Page 79 of Galactic Sentinels: Vol 2
I scan the situation. Five of them, all armed. Me—alone, leaning on a stick, barely mobile. Under normal circumstances, they wouldn’t even dare raise their eyes to me. They’d be groveling for a spot in my ranks.
But power is everything. And Paviok was right: without it, you’re just prey.
“You can’t lay a hand on my patients!” the old doctor shouts, voice shaking.
“Nov?” Sam appears beside him, pale and unsteady, but unmistakably awake.
“Well look who it is! Albert’s little girl, isn’t it? The genius behind that wonder drug Zebulon everyone’s been chasing.”
“Sam, go inside with the doctor. I’ll be right behind you,” I say urgently. “As for you lot—walk away. That’s an order.”
“Ooooh, scary! What are you gonna do, hop us to death?” Felone sneers. “The gimp’s gonna fight!”
I grit my teeth. This isn’t going to end well. And Sam, damn her, is still standing there, frozen.
I grip my crutch like a pathetic excuse for a weapon. They come closer, circling me. The first punch flies in from the right—I dodge, pivot on my good leg, and slam the crutch into someone’s skull. He drops like a stone.
The others rush in.
I try to back up, but without support, my injured leg gives. I go down hard on one knee. Then the beating starts.
Fists. Boots. Elbows. I fight back as much as I can, but my vision goes red, then dark. The taste of blood fills my mouth.
Someone’s screaming. Sam.
“Grab her too,” Felone barks. “She’s the one who cooked up Zebulon. Her old man’s been trying to replicate it, but she can probably make it better.”
“No…” she murmurs.
I try to get up.
Felone smashes me in the temple. The world spins. I hit the ground, face-first. Dirt grinds into my eyes. I feel hands on me, patting me down, tying me up. I try to look for her.
They’ve got her. She’s struggling, but she doesn’t stand a chance. I want to scream, but my throat’s dry. I want to move, but my body won’t obey.
“Bring ’em both,” Felone orders. “We’ll figure it out at the base.”
Everything fades.
The sky closes.
20-Ayden
I stare at the guy across the table. He’s sweating, even though the AC is blasting. His bluish fur, typical of Neerots, clings to his damp skin, slick with fear. His wide, dark eyes avoid mine. He’s shaking a little, his claws occasionally scraping against the metal cuffs. He’s not made for this. Not for violence, not for the cold walls of this place. I wonder how he ended up working on Vagantu, what led him straight here—to Penal Station Nine, a floating prison in the far reaches of the quadrant.
The room is bare, utilitarian. Gray composite walls, a flickering overhead light, a table bolted to the floor, a chair on either side. A one-way mirror lets my team watch the interrogation from the other side.
“You know why you’re here, don’t you?” I say, my voice low, sharp.
Igor sits next to me, playing his part perfectly. He’s the good cop—the one who smiles, speaks gently, makes it seem like you can trust him. I’m the other one. The one you’re afraid of. The one who doesn’t hold back if you push the wrong button.
“Listen,” Igor starts, calm and reassuring. “We’re not here to make trouble. We just want information. You help us, we help you. Simple as that.”
The Neerot nods nervously. His name’s Booril. A low-ranking guard from the Vagantu compound, according to his file. Not a fighter. Not a killer. Just a guy who made some really bad choices. Maybe he never had a choice at all. But right now, he’s stuck between us, and I need answers.
“We’re looking for someone,” I say, leaning across the table. “A colleague of ours. According to our sources, he went missing on Vagantu just before your sick little operation got shut down. Did you see him?”
I show him the tablet—Logan’s face, his eyes, that unmistakable look that leaves a mark.
