The Saurath Connection, ch 1-6

A mercenary is hired by a secretive client to help a detective find missing children.

Chapter 1: Arrival on Saurath
          The Ronin's cockpit pulsed with the steady hum of its dual fusion core reactors; a rhythm Matt had tuned out years ago. Beyond the viewport, Saurath's atmosphere loomed, a hazy swirl of ochre and violet at the edge of the Dacorian Territories. Matt's scarred hands moved deftly over the controls, guiding the old scout craft with precision, his graying brown hair catching the console's faint glow. The Ronin's photon-foil panels were stowed for atmospheric entry, and the anti-gravity system whirred softly, bracing for the descent.
          Cal's warm voice emanated from the Ronin's PA systems, "To continue, I have noted a universal drive to perpetuate genetic legacies. Most biologicals structure their lives around reproductive rituals. You, however, show no such pursuit. Is this a conscious choice, or merely a byproduct of your lifestyle?"
          Matt's lips curled into a wry half-smile, adjusting the thruster output as Saurath's gravity tugged at the Ronin, preparing for atmospheric entry. "Two thousand years of studying people, Cal, and you're playing matchmaker for me? I'm touched." His tone was light, deflecting the probe from his AI first mate/engineer/personal assistant. "I'm too busy keeping the galaxy spinning to worry about legacies. Let's focus on the job. Run me through the details again--anything new now that we're close enough to access Saurath's databases?"
          Cal's voice carried a hint of skepticism but shifted gears. "The job, as relayed by our client--whose identity we know but will not name--lacks specifics. You are to meet Tracker Anika Veyr at our landing pad in Vyrnathys, Saurath's capital, and assist with one of her cases. The client, a high-ranking figure in the local power structure, demanded anonymity and withheld case details to avoid bias. I concur that assumptions could cloud judgment, but the lack of data raises risks. My data on Veyr is thin: she is a human-Luparan hybrid, a Tracker--Vyrnathys's equivalent of a police detective. Public records are sparse, as Vyrnathys's small policing force sees no need for extensive documentation. Accessing local databases now that we are in range yielded nothing new--no cases in police records warrant your involvement. I could hack their system for more, but given their minimal record-keeping, I doubt it would yield anything useful."
          Matt nodded, his eyes on the atmospheric entry window as Saurath's surface emerged, a sprawl of dusty plains and glittering cityscapes. "No hack needed. If there's nothing in the records, we're flying blind till Veyr briefs us. What can you tell me about the population?"
          "The population of the capitol city Vyrnathys is approximately 35% human, unusual for the Dacorian territories," Cal reported. "The records indicate they are the descendants of a group of independent colonists from Terra's India continent that were forced to settle here just over a century ago after their colony ship was damaged and unable to compete the voyage to the original colony world. The rest of the population is made up of Luparan, a canid race. The star system is ruled by a Dacorian known simply as the Emperor, with no record of an actual name."
          Matt nodded, filing away the information in his mind. He had wondered how human colonists had made it out this far and settled on a populated world. Most of Earth's colonization efforts were usually backed by investment groups looking to colonize unpopulated words as investments, but not all. If the original settlers were independent, there wouldn't be good records and they may have had a ship that wasn't as capable of such a long journey and simple settled at the first reasonable location they could find. Being accepted into an already established population, even an alien one, was probably seen as a gift from the universe to the colony's original leadership.
          His thoughts drifted to Tact, Matt's job broker for nearly three years. The broker had hardly given Matt any details on this job until after he'd accepted, and even then, the details had been sparce, even from his client. Tact's guarded words at Aether Nexus lingered. "It's the kind of job you want," he'd said, his voice low, "but not necessarily like." The cryptic hint suggested a heavy job. Tact hadn't led him wrong yet, so Matt was willing to give the broker a little trust, but the lack of details still nagged him.
          "I know Tact couldn't tell me everything," Matt muttered, half to himself. Given who the client is, Matt understood the need for secrecy, but this was pushing his limit. "I trust him, but this job feels like a huge mess. He's lucky I owe him a favor." He adjusted the controls as the Ronin hit the upper atmosphere, a faint shudder rippling through the hull. The atmospheric engines roared, their jet-like hum filling the cockpit. "Cal, what's the spaceport layout?"
