Page 4 of Phoenix's Last Heist
Fucking looters.
Every time I think I’ve stamped them out, another swarm shows up. The black market for Xylothian relics is booming again—nothing like a good old tragedy to turn history into merchandise. Ever since theArkaniumwent down, our sacred sites have been stripped bare one artifact at a time.
The name still hits like an electric shock. I drag in a breath that’s heavy with sweat-seasoned humidity and press a hand to my chest. The ache’s duller now—less sucking chest wound, more phantom ache—but it’s still there. Twenty thousand souls, my parents among them, swallowed by the void. And me, left here to play galactic hall monitor in the ruins of our own extinction myth.
I used to report every raid, every desecrated site, begging for backup. The answers always came back the same:Too risky. Too political. Too remote.Translation:Not worth saving.So now it’s just me out here, one ranger to an entire sector, surrounded by jungle thick enough to swallow sound.
Static crackles in my comm. No answer. Figures. The silence ringing in my ears is faithful, predictable, and comfortable enough to be a friend.
I make a note to log another incident report the Feds will ignore. Out here, law enforcement is just a formality—the kind of duty that keeps you busy so you don’t think too hard about how little it changes. Most looters end up right back where I found them, pockets heavier, excuses thinner. It’s a cycle, and I keep playing my part in it becausesomeonehas to.
But this looter’s new. The body at my feet is filthy, still, and not one I recognize.
Her helmet’s display flickers before fading to black. A few strands of hair—brown streaked with pink—stick to her temple, matted with blood and sweat. When I shift, the light filtering through the trees catches her face: soft angles, a sharp jaw, a faint shimmer beneath the dirt that marks her as Velusian.
It’s no wonder Velusia is home to the best and most highly sought-after pleasure district in several galaxies. Even unconscious, she looks engineered for charm—beauty as biology’s best negotiation tactic. But there’s something off here, something too rough around the edges for a Velusian alone.
Her gear’s a mess of contradictions: mud-caked hiking boots, black shorts, a filthy white shirt, a thigh holster, and a waist harness stuffed with under-maintained weapons—a small plasma pistol and a serious-looking knife. The only piece of real tech worth a damn is the helmet, and even that didn’t save her from me.
I crouch beside her. Red blood seeps from the gash along her hairline, dark against the pale dust. Human, then—or close enough.
I probably shouldn’t have hit her so hard. The thought lands heavy, dull, like the echo of the rifle’s butt against her helmet. I’m not allowed to kill anyone in Protectorate territory—not justbecause the Feds will be pissed, but because it’s forbidden by my ancestors who built the Celestial Temple.
We’re on sacred ground, and I’ve already committed an act of violence—even if she’s just stolen our most revered artifact. The relic’s absence thrums in my chest like a second heartbeat.
Grumbling about my recklessness, I hoist the woman up over my shoulder and carry her to my parked swamp buggy. She’s heavier than I would’ve guessed and it’s enough to send a heated thrill through my body that makes me recoil. Now isnotthe time, this isnotthe place, and she isnotthe one.
I throw the woman into the back seat, securing her hands and feet. If she comes to and wants to flee, she’ll have a hell of a time getting free without my help. Kicking the buggy into gear, I take off through the jungle toward my temporary camp, where I have a first aid kit stashed in the crates inside my tent. I usually camp out here for a few days at a time, especially if I’m tracking looters. I was eating breakfast this morning when I heard her ship fly in and land in the grassy plain just outside the protected territory.
My camp is in a clearing near the river, and I’ve taken care to avoid any areas on common wildlife trails. This part of the rainforest is protected from any hunting, mining, and agricultural exploitation, which means the ecosystem supports formidable predators. I don’t want to tangle with any if I can help it.
By the time I unload my gear, stow my buggy, and dump the unconscious woman onto my cot, the second sun is setting and the heat of the day is finally waning. I stoke a small campfire, light a few lamps to keep curious creatures at bay, and shuffle into my tent to look after my latest mistake.
Dried blood crusts her hair to her face and mats it against her scalp. I wince—I should’ve seen to it earlier, but I didn’t want towait to get my camp prepped and risk having to set everything up in the dark.
After double checking the knots on her bindings, I pull out my first aid kit to clean the cut on her head. With a few swipes of antiseptic, she lets out a low moan and shakes her head as she comes to. Bleary violet eyes blink up at me, unfocused.
Shit.Did I give her a concussion?
When she sees me, her gaze clears and after a few unsteady heartbeats, she opens her mouth to scream—not in a helpless, distressed sort of way, which I’d expect from a Velusian—but in an enraged, shoot-first-ask-questions-later sort of way, which I’d come to expect from humans.
“Who the fuck are you? Let me go, you asshole! Untie me so I can kick your ass!” she spits in softly accented Kailorian—the universal tongue of galactic tradespeople. It’s common among merchants and traders, as well as smugglers and dealers.
I narrow my eyes and hold up the stolen idol.
“Greetings, thief,” I return in Kailorian. It isn’t my native tongue, but I know it well enough. “I’m afraid you’ve been found in possession of something that doesn’t belong to you. Care to explain how that happened? It’ll make it much easier for the report I’m filing with the Interplanetary Federation.”
At that, her eyes widen and she clamps her lips together. Ha—got her!
“Ah, so you’re familiar with the Feds. I’m guessing this isn’t your first run in with them, though it must be your first time on Xylothia. It takes a special kind of ignorance to show up dressed for the jungle like that,” I grumble, gesturing at her bare legs and tight shorts. Purpling bruises and angry red insect bites dot her otherwiseverynice legs, leaving a constellation of discomfort that should give me satisfaction. Looters don’t deserve kindness in any form.
So, why does the sight fill me with a cloying sense of protectiveness? There’s a faint throb pulsing from my heart down to my cock and I shift, hoping she doesn’t notice.
Her nostrils flare delicately and embarrassment colors her cheeks a flattering shade of pink. Stars, sheislovely. What a pathetic waste.
She glares at me, seething silently.
“Very well. I don’t actually need information from you. It matters little to me who you are and why you’re here. You trespassed on Protectorate soil, entered a holy site without permission, and stole an important cultural and religious artifact. Whether you intended to sell it is immaterial—you’ve already broken the law,” I toss out with a nonchalant shrug. “It’s too late to travel back to the nearest city tonight, but tomorrow morning I’ll take you in and hand you over to the Feds. It’ll be up to them what to do with you. I hope for your sake you aren’t wanted for any other illicit activities.”
