It was their third night on Charon, the setting sun an open blood orange spilling its contents into the sky. In the covered marketplace, shopkeepers began to cover their unsold wares with heavy canvas blankets for the dinner break. Overhead, buzzing gyrobikes whizzed by, a heavy stream in the floating, translucent skyway as rush hour began. Within the central bazaar, a young man — human — walked through the busy Devintre Street, keeping close watch on the ostentatious poncho of a figure several meters ahead of him in the crowd.

“How we doing, kid?” came an unseen voice through the man’s earpiece.

“Forty meters out,” replied the tracker on the ground. “Wait, he’s stopping.” He moved to the side of the crowd near an exterior pillar to hold his position while the target browsed a nearby vendor.

“What is he doing?” a different voice came over the channel with an anxious sigh. “We should just pull him out at this point.”

“Patience, Curly,” said the first voice. “It’s his last night as a free man. Let him enjoy it.”

“He’s moving,” said the tracker into his receiver. The target started back up the street, looking blissfully unaware of the imminent threat to his wellbeing. As they approached the end of Devintre Street, the tracker tightened up his trail, decreasing the distance to five meters.

They turned east, headed up Horus Alley where the sounds of the busy bazaar quieted and few pedestrians walked the shadowy steps sandwiched between the tall buildings. They walked up about halfway before two figures slipped out of the shadows in front of them to block the path.

“Evenin’, mister,” said the one on the left, a human man with a pot belly and an eyepatch over one eye.

“Spare a credit?” asked the other, a muscle-bound Panserra — a panther-species that stood on two legs. Silky black fur covered his body and a wide smile revealed sharp teeth.

The target took a step back away from the strangers. “Sorry, friends. I don’t have any change on me.”

“That’s all right, then.” The Panserra took a step closer. “Say, you look familiar. Do I know you?”

“You must be mistaken. I don’t believe we’ve met before.” The man in the colorful poncho held his ground, but the tracker watched his back stiffen from behind. “You know, I seem to have taken the wrong turn. If you’ll excuse me.”

“Well hold on, boss.” The fat assailant stepped forward to prevent the man from turning away. “I think we do know this face. It’s only plastered on every Wanted poster this side of Trista.”

The target chuckled nervously. “It’s a pliable face, gentlemen. You know, being Goordrin and all.” He rocked his shoulders back and forth and the body that was mostly liquid sloshed in place like a piece of gelatin before reforming into a new structure.

“Well seeing as that face you just had on ‘s been marked for Wanted, what say we take a sample just to be sure?” The Panserra’s claw shot forward to grab onto the man’s arm, but the target pulled back swiftly.

“I don’t think so, fellas,” said the Goordrin as he dodged the next advance from the lunging fat man. He turned on his heels and started speedily back down the steps away from his two assailants.

Down the steps, the tracker kept a low profile, pretending to be a passerby, but as the target came within reach he latched his arm around the poncho and pushed his weight forward to pin the wanted man to the ground.

The tracker hit the stone steps on his hands and knees, but the gelatin man slipped out of the outer layer and through the tracker’s legs like a wet bar of soap and slid on his back the rest of the way down the stairs.

“Damn it. Kid, get after him!” shouted the Panserra to the tracker.

The young man swore under his breath. Letting go of the gaudy poncho, he sprinted back down Horus Alley and pushed against the flow of traffic to get back into the marketplace. In his earpiece he heard the boss say. “Limbo, the mark’s coming back up the marketplace. Cut him off at Gory Abbey.”

The young man pressed into the crowd of people, bobbing his head up and around bodies as he moved forward to scan for the target. A commotion ahead of him revealed the location as a stall owner yelled, “Hey!” when the fleeing Goordrin stepped on her wares on the ground.

With a burst of speed, the tracker dashed through the crowd to get a line of sight on his mark. He pulled up his wrist launcher and through his holo-sight he switched the contraption to stun mode. Steadying his breathing, the world seemed to slow as his holo-sight calculated the distance, momentum, and probability vectors of a hundred different objects between him and the target.

One step. Two. Then the silent, constant predictability of gravity mid-step. Click. A metal disk fired from his wrist launcher just as he landed. Over the shoulders of the crowd it soared; slipping past wooden stands and zipping millimeters from shoppers’ noses, the projectile finally touched down on the shoulder of the escaping target. Watching it land, the tracker clicked a button on the wrist launcher and the disk emitted an electric pulse that sent a shocking wave through the aqueous body of the Goordrin. The target stumbled forward a few steps and then fell limply to the ground.

The tracker let out a sigh of relief and caught his breath before heading to claim the unconscious body of his prey. “Target acquired,” he announced into his earpiece.