          Cal began her response. "The spaceport spans ten kilometers square, a grid of landing pads tailored for vessels from small scouts like the Ronin to massive cargo ships. Each pad is encircled by brick and concrete blast walls, doubling as maintenance and service structures to shield against dust from the nearby desert and redirect thruster exhaust upward." A soft chime interrupted her. "Receiving a signal from Vyrnathys's automated landing control." The monitor in front of Matt flickered, displaying a schematic with a red marker pulsing at their assigned pad, overlaid with a glowing green arc showing the projected landing path. "The spaceport is fully automated, no physical security. Central control towers manage traffic with automated systems. There is not enough traffic to need more than that. Veyr should be waiting at our pad, per the client's instructions."
          Matt grunted, aligning the Ronin with the projected path, the marker growing larger on the monitor. The spaceport sprawled below, a maze of gray blast walls and glowing landing lights slicing through the dusk. With a steady hand, he guided the Ronin down, the anti-gravity system cushioning the descent as the landing skids extended with a faint whine. The ship settled onto the pad with a soft thud, the engines powering down to a low hum as they cooled and went through their shutdown cycle. Matt flipped the final switches, locking the controls. "Nice and smooth," he said, leaning back in the pilot's seat.
          He unstrapped and stood, stretching his muscular frame, and left the cockpit, heading to the armory just behind it. The armory was a compact space, lined with sleek cabinets and drawers holding his arsenal--pistols, rifles, blades, and other weaponry. Matt opened a drawer, pulling out a worn shoulder holster and his favorite Colt .45 1911 reproduction, its polished blue finish catching the dim light. He slid the pistol into the holster, securing it under his left arm, and grabbed two magazines, tucking them into the holster's slots. From another drawer, he retrieved a Bowie knife in its leather sheath with its distinctive "D" style guard wrapping over the handle, clipping it horizontally on his belt within easy reach. Finally, he donned his faded black leather duster with its lightweight nano scale armor hidden in the lining, the weight settling familiarly over his shoulders, concealing his weapons beneath and providing just a bit of protection.
          Matt moved to the ladder embedded in the wall and climbed down to the Ronin's lower level before entering the central airlock module, stepping onto the airlock's lift--a simple circular platform that doubles as the lower airlock door when not used as a lift. He keyed the control panel, and the lift hummed, extending straight down out of the bottom of the Ronin on two rails on either side to the landing pad below. As the platform descended, Matt's gaze fixed on a figure waiting at the edge of the pad, pacing with sharp, impatient steps. He assumed it was Tracker Anika Very. She was shorter than Matt, her head barely reaching the middle of his chest, her long dark black hair, streaked with gray and silver, and tightly braided tailed down her back, catching the landing lights. Her ears, starting where a human's ears would, but rising high past the top of her head like a Luparan's, twitched slightly in her agitation. She appeared to be in her 20's, her face was cute despite its scowl, he admitted--a thought that sparked a flash of Cal's voice, probing about legacies and rituals from their earlier conversation, before he pushed it aside. Her irritation, bordering on anger, was plain, as if his arrival had thrown her schedule into disarray.
          "Alright, Cal," he said, as the lift reached the pad. "Lock up behind me and keep the Ronin ready. Looks like trouble's already waiting."
          "I will keep the reactors warm for you," Cal replied.
          Matt stepped off the lift, his boots hitting the concrete pad with a soft thud and approached Anika. "Tracker Anika Veyr?" he asked, keeping his tone even.
          She stopped pacing, her eyes narrowing slightly but softening just enough to hold a trace of courtesy. "Yes, that's me. Your name, please?" Her voice was crisp, the politeness strained by her visible frustration.
          "Name's Matt," he said, pausing as her words sank in. "You're supposed to meet me, right?"
          Anika's arms crossed, her posture still tense. "My orders were to meet a VIP here and escort them during their stay. Is that you?" Her tone carried a begrudging civility, but her impatience was clear.
          Matt frowned, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. A VIP? Then it clicked--she didn't know he was here to assist with her case. The client's secrecy ran deeper than he'd thought. "Yeah, that's me," he said, recovering. "First thing we need is to sit down, grab some food, and talk about what I'll be doing. You'll have to buy, though--It's my first time on Saurath and I don't have local currency yet."
          Anika gave a short nod, her jaw tight but her response measured. "Alright, I'll pay, but I pick the place, and you can't complain." She gave him a quick once-over, her gaze sharpening. "Show me what's under your left arm."
