BREVAN
The Valyria spaceport smelled like money. Not the sharp tang of fresh credits changing hands, but the layered scent of wealth that had been processed, filtered, and perfumed until it barely resembled its origins. Imported flowers. Synthesized ocean breeze.
All the coaxing scents of a very expensive lie.
I stepped off the shuttle ramp, and the crowd shifted.
A Nazok family bustled past, and their smallest kit dropped a worn stuffed gra’lx. The toy skittered to a stop at my feet. I paused, bending to retrieve it. The father froze, his pointed ears flattening, his hand flying to a concealed sidearm.
I held up the toy. “He’ll miss this.” I smiled, trying to look harmless, and offered it to the child.
The Nazok child, wide-eyed, snatched the toy back. The father’s shoulders relaxed. He gave a short, surprised nod and hustled his family toward the commercial terminals. The Fanaith couple near the concourse didn’t move away, but their sleek gray skin paled—a sign of intense curiosity. An Orlian merchant, whom I’d outbid at an auction six months prior, raised his glass to me from across the concourse. I raised a handin acknowledgment. They didn’t fear me. They saw me as a new, unpredictable player.
“Credentials.” The security officer was Krelaxian, which explained why he hadn’t bolted. Thick brown leathery hide, arms like cargo lifters, and a species reputation for being too stupid to know when they were outmatched. He held out a scanner without quite meeting my eyes. “Weapons declaration. Import permits. Biometric scan.”
“Of course.” I pulled my data slate from my jacket. Brevan Korven’s documents loaded smoothly. Reclusive investor. New money. Impeccable financials. Everything perfectly forged, which meant it had cost me three weeks of Varrick’s time and enough credits to buy a small moon.
“My compliments to your port authority, by the way,” I said pleasantly. “So much faster than that bureaucratic nightmare on Cygnus-X. A pleasure to deal with true professionals.”
The Krelaxian guard, unused to compliments from anyone, let alone a Vinduthi, puffed up slightly. His scanner beeped as it processed my permits. His expression flickered.
“A license for a pulse rifle? That’s at least six treaty violations...”
I laughed, a warm, charming sound. “It’s art, my friend. A rare, antique—but functional—piece for my collection. You wouldn’t believe the paperwork involved in legally transporting art these days. That’s the real crime.”
Flustered, the guard stamped the permit. His hands shook, but it was nervous energy, not terror. “Enjoy your stay, Mr. Korven.” He practically shoved my slate back at me.
I collected my slate and moved deeper into the terminal. The foot traffic stayed carefully distant. It would have been fascinating if I hadn’t seen it a thousand times before. Power, like fear, had patterns.
The encrypted comm in my pocket vibrated. Once. Pause. Twice.
I diverted toward the luxury lounges, the kind where privacy cost more than honesty and the staff knew better than to remember faces. The greeter was Valdorian, tall and pale with silver hair twisted into elaborate knots. She studied me for a moment before speaking.
“Welcome to the Tiprevi Lounge, honored guest.” She managed to sound sincere. “Do you have a reservation?”
“I’m expecting a business associate.” I let my gaze sweep the visible seating areas. Low lighting. Sound dampeners built into every booth. “Private booth. Send up your best Aldoran brandy.”
“Of course.” She gave a slight nod. “Right this way.”
She led me to a booth in the back corner where the dampeners were strongest. I slid onto the bench and waited until she’d retreated before pulling out my comm.
The screen showed a simple text message: Audio only. Secure.
I tapped the acknowledgment and held the device to my ear. Three seconds later, Kallum’s voice crackled through. “You’re live. Room’s clean.”
“Status?”
“Target’s at the reception venue. Security sweep completed an hour ago. You’re clear to proceed once you’re ready.”
“And the item?”
“Right where our scans indicated. Private office, moved only for special occasions.” Kallum paused. “Tarsus has been paranoid since the Parallax bombing. He’s doubled his personal guard rotation.”
“Good. Paranoid people make mistakes.” The server disappeared around a corner. “Any complications I should know about?”
“The usual palace intrigue. Guest list is exclusive. You’ll need to make the right impression. Tarsus values theatrics.”
“Then he’s in for a performance.” I ended the connection and slipped the comm back into my pocket.