After seeing the Goordrin to the retrievals team, Wrynn made his way back to the Sour Sop where his gang had posted up for their stay on Charon. Outside the tavern, some people from his gang were smoking and playing cards, among them the fat man from Horus Alley who stopped him at the door.

“Boss wants to see you upstairs, Malcolm,” grunted the man.

“Right,” said Wrynn. He moved to open the door, but the fat man put his foot across the doorway to block it.

“You look so serious all the time, you know that?” He brought a finger to his cheek and twisted his mouth into a smile. “Lighten up, will you?”

Wrynn stared at him blankly. “I’m beat, Curly. I’m just looking to have a drink.”

Curly took a drag of his cigarette then dug in his pocket and flipped him a coin. “First one’s on me. You did good today, kid. Come empty a keg with us later. The ladies love that baby face.” He let out a hearty laugh and made to wink with his one good eye.

Accepting the coin, Wrynn nodded at the group. “Thanks. Now move your leg.”

The group returned to their game and Wrynn entered the tavern. The interior was decorated with bright neon lights and there was a din of voices underlaid by the thumping bass line of an arrhythmic synth-driven beat. A seedy meeting place for freelancer crews to share leads on new cases and for shady people to conduct underhanded dealings, the Sour Sop could always be counted on to provide an interesting story over a dark (although typically flat) ale.

Wrynn stopped at the bar to place an order for dinner before heading upstairs to meet the boss. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a flash of color that caught his attention. He turned to see a stunning Trescan girl with long, pointed ears hidden under a sea of golden hair. She was wearing a dark blue robe with intricate silver inlay around the neckline, and a jade bracelet dangled off her wrist while she sipped a glass of red wine.

She caught him staring and turned her head to flash a smile with full, red-painted lips. Wrynn nodded politely and turned away to order with the barkeep. A woman sitting alone in a place like this, he had discovered, was usually waiting on a well-connected lover who was all too ready to become violent, or was herself working a drunk or desperate clientele.

Resisting the urge to sneak another glance at the girl, Wrynn made his way upstairs to find the leader of their merry band of mercenaries.

Vo-vis Searin hailed from the war-torn planet of Lydik. At sixteen, the Panserra enlisted in the Federation army as a way to get off-world and quickly rose the ranks by first displaying a talent for ruthless subjugation of rebellious villages, and by second showing an ability to stay fully membered — a feat in itself as the average army soldier had infamously short tenure before collecting dismemberment pay. After ten years and a cushy promotion to First Lieutenant, he decided to “go private” as many before him called it, leaving behind his station but keeping connections that would sell him contracts where he could keep the panther’s share of the spoils.

Searin found Wrynn two years ago, eighteen, about to start down much the same path. Halfway through the army recruitment process, the young man caught the eye of the Panserra, and Searin offered Wrynn the opportunity to sell his soul to adventure instead of to the Federation.

On the second floor of the Sour Sop, Wrynn found the leader with his feet kicked up on the table, one arm around a scantily-clad girl, the other on the leg of a shirtless boy. Searin noticed Wrynn — just as he thought better and was about to turn back down the stairs — and motioned for him to come over.

“I can come back, really,” said Wrynn.

“No, no,” said Searin, silkily. “Come, join me.”

Understanding that was less of an offer than an order, Wrynn approached and sat opposite the trio. He tried to avoid the lustful eyes of the two escorts on him.

“Curly said you wanted to see me.” Wrynn sat at the edge of the metal seat like a schoolchild called into the headmaster’s office.

“I did. Hmm, you two are making my boy uncomfortable, leave us for now.” Searin shooed his two playthings away, planting a lascivious kiss on each one with a tender purr. The two, starry-eyed creatures got up obediently and sat at a nearby table out of earshot.

“What’s this about?” asked Wrynn.

“Oh, nothing much. Just wanted to give you this.” Searin produced a brown sack and tossed it across the table. It hit with a dampened metallic clink.

“What is it?” asked Wrynn, not reaching forward.

“Your cut. For the job. Good work today, kid.”

“It’s light,” said Wrynn without counting it.

“Come now.” The Panserra revealed a sharp claw and drew a circle on the surface of the wooden table. “You know how it is. We all have to chip in for ship repairs and boarding. The tavern doesn’t pay for itself.”

Wrynn looked at the sack and then back at Searin. He said nothing, just stared. The leader let out an exasperated sigh.

“Out with it, kid.”

Wrynn tapped the table, maintaining eye contact with the yellow-eyed Panserra. “I haven’t taken a cut for the last two jobs. So is this for today? Or for Taurus last week? Or Jiman?”

Without letting the self-satisfied smirk slip, Searin looked away like an unavailable father dismissing his precocious son. “Today? Yesterday? What’s it matter? You’ll get what you’re owed, kid. I take care of my crew.” He leaned forward and scratched his four claws into the table. “But you don’t have any doubts about that, do you?”