          Matt raised an eyebrow, impressed. Most wouldn't have noticed the slight bulge under his duster. He opened his coat, revealing the Colt in its shoulder holster. "Good eye."
          She shook her head. "No projectile weapons allowed here. Energy weapons either. Leave it on your ship." Her tone was firm but carried a hint of professional courtesy.
          Matt nodded, gesturing to his belt. "Got a knife on my back too. That allowed?"
          "Blades are allowed," she said, her voice clipped but politely resigned. "Just hurry."
          Matt turned back to the Ronin, stepping onto the lift. "Be quick," Anika called after him, her tone sharp but restrained. The lift hummed, ascending into the airlock. Inside, he removed the shoulder holster, sliding the Colt with it's shoulder holster and magazines back into their armory drawer.
          Cal's voice chimed through his translator implant. "She seems charming. A real diplomat."
          "Be nice, Cal," Matt said. "We don't know the whole story yet." He opened another drawer, pulling out a smaller 9mm Makarov pistol with a clip-on holster. He slid the holster onto his belt behind his back, next to the Bowie knife, then grabbed two magazines for the Makarov and dropped them into a pocket inside his duster, adjusting the coat to conceal everything.
          "Did Anika Very not state that projectile weapons are not allowed on Saurath?" Cal commented.
          "I have no clue what we're about to get into Cal. I'm not about to walk around without a gun. And it's not like I go around breaking the rules all the time." Matt replied.
          Cal let out a small burst of static that was her own snort. "Matthew, you break rules all the time. It is part of who you are," Call pointed out.
          Matt snorted and said "Good point. Still, what that Tracker doesn't know about me won't hurt me and might save her."
          "I cannot argue with that logic, because I cannot follow it." Cal quipped. "Would you like me to follow you with a drone?"
          Matt nodded, "Yep, but wait till we are away from the Ronin before you sneak it off."
          "Of course! I have been observing species for 2000 years. I know how to stay hidden." Cal responded with just a trace of indignity.
          The lift descended again, and Matt stepped off, rejoining Anika. He opened his duster briefly, showing her that the Colt and holster were gone. She gave a curt nod, still visibly impatient, and started walking. "This way," she said, her voice holding a thin veneer of politeness. "There's a food stall in Little India I know." She seemed to have calmed down at Matt following her orders. Best not let her know I'm still carrying, Matt thought.
          As Anika led Matt away from the ship, two young Luparan guards approached from a nearby blast wall, their sleek uniforms marking them as low-ranking security. Their ears twitched with youthful bravado, and their eyes locked onto Anika with a mix of disdain and opportunity. Even Matt, completely unfamiliar with Luparan body language could tell they were trouble. There was just a universal look that all sentient species have when they're about to do something incredibly stupid in the name of causing trouble.
          The taller one, his fur a mottled gray, stepped forward, blocking her path. "<Tracker Veyr, out babysitting off-worlders now? Shouldn't a mongrel half-breed like you be looking for some weak Alpha to take pity on you?>" he sneered in Luparan, assuming Matt couldn't understand. His companion, shorter with a reddish pelt, chuckled, leaning in closer. "<Thought you'd be chasing real criminals, not playing tour guide to a lost little puppy.>"
          Matt tried his best not to laugh at the description the guard had of him. He was curious to see how Anika handled these two idiots.
          Anika's ears flicked, her posture stiffening, but she kept her voice steady. "Move aside, Kael," she said in Standard, her tone sharp and professional. The taller guard, Kael, smirked and reached to grab her arm, his claws flexing to assert dominance. Before his hand could close, Anika's nightstick snapped up from her belt, striking his head with a sharp crack. Kael crumpled to the ground, stunned, his eyes glazed. In a fluid motion, Anika reversed her momentum, sweeping her leg low and knocking the second guard to the ground beside Kael. Dropping her nightstick, she drew a pair of daggers from hidden sheaths at her waist, leaping to crouch between the two Luparans, a blade at each of their throats.
          "<Try that again,>" she hissed in Luparan, her eyes blazing, "<and you'll be explaining to the Emperor why his guards are bleeding.>" The translator in Matt's ear relayed every word, but he remained still, his hand near his belt, watching Anika handle the situation with lethal precision. He was actually impressed.
          "Wow, she took those fools down a byte or two," Cal said over Matt's translator, having watched the whole scene play out from the drone. Sometimes, Matt forgot that she could follow him so quietly thanks to her mandate to study all sentient life and their cultures.
