Chapter 4
VOLTAR
The halls of the Novaria Alliance Command Center smell like ozone, bureaucracy, and weak caf.
My boots thud against the polished synthcrete, too loud for a place this uptight.
I chomp my cigar like it’s a chewing stick, eyes scanning the too-clean walls and too-tense personnel.
Not a one of 'em meets my gaze for more than a second. Smart.
I’m strutting, yeah. Shoulders squared. Elbows out. Swinging through corridors like I’m leading a parade only I was invited to. One of the lieutenants—I think he’s a lieutenant, who can tell with all these bars and sashes—gets too close. I nudge him in the ribs.
“Cheer up, kid,” I bark, grin wide. “This is the highlight of your whole career.”
He looks like he wants to crawl into the wall.
I exhale cigar smoke directly into a ventilation grate. Let the whole damn building share in my vibe. Feels good to be planetside. My kind of good, not their kind. My kind’s loud, brash, scarred to hell and proud of it. Their kind files reports and winces at raised voices.
Then I see him—Commandant Lazarus. Standing still in a sea of motion. He’s got the look of a statue that disapproves of everything. Bronze-scaled, dressed sharp enough to slice through a lesser officer’s ego.
“Voltar,” he says like he’s tasting a bad fruit.
“Commandant.” I salute by tapping the side of my cigar.
“You’re violating three indoor codes right now.”
“Three? Hells, I’m losing my touch.”
He doesn’t crack a smile. Doesn’t even blink.
“You’ve been briefed?” he asks.
I shrug. “I skimmed the headlines. Something-something, civilian asset, don’t blow anything up unless you really mean it.”
He turns. “Follow me.”
We march through the central hallway, his steps measured, mine like I'm stomping a war beat into the floor. People whisper. I catch words like “weaponized liability” and “who let him in?”
“Your record,” Lazarus mutters, “reads like a war crime indictment with a fan club.”
“Only the sexy kind of war crimes,” I reply.
He doesn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he starts listing rules, monotone like he’s reading the back of a ration box.
“No explosives inside city limits. No unauthorized surveillance. No collateral damage. You will maintain a low profile.”
“You want low profile, you should’ve sent a librarian.”
“We don’t have a librarian who eats plasma fire for breakfast.”
I grin. “Flattered.”
“We’re here,” he says, stopping in front of a residential tower that’s seen better centuries. A little grime, a lotta attitude. I like it already.
“This is where she lives?”
“She refused transport. Insisted on returning home. We’ve cleared the premises and added internal monitoring.”
“She got guts. I like that.”
“She’s also in danger.”
“All the more reason to meet her properly.”
Lazarus buzzes the intercom. We wait.
A voice crackles through. Crisp. A little annoyed. “I hope he’s discrete.”
That’s my cue.
My boot hits the door like a breaching charge. The lock shatters, the door swings in, and I bellow like a damn gladiator stepping into the arena.
“DISCRETE!? I NEVER EVEN LOOKED AT ANOTHER DUDE!”
She’s right there.
Short. Fiery red hair. Green eyes wide as twin moons. Standing in her tiny living room holding what looks like a laser-blaster in one manicured hand and a synth-tuna can in the other.
Mouth opens.
Shuts.
Opens again.
No words.
I smirk, taking in the chaos of the place, the scorch mark by the couch, the faint trace of Grolgath pheromone on the air. There was a shapeshifter here, alright. I know the scent.
But mostly, I’m lookin’ at her.
“I’m your new best friend,” I say.
“I—” she starts again, blinking like she’s trying to reboot her brain. I can’t blame her.
She’s staring at me the way most civilians do—like I just crash-landed a war cruiser into their living room. I’m used to that look. Doesn’t even sting anymore. Much.
Then she exhales, slow and theatrical. “Does it have to be him?”
Ouch.
I grin wider, puffing on the end of my cigar like it's oxygen. “You wound me, doll.”
Lazarus steps in behind me, brushing past with all the warmth of a cryo-gun. “He’s the best the Alliance has.”
“Seriously?” she mutters. “The best was busy?”
“Voltar has saved more civilian lives than any two squads combined,” Lazarus adds, clearly reciting from memory. “And destroyed more enemy assets than we can legally admit to.”
“Mostly on purpose,” I chime in.
She raises one sculpted brow, arms crossing like she’s bracing herself against a storm. “You don’t look like someone who does subtle.”
“I can be subtle,” I protest. “Sometimes. Usually. When I’m unconscious.”
She makes a noise that’s half-scoff, half-laugh. Progress.
Time to seal the deal.
“You wanna know who I am?” I plant my boots wide, arms out, a walking war statue with attitude. “I’m the guy who held the eastern trench on Gorvath Prime for seventy-two hours straight—by myself—because everyone else ran out of ammo and excuses.”
Lazarus groans quietly.
I don’t stop. I’m on a roll now.
“I’m the guy who jumped on a detonation core mid-countdown, ripped it open with my teeth, and defused it using only a half-melted spoon and a prayer.”
“That was classified,” Lazarus says.
“Not anymore.”
Sable leans against her kitchen counter, eyes narrowing. She’s trying not to be amused. Failing.
“I once flew a stolen Harbinger-class gunship backward through an asteroid field to evade a Baragon strike cruiser. And you know what happened?”
“Let me guess,” she deadpans. “You survived.”
“The ship didn’t. But I did.”
She laughs. It’s a real one, sudden and bright, and it hits me like a rail shot to the chest. I wasn’t ready for it.
“All right, hero,” she says, waving vaguely toward the hall.
I salute with my cigar hand and head off, dragging my footlocker behind me. It makes a horrible screeching sound across her fancy floors. She winces.
Inside the guest room, I take one look and decide it won’t do. Too soft. Too neat. Too…civilian. I pop the seals on my case and start setting up.
First comes the grav-hammock—custom rigged to support three times my weight and calibrated for optimal lumbar support. Then the mini-gun tripod goes up by the window, trained on the street below. Standard protocol.
“You brought a cannon?” she calls from the other room.
“You never know,” I yell back. “Could be assassin pigeons.”
She appears in the doorway a moment later, arms crossed again. “Is that…a reinforced plate for your bed?”
“Grav-hammock,” I correct. “And yes. Also doubles as a sled in emergencies.”
She looks like she wants to scream. Instead, she sighs and rubs her temples.
“Oh stars,” she mutters. “I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?”
I throw her a wink over my shoulder. “Regret’s just a fancy word for adventure you didn’t see coming.”