The unsettled grievance took his heart a moment too long and Wrynn’s survival instincts told him he needed to overcompensate with a placating laugh. “No. No doubts. Just trying to get paid out here. Like you taught me.”

Searin laughed with him, a velvet chuckle. “Good lad. And you’ll get yours soon enough.” He blew on his claws and leaned back against the rest. “Anyhow, I got a job lined up later this week right here on-plant. Fed contract, solid pay. We need an eye in the sky.”

“When did this come up?” asked Wrynn, cautiously. “How’d I not hear about it?”

“I’m telling you now. Wanted you focused on the job at hand. But now I want you on this one. You showed some spunk out there, today.”

Wrynn thought for a moment. “I get paid?”

The muscle under the Panserra’s eye twitched slightly. “Yeah, you’ll get paid.”

“What’s the gig?”

Searin shook his head. “Can’t tell ya, yet.”

Wrynn lifted an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

With an enigmatic wave of his hand, the leader shooed the question away as he had his escorts. “What do I always say? Just do as you’re told, kid. That’s how you’ll stay alive.”

“Don’t you think it’s about time you brought me in the know?” Wrynn knew he was testing his luck, but he deserved this. “Especially if I’m taking the risk on these jobs?”

“You’re taking the risk? You?” Searin scowled. “I stick my neck out for you spits every goddamn day. And how is it everyone else in this crew can just say, ‘Thanks, boss. Appreciate the opportunity, boss.’ But you always gotta be the shitting thorn in my shoe. Bloody hell, if you weren’t such a good shot, I’d rip out that eye of yours like I did Curly.”

Wrynn stood up before Searin finished, knocking his chair over as he turned to leave.

“Ah, come on. I didn’t mean it like that, kid.” Searin put his hands up. “Just a bit o’ steam let out.”

“See you at the job,” said Wrynn, firmly, and he walked down the stairs and out of the noisy Sour Sop.

The sky was wrapped in royal blue as twilight melted away. On the sandy shores of Nivia-Kosso Bay, the tide was low and Jettison, the first moon was already shining full over the dark waves. Krillae, his younger sister, was a late sleeper and would rise to the southeast towards midnight. Down here, Wrynn always felt a tug at his heart wishing he was flying among the stars. The view from the glistening beach was not bad, but there was nothing like opening the sky hatch on the bridge and staring up at infinite space where up, down, or sideways, everywhere was something new to see.

Shuffling footsteps through the sand and the sound of someone drawing closer broke his meditation. He turned to look and there, skipping between beams of light cast by the beach lamps, was the Trescan girl from the bar, a shear sarong tied around her waist. In her hands she carried her shoes along with a plastic takeout bag. Wrynn was worried for a moment she might catch him staring, but then he realized she was walking in his direction.

“May I sit with you?” she asked, her voice sweet, refined, like pure honey.

Wrynn nodded silently. The girl sat, a little closer than he expected, and she smelled of a floral medley underset with wistful vanilla. Brushing her hair behind her pointed ears she opened the bag and handed him a paper box heavy with food.

“What is this?” he asked.

“Your dinner,” she said. “You left without taking it and Geoff didn’t want you to go hungry.”

“And you came to deliver it?”

The girl smiled, revealing perfect teeth. “I did.”

Wrynn’s eyebrows furrowed. “Do you want a tip or something?”

She giggled and the sound was infectious. Wrynn found himself smiling unconsciously. “No,” she answered. “Service on the house. This time.”

Wrynn stared at her and accepted the meal, unsure what to say. “Uh, sorry, do you work at the Sour Sop? I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”

“Well I was working and I was physically present at the Sour Sop, but no, I do not work at the establishment. Geoff is an old friend of mine.”

“That was a really long way to say no,” said Wrynn, flatly.

She smiled. “You’ll have to forgive me. I like to take my time with the little things.”

“Is that why you came all this way to bring me my dinner? And how did you know where I was going to be?”

The girl snagged a loose potato fry from his box with her slender fingers. The jade bracelet on her wrist danced in the moonlight. “I have my ways,” she said, biting into the starchy sliver. “But I came here because I wanted to talk to you.”

Wrynn thought for a moment, cracked an awkward smile, and said, “Okay. My name’s Malcolm. What’s yours?”

“I know who you are, Mister Wrynn. My name is Rose. And I have a proposition for you.”

The sound of the waves washed over the sand like a gentle whisper. A cool, summer breeze blew by as the whistling sound of gyrobikes flew overhead. And far, far above the two bodies on the beach, the stars glistened like a trillion luminous butterflies in flight.