Savage Bone King

Chapter 1

FREYA

My alarm doesn’t chime — I turned the sound off weeks ago.

I wake on instinct now, to the faint vibration of life support humming through the walls.

Everything on the Stan Hansen pulses quietly, like the ship is alive and breathing beneath the metal.

My quarters are the size of a decent closet, a blessing by IHC standards.

Most civilians bunk in double pods, but I got assigned solo after someone up-chain noticed I “keep to myself.” Rection’s words.

I remember them clearly. He meant it as praise.

I swing my legs over the edge of the cot and stretch, bones cracking, toes curling against the cold alloy floor. I don’t make a sound. The walls are thin and the ship’s always listening. I keep quiet, always. That’s what makes me valuable.

Well. That, and the mop.

My fingers move on autopilot as I braid my hair back — tight and neat — and pin it flat.

Blond curls aren’t exactly regulation-friendly.

I learned quick after my first shift when a glob of bio-plasm stuck to my hairline and took an hour to wash out.

I lean forward and glance at the cracked mirror above the sink.

Same girl as yesterday. Same high cheekbones, same green eyes, too big for my face. I blink. Still me. Still here.

A small plush sits tucked against my pillow — a faded blue krilcat with one floppy ear. I touch its threadbare paw.

“Wish me luck,” I whisper.

It doesn’t answer, of course. But it never has to.

My cart waits just outside my door, already stocked and hovering at knee height.

I run diagnostics — water, solvents, filters, brushes, waste sack, sanitization sprays.

Everything checks. I hitch the strap over one shoulder and move, letting the quiet hum of my routine fill in the spaces where thought would normally creep.

Halls are nearly empty this early. Just maintenance personnel and the occasional medical officer coming off a night rotation.

I keep my head down. Nod politely when I pass someone — never smile, never stare.

Civilians on a combat-class deep-range ship like the Stan Hansen don’t exactly get embraced as equals.

Most of the soldiers act like I’m background noise. Furniture with hands.

Except Rection. He’s different. Which is saying something, considering the man’s about as cuddly as an acid-spitting durathrax.

I reach the command-level access checkpoint and flash my ID tag. A red-eyed security drone scans me once, then floats aside with a beep. The guard doesn’t speak. Just flicks his chin toward the general’s wing and returns to whatever it is bored military grunts do before breakfast.

“Freya McDonnell, janitorial,” I mutter to myself as the doors part.

General Rection’s quarters are immaculate, not because he’s tidy, but because I clean them twice a week and I’m good at my job.

He doesn’t keep much personal stuff — old war medals, a picture of someone who might be a daughter (the frame’s turned facedown more often than not), and an ancient-looking map of pre-Unification Earth mounted on one wall.

There's a crusted stain beneath it — the remains of a coffee cup incident from two months back.

He never apologized for the spill, just barked that he trusted me to handle it. I did.

Today’s light work: scrub the meeting table, sanitize the airflow vents, and do a sweep of his private bath.

No big messes, no blood, no melted polymer like the time a lieutenant sneezed mid-nano treatment and exploded his own prosthetic arm.

Just the usual quiet dust of a man who speaks in wars and thinks in casualties.

I like this part of the job. Nobody’s here. Just me, the hiss of cleaning foam, and the hum of a ship that never sleeps.

Until they walk past the outer hall.

Vakutans. Three of them.

I don’t know their names. Don’t need to.

But they’re hard to miss — over seven feet tall, scaled armor grafted to flesh, all lean muscle and gold-cracked bone.

One of them laughs — a deep, chest-rattling sound — and another slaps him across the chestplate.

Their boots thud heavily against the deck.

I hear every footfall like a seismic pulse.

They don’t look at me. They never do. They don’t see me. Just a mop girl.

I glance toward the window as they pass, heart thudding faster than it should.

I’m not stupid. I know the risk. Vakutans aren’t human.

They’re not part of IHC proper. Technically mercs.

Technically allies. But everyone knows they answer to their own laws.

Still, I can’t stop myself from watching them, from feeling something low and hot curl in my stomach whenever they pass.