          Matt cleared his throat, his tone dry but carrying a hint of amusement. "If you're not gonna kill these two idiots for calling you a half breed mongrel babysitter, we should get going. I'm hungry."
          Anika's eyes flicked to Matt, a brief glint of acknowledgment cutting through her focus. She sheathed her daggers in one swift motion, standing and stepping back from the guards, who remained sprawled, wide-eyed and silent.
          "Does that happen a lot," Matt asked politely.
          Anika looks at her tall VIP, wondering if he was serious before answering with a shrug. "Not too often. Every once in a while, some young pup thinks he can show off how strong he is by challenging me like that." She seemed to have realized that Matt wasn't going to judge her.
          Matt smirked "Would you have let them go as easily if I wasn't here?"
          Anika smirked herself, "Probably not," feeling better now that she had worked out some of that anger. She hurried ahead, leading Matt into Little India.
          Matt followed, the city's pulse--sleek towers, gritty markets, and Luparan pack districts--vibrating around them, all under the rule of the Emperor. Just another city on another planet. Whatever Anika's case was already off to a rocky start but at least she wasn't as mad as she was before.





Chapter 2: Little India
          The market street in Little India pulsed with life, a vibrant artery of Vyrnathys where the air thrummed with the scents of cumin, turmeric, and sizzling meat. Stalls lined the dusty thoroughfare, their awnings a patchwork of crimson, saffron, and emerald, fluttering in Saurath's dry breeze. Luparan vendors, their canine ears twitching, hawked woven baskets and spiced nuts, while human merchants in flowing kurtas called out offers for brass trinkets and bolts of silk. Neon signs in Hindi and Luparan script flickered above shops, casting a warm glow over the crowd--packs of Luparans weaving through, their tails swaying, and humans bartering with animated gestures. The distant hum of hovercarts blended with the chatter, punctuated by the rhythmic clanging of a street musician's tabla.
          Anika moved with purpose, her lean frame cutting through the throng, her elongated ears flicking at the cacophony. Her dark hair, streaked with gray and silver, swayed as she glanced back to ensure Matt kept pace. Her city guard uniform--dark green with a nightstick and daggers at her belt--drew occasional glances, but her scowl kept most eyes averted. Matt followed, his faded leather duster brushing against passersby, his Bowie knife and Makarov pistol concealed but adding a subtle weight to his stride. His graying brown hair caught the neon light, and his scarred hands stayed loose, ready but unthreatening.
          Anika stopped at a modest stall tucked between a spice vendor and a sari shop. The stall's counter was worn, its surface scarred from years of cleavers, ladles and claws, but spotless. A Luparan woman, her fur graying at the muzzle, worked a sizzling griddle, her movements deft as she flipped flatbreads and stirred a steaming wok of meat and vegetables. A handwritten sign in Hindi and English read "Mala's Kitchen." Anika leaned on the counter, her voice softening but still cautious. "Mala, two of the usual, quick as you can."
          Mala's yellow eyes crinkled, her tail giving a slight wag. "Anika, always in a rush. Who's this tall human trailing you?" She nodded at Matt, her claws tossing diced peppers into the wok, the hiss of oil rising.
          "Business," Anika said, her tone curt but not unkind. "He's with me."
          Matt offered a half-smile, leaning against a pole supporting the stall's awning. "Smells like home, if home was a thousand lightyears away and knew how to cook."
          Mala chuckled, her ears perked. "Flatterer. You'll like my keema naan." She scooped generous portions of spiced meat--lamb mixed with onions, peppers, and carrots--onto thick, golden flatbreads, folding them deftly. She placed each onto a wax paper napkin, the grease already seeping through, and handed them to Anika, leaning in to say "He looks like quite the hunter," with a leer. Anika growled "Not in the mood, " at the subtle comment about her lack of love life, a common thing with Mala and slid a few local credits across the counter.
          Anika jerked her head toward a rickety bench table a few paces away, its wooden slats warped and splintered, tucked against a low wall plastered with faded posters for festivals and cargo haulers. "Over there," she said, weaving past a group of Luparan pups chasing a hovertoy. Matt followed, dodging a cart piled with mangoes, and sat across from her on the creaking bench. The table wobbled as Anika set the food down, the wax paper crinkling under the naan.
