberate rhythm. He’d heard the stories—warriors with skills that defied explanation, leaders who had brought empires to their knees. If even half the stories were true, they were the kind of opponents he’d dreamed of facing—and conquering.

Roan Landais. The Ancients. Dorane LaGaugh. Director Andronikos. Each name would be a notch toward elevating his prominence among the elite. Zoak’s smile turned predatory. He had no preference. He’d face any of them. All of them, if the opportunity arose.

He could almost hear the clash of blades in his mind, feel the adrenaline surging through his veins. The idea of testing his skills against theirs made his blood hum with anticipation.

“I wonder how good you really are,” he muttered to himself. “Let’s find out.”

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