One of them turns just a little — a flicker, a shift of his jaw — and for half a second, I wonder if he saw me.

But he keeps walking.

I sigh. Scrub harder.

“Back to it, Freya,” I mutter. “Aliens don’t flirt with mop monkeys.”

By mid-cycle, I’ve hit all my assigned checkpoints: mess hall deep-clean, medbay cross-sanitization, officer lounge refresh.

I take my break tucked in the storage alcove two levels down from the reactor core.

No one comes here — it's too loud, too warm, and smells like burnt plastic.

I like it. It reminds me of the power plant where I did my first contractor tour. Smells like something real.

I sit with my knees drawn up, sipping a protein slurry that tastes vaguely of cinnamon and chemicals.

I check my message scroll — no new pings.

Not that I expect any. My foster siblings aged out or vanished.

The orphanage still sends one message a year, a bland update thanking me for my service and encouraging me to donate when I “make it big.”

I snort. “Dream bigger, Sister Yama.”

I close the message app and pull out my tiny plush. He’s seen better days. Threads fraying, eyes faded. But he’s still got more soul than half the command staff.

“You think Vakutan #2 noticed me?” I ask him.

He flops in my palm, silent judgment oozing from every threadbare seam.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” I whisper, leaning my head back against the warm pipe behind me. “Not the point. He’s…huge.”

A little laugh escapes me. The kind that aches more than it relieves.

“Gods, I sound like a teenager with a crush. On a genetically engineered war alien.”

I press my eyes shut.

“But he moved like thunder bottled in skin. And those eyes…like they’ve seen death and didn’t blink.”

I breathe deep. The air smells like ozone and hot copper. Comforting.

The comm chime buzzes on my sleeve.

NEW ASSIGNMENT: Deck 1A — Command Prep Hall / Diplomatic Conference Room.

Special sanitation request: expedited readiness for external dignitary arrival.

Authorizing officer: General Hugh Rection.

Priority: HIGH.

My stomach twists.

That’s not standard. That’s not routine.

Something’s happening.

I don’t know what. But I know Rection only calls in his best for clean-up when the stakes are political. Or dangerous. Or both.

I pack up fast. Stash the krilcat. Smooth my apron.

And whisper, “Here we go again.”

The diplomatic conference room smells like citrus and sterilizer, like it’s trying too hard to pretend nothing important’s about to happen here.

I scrub in tight circles, eyes on the sheen of the table, mind drifting.

The interlocking grain of the synthwood surface reflects the overhead glowpanels in hypnotic ripples. It’s too quiet. I don’t like it.

Usually when I clean in here, there’s at least a crewman fiddling with the comms or a junior officer trying not to wrinkle his pants while sitting at the table. Today, I’m alone. Not just alone — cleared out. Someone made sure of it. That means something.

The double doors slide open mid-wipe.

I freeze, hand still on the cloth.

Heavy boots. Two sets. Low voices.

I drop into a crouch, pretend to fuss over the floor buffer. I stay low and quiet in the shadows between console rows. A technician would’ve announced themselves. These two? They walk in like they own the place.

“—don’t care what the civvie council says,” Rection grumbles, sharp and low. “That bastard warlord’s not to be trusted. He raids five of our patrol routes, torches an outpost, and now they want to wine and dine him like he’s a dignitary?”

That voice. No mistaking it. General Hugh Rection. Righteous, inflexible, war-forged.

A second voice follows. Smooth. Calculated. Soft edges made of poison.

“I’m not disagreeing with you, General,” Ambassador Kintar says. “But we don’t have the resources for a prolonged engagement in the Badlands. Every Reaper tribe Vokar convinces to fall in line under his banner is one less group flanking our exposed routes. It’s pragmatic.”

Pragmatic. Gods, I hate that word.

“Pragmatic would be launching a preemptive strike before the bastard consolidates power,” Rection snaps. “He wants legitimacy. That makes him predictable. A predictable target is a dead target.”

I inch closer, careful not to breathe too loud. My fingers find the handle of the buffer, grounding me. It hums faintly beneath my grip like a heartbeat.