          Matt picked up his order, the warmth of the flatbread seeping through the paper, and took a bite. The meat was tender, the spices a sharp burst of heat tempered by the bread's chewy heft. He chewed slowly, nodding. "Damn," he said, swallowing. "The best food always comes on the cheapest plates. Mala's got a gift."
          Anika nodded slightly, almost a smile, as she bit into her own naan, her sharp teeth tearing through the bread. "Mala's been feeding me since I was a kid, ever since my father brought me around. He wanted to show me how humans and Luparans can mix. She doesn't skimp." She ate quickly, her eyes scanning the street, ears twitching at every shout or clatter.
          "That have something to do with the two idiots you took down at the port?" Matt asked. " Excellent work by the way."
          "Yes, it does," Anika replied, looking into her food, lost in unpleasant memories. Matt took another bite to let her process before she continued. "I'm the only human-Luparan hybrid there is. My father didn't want me to grow up hating, so he taught me to look beyond the hate, and here I am."
          Matt nodded and leaned forward, his voice low. "Alright, Tracker, I think it's time we get to it. What were you told about me?"
          "Just that you are some VIP I'm supposed to follow around," she said with a hint of that frustration she'd shown earlier.
          "I'm not here as some VIP for a tour. I was sent to work with you on one of your cases--don't know which one or what kind, just that it's yours," Matt corrected. "Client's someone high up, wants their name out of it. I'm guessing you didn't ask for a partner, so what's the deal?"
          Anika's fingers tightened on her naan, the wax paper crinkling as her ears flicked back, a Luparan tell of irritation. She set the food down with a soft thud. "I should be out patrolling, not playing guard for some off-worlder," she said, her voice sharp but controlled. "I'm supposed to be looking for missing kids--kids from the slums, forgotten by everyone but their packs. You? I doubt you're here for them. Whoever your high-up client is, they probably want something bigger than a few lost pups."
          Matt's eyes sharpened, his naan pausing halfway to his mouth. "Missing kids?" he said, his tone measured but alert. "That's news to me. I checked the case logs for your department before landing--nothing about missing kids came up."
          Anika's ears twitched forward, her gaze locking onto his, suspicion flashing across her face. "How did you even get those logs?" she demanded, her voice low but edged with steel. She leaned closer, her nightstick shifting slightly at her belt. After a beat, her shoulders eased, and she exhaled, her eyes flicking to the street. "Doesn't matter. Those kids aren't an official case. Not yet. Maybe not ever."
          Matt set his naan down, his hands resting lightly on the rickety table, his gaze steady. "Why aren't they official? I'm not familiar with how things work around here, but missing kids sounds like something a Tracker should be all over."
          Anika's jaw clenched, her fingers tracing the edge of the wax paper, her ears flattening slightly. "My superiors say kids in the slums go missing all the time. They think it's a waste of resources to chase every one. I wasn't forbidden from looking into it, but they made it clear--my priority's the official cases. Petty theft, mostly, in the wealthier districts. Stolen jewels, missing hovercarts, that kind of thing."
          Matt's brow furrowed, his voice staying low but carrying a hint of skepticism. "Kids go missing in places like this, sure. Slums are rough. But you're out here anyway, digging into it. Why?"
          Anika's eyes met his, a flicker of defiance in them, but her voice was quieter now, edged with something raw. "Because these kids aren't just missing, they're completely gone. In the slums, kids turn up dead sometimes--fights, accidents, overdoses. Not this many, though, and not gone without a trace. Too many to be normal. Something's wrong."
          Matt leaned back slightly, the bench creaking under his weight, his expression unreadable but his eyes locked on her. "Do you know any of them? The kids?"
          Anika hesitated, her hand pausing on the naan, her ears twitching as if catching a distant sound. Her gaze dropped to the table, and for a moment, the market's noise seemed to fade. "Yeah," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "I do."
          Anika's fingers hovered over her belt, her eyes flicking to Matt as if weighing a decision. Then, with a quick, decisive movement, she reached into a pouch and pulled out her scroll-screen, a slim tube, about twelve inches long and as thick as her thumb. She gripped a long tab sticking out of the side firmly, her claws clicking against its matte black surface and gently pulled. A flexible screen unrolled, extending as long as her arm, its surface shimmering faintly in the neon glow. Lines of text glowed softly--twenty names, with ages, locations, genders, and brief descriptions, meticulously organized in tight rows.
          She slid the screen across the rickety table toward Matt, her expression guarded but resolute. "Look," she said, her voice low, almost daring him to dismiss it.
