Razor Sharp Rivals

Chapter 1

JOLIE

It slides along the metal bones of Myrza’s border like something alive, whispering through the chain-linked fence and rattling the sensor pylons just enough to keep you on edge.

The air tastes like scorched dust and ion residue, dry enough to crack lips if you breathe too deep, and every inhale drags faint traces of burned ozone down the back of my throat.

My skin feels tight beneath my uniform, stretched thin from weeks of exposure to the arid atmosphere and the residual heat shimmer that clings to everything after plasma discharge drills.

I roll my shoulders once, feeling the fabric pull across my back, then plant my boots in the packed grit along the patrol line. The ground crunches underfoot, brittle and overworked, like the planet itself is tired of being fought over.

Across the fence, Coalition troops move in loose formation, their silhouettes distorted by the rising heat. Tall, broad shapes, scales catching light, fur rippling in the wind—every species a reminder that this line carved through Myrza isn’t just geography. It’s everything.

I rest my hand on the grip of my sidearm, not because I need it, but because they need to see it.

“Keep your distance from the fence,” I call out, voice sharp enough to carry. “Regulation’s still in effect, unless you forgot how to read.”

A Vakutan on the far side turns his head slowly, ridged brow lowering as he sizes me up. He’s easily twice my mass, probably five times my strength, and it shows in the way he shifts his weight like the ground belongs to him.

“Relax, human,” he says, his voice carrying that gravel-thick confidence Vakutans always seem born with. “We’re just enjoying the view.”

I smile without warmth and take two deliberate steps closer to the fence, boots crunching louder than necessary.

“Funny,” I say, tilting my head. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like loitering. And loitering turns into violations real fast when I get bored.”

He bares his teeth, not quite a grin, not quite a threat.

“You always this pleasant?”

“Only on days that end in ‘y,’” I shoot back. “Now move.”

For a moment, neither of us moves. The air between the fence hums faintly with the low-grade current running through it, a constant reminder that this isn’t just a line—it’s a warning.

Then he snorts and turns away, muttering something under his breath as he signals to his unit. They drift back, slow and deliberate, like they’re doing me a favor.

I watch until they’re well clear, then shift my stance and scan the rest of the line.

Routine. Pattern. Control.

That’s how you survive out here.

That’s how you win, even when nothing’s technically happening.

A flicker of movement catches my eye a few posts down, and my gaze locks in before I even consciously register why.

Green scales. Slender build. Red eyes that don’t quite match the usual hostility I expect.

Tury.

He’s already watching me.

I don’t react right away. I let the seconds stretch, keep my posture rigid, my expression neutral, because anything else would be… noticed.

Then I walk.

Not toward him, exactly. Just along my patrol route. Just doing my job.

The fence buzz grows louder as I approach his section, the metal vibrating faintly in the dry air. Up close, I can see the fine patterning in his scales, the way the light hits them and morphs from deep forest green to something almost metallic.

“Rough morning?” he asks, voice low enough that it doesn’t carry beyond the fence.

I stop a few feet away, keeping the proper distance. My eyes flick briefly to the nearest surveillance node, then back to him.

“Depends,” I say. “You planning on making it worse?”

His mouth twitches, something almost like amusement.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

There’s a pause, but not the awkward kind. It’s measured. Familiar.

Careful.

He fidgets slightly, turning his body just enough that his hand disappears behind the post for half a second.

When it comes back, there’s something small tucked between his fingers.

I don’t look at it immediately. I let my gaze drift past him, scanning the horizon like I’m checking for movement.

“Your people are jumpy today,” he says casually. “Saw two patrol rotations double back.”

“Maybe we’ve got something worth watching,” I reply.

“Do you?”

My eyes flick to his, sharp and assessing.

“Maybe we do.”

Another second passes, then I step closer to the fence, just enough to make it look like I’m inspecting the wiring.

His hand moves, quick and subtle.

Something brushes against my glove.

I close my fingers around it without looking.

The tube is small, smooth, still faintly warm from being held.

“Careful,” I murmur, keeping my voice flat. “If anyone sees that—”

“They won’t,” he says.

“You don’t know that.”

“I know you.”

That lands harder than it should.

I straighten slightly, turning the tube in my palm before slipping it into a hidden pocket along my belt.

“You shouldn’t,” I say.

“Probably not,” he agrees.

For a moment, neither of us speaks. The wind hisses along the fence, carrying dust that stings faintly against my exposed skin. My lips feel dry again, the familiar tightness pulling at the corners.

I hate that he noticed.

I hate that I needed it.

“Thanks,” I mutter, the word quieter than anything else I’ve said all morning.

He nods once, like it’s nothing.

Like it’s routine.

Because it is.

That’s the problem.

I step back, putting distance between us again, letting my posture snap back into something more rigid, more official.

“Don’t get used to this,” I say.

“Wasn’t planning to.”

