Page 135 of Star Claimed Omega
TheÚltima Brutotore through the slipstream like a leviathan set loose.
At half a kilometer in length, the dreadnought was a brute by name and nature.
The dark-scaled monster boasted a hull of composite alloys and plasma-hardened plates.
Its engines flared cerulean with every pulse of its triple-banked drive core.
The rear banks roared with thrust capable of breaking asteroid belts, while its underbelly bristled with retractableturrets, torpedo launch bays, and spectral disruptors only Signet tech could forge.
Kaal stood beside Santi at the forward viewport, arms crossed, eyes on the fractured starlight flickering across the black.
Miral sat at a console just behind, fingers gliding over comms panels and data feeds.
She was tracking residual warp echoes from the pirate skiff last seen hauling ass fromTheSombra’sbreach.
‘They hit the decoy node trail again near the Dead Latch Cluster,’ she said. ‘It’ll take us to Asteroid J-7Z. Orbiting the lip of the Wildlight Expanse.’
What is it?’
‘A transit station. A couple of bars, a seedy motel, refueling and docking berths, nothing fancy.’
Santi narrowed his eyes. ‘Plot it. Perhaps we can get some clues as to where thesefokkersare hiding in the Wildlight. Miral, if you can please find someone in the vicinity who can give us a clue, pray do so.’
Asteroid J-7Z was a spinning rock with a carved-out belly and little else.
A hollowed husk with habitation containers stacked within, its five-ship locking dock was lit by flickering crimson lamps powered by old-school nuclear batteries.
TheBrutodwarfed the structure when it approached, engines dimming as it extended a docking arm.
Once docked, Santi, Kaal, and Miral disembarked beneath the dreadnought’s shadow.
The gravity was weak but steady, the air artificially dense with filtered methane and the stink of old oil.
The bar went by the eponymous name,The Hollow Fang.
A leaking fusion torch burned over its arched entrance, where two rusted signs flickeredOPENin a dozen half-broken dialects.
Inside, the place stank of plasma whiskey, rust, and pirate sweat.
Refitted ship plating and asteroid ore made up the walls.
Holo screens buzzed with sports games and betting ticker tape, and a pit in the center of the room housed an illegal death brawl mid-swing.
Santi’s boots clanked as they stepped in, eyes tracking every twitch in the gloom. Patrons were the usual scrap-slick mercs, vulture traders, ex-cons, and unregistered synths.
A bartender with a grafted cybernetic jaw and milky eyes poured drinks behind a scratched plasteel bar. ‘Whaddya want?’
‘Two fingers of Jet-Burns,’ Santi said.
The man raised a brow but served them.
The brand of whiskey was strong enough to scorch a hair from your skin.
It was what Santi needed to get over his ennui.
He and Kaal nursed their tumblers, while Miral smoked a synth-cigar, eyes on the crowd, until Kaal muttered, ‘We’ve got company.’
Three pirates peeled from the shadows like oil slicks given flesh, filthy, scarred, and cocky in a way that only the suicidal dared to be.