          Matt leaned forward, his eyes scanning the display. The list held twenty names: Priya Sharma, age 7, human, last seen near the east slum market; Ravi Patel, age 10, human-hybrid, vanished from a street festival; Lila Chen, age 5, human, gone after a pack gathering; and others, each entry a quiet accusation. All were human or listed as human-hybrid, their parentage unclear in some cases, ages ranging from 5 to 12, all from Vyrnathys's slums.
          "These the kids?" Matt asked, his voice steady but his gaze intense, memorizing the details.
          Anika nodded, her ears twitching slightly. "Yeah. Every one I've tracked down. On my own time."
          Matt's fingers brushed the edge of the screen, his brow creasing. "I think your instincts on these disappearances are right. All human or human-hybrids, five to twelve years old," he noted, his tone flat but heavy with implication.
          Anika's ears flicked back, her tone sharp with curiosity and a hint of challenge. "Why's that important?"
          Matt leaned back, the bench groaning under his weight, his voice dropping. "Slavery legal here?"
          Anika's eyes narrowed, a flash of indignation crossing her face. "Of course it isn't," she snapped, her voice low but firm. "This is a civilized planet, not some backwater."
          Matt's gaze held hers, his expression hardening. "I've been tracking a slavery ring for the past year, dismantling it piece by piece. Human kids, especially that age, are highly sought by the slave rings--adaptable, resilient. Five to twelve is perfect for breaking them, training them into whatever their buyers want. Your list fits their pattern."
          Anika's claws tightened on the screen's edge, the flexible material crinkling as her ears flattened. Her eyes widened slightly, a flicker of horror crossing her face. "Slaves?" she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I thought... I don't know what I thought, but... Never that."
          Matt nodded, his voice steady but grim. "Though it's a galaxy-wide problem there's not much reason for you to think of it. Most slavers operate in the regions where it's legal, in whatever fashion. Just easier and safer. These guys I've been taking down operate outside those areas and are careful to spread their hunting grounds out so they don't attract attention."
          Anika sat back and thought, processing the new information Matt had just given her. She really hadn't realized that slavers would be involved. If it was one or two, she might have thought it was forced labor, but local and not really slavery. With this many, she was honestly thinking they had been murdered or some sick, twisted group had taken them. Then she realized that if it was slavers, it was a sick and twisted group. This new information helps, but she wasn't sure yet how. She needed to look at the clues she had with a new perspective.
          Anika's gaze dropped to the screen, her fingers tracing the names as she frowned, her ears twitching as she considered the new angle. After a long pause, she shook her head, her voice heavy. "I've been looking for patterns--places they were last seen, people they knew--but this... slavery? It changes things, but I don't have anything solid."
          Matt leaned forward, his large hands resting on the table. "If you weren't sitting here with me, what'd you be doing next?"
          Anika's eyes flicked up, a spark of determination returning. "Patrolling the slums," she said, her voice firm. "Knocking on doors, talking to packs, looking for anything--someone who saw something, a trail, a clue. Anything to find them."
          Matt grabbed his half-eaten wrap, the wax paper crinkling as he stood, grease smudging his fingers. He took a quick bite, chewing as he nodded toward the street. "Alright, Tracker. Lead the way. We can talk, eat and walk as we go."
          Anika rolled up the flexible screen with a snap, tucking it back into its tube, and stood, her city guard uniform shifting as she adjusted her nightstick. Her ears flicked forward, alert, and she moved into the crowd, her stride purposeful as Matt followed, the market's vibrant chaos swallowing them.


Chapter 3: Into the Slums
         Matt swallowed the last bite of his keema naan, the spices lingering on his tongue as he crumpled the wax paper and tucked it into a pocket of his faded leather duster. The vibrant chaos of Little India's market faded behind him as he followed Anika into the slums of Vyrnathys, the transition stark and immediate. The sleek towers and neon glow of the city gave way to a labyrinth of crumbling concrete and corrugated metal shacks, their rusted edges jutting like jagged teeth. The air grew heavy with the stench of stagnant water and uncollected waste, a sharp contrast to the cumin and turmeric of the market.