Kintar’s voice drops, slick as oil. “This isn’t a battlefield anymore. It’s a chessboard. We let Vokar think he’s winning. Give him just enough rope to tie himself down. That’s where I come in.”

Rection snorts. “You mean where your half-blood charm offensive comes in.”

Silence.

Then Kintar replies, tone all frost and iron.

“I mean where diplomacy might buy us time before another generation of soldiers ends up as bone trophies on Reaper pikes.”

I swallow. Hard.

That’s what this is. That’s the meeting I’ve been assigned to prep for. Vokar — the Reaper warlord they tell horror stories about in fleet boot. The one who carves messages into ship hulls with his own claws. The one with the red eyes and the spines like murder made flesh.

I breathe slow. Deliberate. Back away from the consoles.

Rection sighs. “Just keep him contained while he’s aboard. No grand gestures. No speeches about unity. We let him say his piece, we nod, and we pray he gets bored enough to leave peacefully.”

“And the girl?” Kintar asks.

My spine stiffens.

“What about her?” Rection grunts.

“The janitorial one. What’s her name? Freya?”

My breath catches.

Rection doesn’t answer right away.

“She doesn’t talk. Not to anyone,” he finally says. “Keeps her head down. I like that about her.”

“Still, civilians on the front line—”

“She’s not on the front line,” Rection interrupts. “She’s in the rooms where deals happen. And she doesn’t leak a damn thing. That makes her useful.”

Useful. Like a wrench or a code key.

I slip out as the voices start to fade into logistics and threat assessments. The buffer drone floats behind me obediently, unaware it almost bore witness to a classified strategy session.

As I step into the lift, I catch my reflection in the polished metal door. Green eyes, pale face, jaw tight.

“Useful,” I whisper.

The lift whooshes downward, too fast.

By the time I reach my quarters, my hands are shaking.

I lock the door, double check it, then triple check just in case.

Inside, my tiny space welcomes me with silence and the soft rustle of recycled air.

The overhead light is too harsh, so I flick on my wall lamp — its old filament buzzes faintly and throws a golden haze over my bed and shelves.

Soft shadows fall across the faces of my plush collection, lined up like tiny guardians.

“Hey,” I whisper, kicking off my boots. “Rough shift.”

They don’t answer. They never do. But they listen.

There’s Grollo, the stitched-up stegasaur with the missing tail. He watches the door. Next to him, Minny the winged fox curls her velveteen paws under her chin. I sit cross-legged in front of them, tuck a blanket around my shoulders like a cape, and let my breath slow.

“Something’s coming,” I murmur.

I reach out, touching each plush in turn. A ritual. A comfort.

“Reapers. Not just any. Vokar. They’re inviting him here.”

My voice trembles despite myself.

“I’ve seen what they can do. The reports don’t lie. And if he’s half the monster they say…”

I trail off. Let silence take over. Let the hum of the life support systems wrap around me like a lullaby.

It’s strange — I’ve never felt safer anywhere than I do here, surrounded by pipes and steel and synthetic fur. Even when the ship groans from a stress fracture mid-jump, even when the shields sputter during solar storms, I feel more at home here than I ever did planetside.

Maybe because danger here has rules.

Back in the state care homes, danger had moods. Drunken rages. Locked doors. Fists that came out of nowhere. You couldn’t predict that. You couldn’t survive that with just silence and a mop.

But here? Here I’m invisible. And invisibility, it turns out, is a shield.

Until now.

“Why would they bring him aboard?” I ask quietly, running my fingers down Minny’s fraying tail. “What could we possibly gain that’s worth the risk?”

I already know the answer. It was in Kintar’s voice. In Rection’s disgust. Politics. Leverage. Power.

And I’m a speck of dust on the periphery. A silent speck. An obedient speck.

“Useful,” I say again, and this time it tastes like rust.

I stare up at the ceiling for a long while. The recycled air whooshes through the vent in soft bursts. Somewhere above, on Deck One, they’re setting the table for monsters.

And for some reason… I can’t stop thinking about the way one of those Vakutan officers moved. The slope of his shoulders. The way his laugh made the walls tremble.

I shouldn’t be thinking about that.

But I do.

Gods help me, I do.