Chapter 19
VOLTAR
The sky above Novaria Prime is the color of spoiled cream, smeared with streaks of neon from the hoverlanes crisscrossing the clouds like drunk spiderwebs. This city’s pulse never slows—always flickering, buzzing, lying. Kinda like the bastard I’m about to have dinner with.
Big Otto.
The name’s a joke. He’s not big. Not in the way that matters.
Not where I come from. His kind of “big” comes with lapel pins, power lunches, and fingers in too many pies that taste like blood.
But he’s important, at least by Novaria standards.
Dangerous in a suit. Deadly in a boardroom.
And tonight, he’s waiting for me like we’re old friends, not two enemies passing time till the knives come out.
I step off the skydeck lift, boots thunking against polished obsidian tile.
The restaurant glows like a jewel box—glass walls, floating candlelight, the kind of view that makes billionaires feel spiritual.
Every table’s spaced just enough to whisper sins in peace.
The air smells like grilled opulence and artificially scented oxygen. Real quiet. Too quiet.
Otto sits dead center, dressed like he’s playing cosplay as a 20th-century Earth gangster. Pinstripes, red pocket square, fat gold watch hanging off his wrist like it’s strangling him. His smile’s the kind you see on predators about to pretend they’re gentlemen.
“Voltar!” he says, standing up like it’s a performance, hands out like we’re hugging. I don’t take the bait.
I nod once. Grunt. “Otto.”
He gestures to the chair across from him like it’s a throne. “Please. Sit. You want anything? They do this roasted mammoth shank—absolutely divine. Goes down like sin, comes back like memory.”
I lower myself into the chair, which groans under the weight of my armor.
I’m not even wearing my full plate, just the chest and shoulder gear, but I still feel like a tank in a china shop.
I glance around. No diners. No servers. Just a single droid bartender polishing the same glass for the last ten minutes like it’s got secrets. We’re alone.
Of course we are.
“I don’t eat during negotiations,” I say, folding my arms and leaning back. “Makes digestion unpredictable.”
Otto chuckles, fat fingers brushing invisible lint from his sleeve. “Fair. Fair. You always were a practical one. That’s what I like about you. Direct. Efficient. No nonsense.”
“Is that why you tried to have my girl executed in her own apartment?” I ask flatly.
He doesn’t flinch. Just tilts his head, like he’s disappointed I brought that up before dessert.
“Misunderstandings happen in our line of work,” he says smoothly. “You know how it is. Orders get fuzzy. Hired help gets excitable.”
“You mean Tugun.”
“Ah,” he sighs, “Tugun. Flamboyant as ever, but effective.”
“Didn’t look too effective last time I saw Sable standing upright and very much alive.”
That finally earns me a twitch. His eye flickers. Just for a second.
I press on.
“So. What’s the angle tonight, Otto? You summon me to your fancy meat tower just to trade barbs and watch me sulk into my appetizer?”
Otto leans forward, his elbows sinking into the velvet cloth like anchors. His voice drops, low and syrupy.
“No games tonight, my friend. I’m here to talk business. Real business.”
I grunt again, noncommittal.
“You see,” he says, steepling his fingers, “we both know this is a losing battle. The Nine—” he lowers his voice, like it matters in a place wired tighter than a military vault, “—don’t like loose ends.
And your client? She’s not just a loose end.
She’s a frayed fuse sitting next to a powder keg.
One word from her in front of a tribunal and half the Syndicate goes down in flames. ”
He sighs, like this all just pains him.
“I’m not here to gloat, Voltar. I’m here to make a deal.”
I tilt my head. Let my eyes narrow. “You already made an offer. I turned it down.”
“You were hasty. I get it. First instinct’s always to growl and posture.
” He waves a hand like swatting away an annoying pet.
“But think about it—really think about it. This girl? She ain’t your type.
She’s soft. Civilian. Fragile in all the places you’re made of steel.
And she’s got a mouth on her that’s gonna get her killed whether you protect her or not. ”
I don’t move. Don’t blink. My muscles coil under the table.
“But here’s the thing…” Otto leans in closer. I can smell the imported synth-whiskey on his breath. “All you gotta do is… go for a walk.”
I raise a brow ridge.
“Walk?”
“Yeah. Say, fifteen minutes. Maybe twenty. Head down to the bar. Let her be alone long enough for my associate to pay her a visit. You don’t have to do nothin’. No guilt. No mess. You’re not a traitor. You’re just… distracted.”
“And in return?”
Otto’s grin widens like a slice through warm meat. “One billion credits. Untraceable. In whatever format you want. Chips. Gold. Galactic bonds. You could buy your own moon, Voltar. Hell, buy two. Make them kiss.”
I let silence stretch between us like a taut wire. His eyes are dancing now, teeth flashing like cheap neon. He thinks he’s winning.
I lower my gaze. Rub my jaw like I’m chewing it over.
“A billion, huh?”
“Clean. No strings.”
I lean back slowly, pretending to weigh it. Pretending to be the dumb brute they always think I am.
“And all I gotta do is… not be there.”
He spreads his arms. “Exactly.”
There’s a beat.
Then I grin.
Wide. Wicked.
“Done.”
His reaction is immediate. His whole body relaxes. He slaps the table once, hard enough to rattle the silverware that nobody’s using. The tension in his shoulders melts into something close to relief.
“I knew you were smarter than you looked,” he laughs. “Stars, Voltar, I knew it!”
I chuckle too. Just enough to sell it.
“Timing?” I ask.
He waves a hand. “We’ll coordinate. You’ll know when.”
“Cool,” I say, standing up, my armor whispering against itself. “I’ll keep my compad open.”
“You do that,” he says, raising his glass in a mock toast. “To new partnerships.”
I tap the rim with one claw. “To golden exits.”
And then I’m gone.
I wait till the lift doors close before I speak.
“Did you get all that?”
Lazarus’s voice comes through the subdermal implant nestled behind my ear like a ghost with a clipboard.
“Crystal clear,” he says. “The whole restaurant’s tapped. Audio, visual, ambient thermal. We’ve got it from five angles.”
I exhale through my nose. My smile fades.
“Think he bought it?”
“Enough to put things in motion. This recording alone would bury him in Alliance court. But I want the others. I want Tugun. I want names.”
“You’ll get 'em,” I say.
The lift drops, thrumming quietly as it descends through layers of glittering Novaria decadence. I flex my fists. My knuckles crack like gunfire.
“Prep the team,” I mutter. “This is the beginning of the end, Commandant. I want all eyes up. Because when Tugun makes his move?”
“We make ours,” Lazarus finishes.
Exactly.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror-polished lift walls. The hulking red monster with gold eyes and scarred plates stares back.
You wanted war, Otto?
Buckle the hell up.