         Children splashed in a murky ditch, their laughter sharp and fleeting as they kicked through dirty water pooled between cracked pavement and debris. Their clothes--patched rags and repurposed scraps of fabric--clung to their thin frames, stained with mud and grime. A boy, no older than seven, paused to stare at Matt and Anika, his dark eyes wary before he darted behind a pile of broken crates. Other residents, their faces etched with fatigue, shrank back into doorways or behind tattered curtains, their gazes glancing nervously to Anika's dark green city guard uniform. Her nightstick and daggers gleamed faintly at her belt, a silent warning, while her elongated Luparan ears twitched at every sound.
         Matt's boots crunched on loose gravel, his scarred hands loose at his sides but ready, the concealed Makarov pistol and Bowie knife a reassuring weight under his duster. A feral dog, its ribs stark beneath matted fur, skittered across their path, snarling softly before vanishing into an alley. Anika moved with purpose, her lean frame weaving through the narrow paths, her dark hair with gray and silver streaks swaying as she scanned the surroundings. Her eyes, sharp and focused, missed nothing--the flicker of movement behind a cracked window, the scuff of a sandal in the dust.
         Matt was faintly amused at the locals' reaction. Normally, his 6-foot, broad-shouldered frame and duster were the reason people shied away. To see Anika, with her barely 5 ft and petite body getting the same reaction meant that these people didn't trust anybody outside the slums, not even law enforcement. Maybe especially law enforcement. It's no wonder she couldn't make much headway in finding the missing kids.
         Matt couldn't help but notice how well Anika knew the area. More than just patrolling should allow her. "Seem to know the area pretty well," Matt observed as they walked, his tone turning it into a question.
         Anika looked over at Matt for a second, judging whether his observation was worth responding to. "I should," she ended up saying. "This is where my father found me before he convinced his mother to adopt me into her pack." She stopped them for a moment and looked at him. "Shocked?"
         "Not really." Matt said. "I figured it was something like that. You know which shadows to watch and which ones to ignore. That's more than patrolling. That's surviving."
         As they continued on, Matt continued asking questions. "So, you're adopted?"
         Anika glares at Matt, since she had just stated as much to him. "What's with the questions?" she asked.
         Matt shrugged, his leather duster rippling with his shoulders. "Just making conversation."
         "You could try telling me something about yourself instead!" She growled. "All I know is your name is Matt and I'm supposed to watch you."
         "Yep," was all Matt said.
         Anika furiously stomped off in the direction of the slum's market, Matt following at a distance to let her cool off. He knew he'd pushed her buttons and wasn't about to make her genuinely angry at him. He already liked her, the way she'd dedicated herself to finding those kids without any help if need be and the way she'd handled those two guards. She had a temper, he could tell, but she controlled it.
         "This is it," Anika said, her voice low, carrying a mix of determination and unease, the walk having calmed her somewhat. "The east slum market's just ahead. Priya Sharma, one of the kids on my list, was last seen there." Her ears twitched back slightly, as she glanced at Matt. "Keep your eyes open. People here don't trust outsiders, especially not with me in uniform."
         Matt nodded, his gaze sweeping the ramshackle stalls ahead, where vendors sold bruised fruit and scavenged tech under sagging tarps. "Got it. You lead, I'll watch your back." His tone was steady, but his mind churned, piecing together the slums' grim reality with the slavery ring he'd been chasing. The kids' ages, the lack of traces--it fit the pattern too well.
         They stepped into the market, a cramped maze of lean-tos and makeshift tables. A woman in a tattered sari slipped away as they approached, her eyes darting to Anika's badge before she melted into the crowd. Matt's jaw tightened. The fear here wasn't just of authority--it was deeper, rooted in something unspoken. He leaned closer to Anika, keeping his voice low. "These folks aren't just scared of you. Something's got them spooked. Does anybody control the slums?"
         Anika's eyes narrowed, her claws flexing briefly. "No. The slums aren't worth controlling."
         "Why is that?" Matt asked casually.
         "You don't know much about Luparan customs, do you?" Anika replied.
         "Correction. I know nothing about Luparan customs, so how 'bout you fill me in?"
         Anika looked at Matt to gage his interest and she decided he must be genuine. "Luparan's control territory based on the resources and they use empty zones with no resources as buffer areas. If any human were to try and take over those neutral areas, they'd be torn to pieces by the Luparan's controlling the surrounding areas. The slums are a perfect buffer area where all are welcome, but where nobody wants to be."
         Matt nodded along, "I see. So if the people here are spooked, it's not because someone is threatening them."