“Good.”

Our eyes meet one last time, and there’s something there I don’t have a name for. Not trust. Not exactly.

But not what I’m supposed to feel, either.

I turn and continue down the line.

Behind me, I can feel his gaze linger for a second longer than it should.

—

“Lieutenant Racine.”

The voice cuts through the air like a blade, precise and controlled.

I stop mid-step and turn, spine straightening instinctively as Commander Driscoll approaches.

He moves with purpose, boots striking the ground in even, measured impacts that somehow manage to sound louder than everyone else’s. His uniform is immaculate, not a thread out of place, the insignia at his collar catching the harsh light.

His expression is as rigid as the rest of him.

“Sir,” I say.

“I’ve received another report,” he says, folding his hands behind his back. “It seems you had an… exchange yesterday.”

I keep my face neutral.

“Clarify, sir.”

He studies me for a moment, his gaze sharp but unreadable.

“You threatened to vaporize a Grolgath soldier’s eyes.”

I inhale slowly through my nose, keeping my tone even.

“He was leaning over the fence, sir. Violation of proximity regulations.”

“And your response was to threaten lethal force.”

“My response was to enforce compliance.”

Driscoll’s jaw tightens slightly, though his voice remains level.

“You are aware that escalation along the border is a delicate matter.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And yet you seem intent on testing that boundary.”

“With respect, sir, I’m preventing them from testing it first.”

A flicker of something passes through his eyes, gone almost as soon as it appears.

“You have a reputation, Lieutenant,” he says. “Difficult. Aggressive.”

I don’t respond.

He steps closer, just enough that I can see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the way his gaze sharpens as it locks onto mine.

“But also effective,” he continues. “Your sector reports fewer violations than any other stretch of this line.”

“Then I’d say the approach is working, sir.”

Silence stretches between us, the wind filling the gap with its constant, whispering hiss.

“Control your tone,” he says finally. “And your methods.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I don’t need another incident report crossing my desk.”

“You won’t have one, sir.”

He studies me for another second, then gives a short nod.

“See that I don’t.”

He turns and walks away without another word, his presence receding as quickly as it arrived.

I exhale slowly, only then realizing how tight my chest had gotten.

“Difficult,” I mutter under my breath.

Better than dead.

I shift my stance and resume my patrol, eyes scanning the fence line again.

Routine. Pattern. Control.

Except something feels… off.

It takes me a few minutes to pinpoint it.

Then I see it.

Tury’s post.

Empty.

I slow my pace slightly, my gaze lingering longer than it should.

Maybe he’s late.

It happens.

Shift rotations get messy, especially with Coalition command constantly shuffling units around like pieces on a board.

I keep walking.

Don’t fixate.

Don’t make it obvious.

But as I reach the end of my route and circle back, my eyes drift there again.

Still empty.

The space where he usually stands feels wrong, like a missing tooth you can’t stop probing with your tongue.

I tell myself it doesn’t matter.

He’s Coalition.

He’s the enemy.

Whatever arrangement we have—it’s nothing. It’s convenience. It’s… survival.

Not personal.

I stop near the midpoint of my patrol and pretend to check the fence integrity, running my gloved hand along the metal links.

Cold. Slight vibration. Steady current.

Everything exactly as it should be.

Except for that one gap in the pattern.

A pair of Coalition soldiers rotate into the sector, neither of them him. One is broader, heavier, with a scar running down the side of his neck. The other keeps his head down, movements sharp and efficient.

New.

Or at least new to this position.

I watch them for a moment, cataloging their posture, their spacing, the way they move relative to each other.

Different.

Not wrong.

Just… not the same.

I force my attention away and continue my patrol, boots crunching against the dry ground.

“Problem, Lieutenant?”

One of the other IHC guards falls into step beside me, his voice casual but edged with curiosity.

“Negative,” I say.

“You’ve been staring at that post like it insulted your mother.”

I shoot him a look.

“Focus on your own sector.”

He raises his hands in mock surrender.

“Hey, just making conversation.”

“Try doing your job instead.”

He snorts but peels off, leaving me alone again with the fence, the wind, and the quiet tinge of tension that never really goes away.

I make another pass.

Then another.

Each time, my eyes flick back to that same spot.

Still empty.

By the time the shift rotation signal echoes faintly across the sector, a low chime carried through the dry air, I’ve already decided it doesn’t mean anything.

Soldiers get reassigned.

They get rotated.

They get pulled for duties you don’t see.

That’s how this works.

That’s how it’s worked thus far anyway.

I roll my shoulders again, feeling the tightness in my skin, the faint irritation along my jawline where the dryness is starting to bite.

Later, I’ll use the cream.

Later, I’ll forget about it.

I take one last look across the fence.

The new soldiers are in position, their movements already settling into a rhythm I don’t recognize yet.

And the space where Tury should be remains empty.