         "They're afraid they'll be the next to lose what little they have. You saw the two guards I... educated back at the port. Do you think their ilk wouldn't come down here?"
         "Point taken." Matt said.
         Anika let some anger creep into her voice, "So long as the prominent people are safe and happy, who cares what happens to the forgotten. Because of that, these people won't trust me to protect and help them!"
         Matt was silent for a moment before speaking "You know, I've been to hundreds of worlds, seen all mater of societies, so I can say this with some authority, there are always those who get forgotten, either by choice or by circumstances."
         "Thanks," Anika said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "That makes me feel so much better."
         "Wasn't meant to make you feel better," Matt said, completely unoffended. "Just offered some perspective so you don't kill yourself over a problem you can't solve."
         "And the missing kids is a problem I can solve and should focus on?" she responded.
         Matt simply nodded.
         As they pressed deeper into the slums, the paths grew narrower, the air thicker with dust and despair. Matt's eyes caught a flash of white through the haze--a truck with an enclosed bed parked near a cluster of shacks. A red crescent was stenciled on its side, bold against the chipped paint. Two workers, one human and one Luparan, stood at the rear, handing out small bundles--food rations, blankets, and what looked like basic medical supplies--to a small, wary crowd. A few worn shirts and trousers were stacked on a crate nearby, occasionally passed to outstretched hands.
         Matt nodded toward the truck, his voice low. "That white truck with the red crescent--what's the deal?"
         Anika followed his gaze, her ears twitching slightly as she assessed the scene. "Aid truck," she said, her tone matter-of-fact. "The red crescent's a symbol for relief efforts here. Those workers are handing out supplies--food, blankets, medical stuff, sometimes clothes. They show up irregularly, usually after a big haul from off-world donors."
         Matt's eyes lingered on the truck, his expression unreadable. "How long's this aid group been operating here?"
         Anika's gaze softened slightly, her ears twitching as she considered the question. "For as long as I can remember," she said, her voice quieter now, almost wistful. "They do good work--food, blankets, medicine--but it's never enough. The slums are too big, too broken."
         Matt nodded, his mind turning over the slavery ring's patterns--vehicles moving freely, trusted by locals, perfect for cover. "I'll assume you questioned them," he said, his tone even but probing. "What'd the aid workers say?"
         Anika's ears lowered slightly. "They weren't any help. They move around, hitting different areas each day to cover as much ground as possible. They barely get time to hand out supplies, let alone notice much else. I heard one truck was near where a kid disappeared, but I could never track down the workers."
         Matt's jaw tightened, his gaze fixed on the truck as he muttered under his breath, "If you want to hide a tree in a forest, make it look like a rock." He straightened, his face shifting into a disarming, friendly smile as he started walking toward the truck, his stride casual but deliberate.
         Anika's ears twitched sharply, her brow furrowing at his cryptic words. "What's that supposed to mean?" she called after him, her voice edged with irritation as she quickened her pace to keep up. "Where are you going?"
         Matt glanced back, his smile warm but evasive. "Just gonna ask a few questions," he said lightly, his eyes focused on the truck as he moved toward it, the crowd parting slightly around him.
         As Matt approached the truck, he noticed the slum residents didn't scatter like before. They were nervous, stepping back with tense shoulders, but they didn't hide. A few--older humans and a Luparan with a scarred muzzle--stood their ground, their eyes protective, almost defiant, as they watched him near the workers. It was a stark shift from the fear he'd seen earlier, and it set his thoughts buzzing. These people trusted the truck, or at least the idea of it.
         The two workers paused as Matt drew close, their hands stilling over the crates of supplies. The human, a wiry man with graying hair and deep lines etched into his face, looked older than Matt, maybe in his late fifties. His name tag read "Rajan Patel." The Luparan, a young adult with sleek brown fur and alert ears, had a name tag identifying her as "Syla Vren." Rajan's eyes glanced to Anika trailing behind, his expression wary but professional, while Syla's tail gave a slight twitch, her youth betrayed by a nervous glance at the crowd.
         Matt raised a hand in greeting, his smile easy and genuine. "Name's Matt," he said, his voice warm. He eyed scanning the truck's surroundings. "I'm impressed with the work you're doing here. Takes guts to keep showing up in a place like this."
         Rajan nodded, his posture relaxing slightly, though his eyes stayed sharp. "Thank you. It's not really that dangerous. The people know we won't hurt them so we can do what we can," he said, his voice gruff but polite. Syla's ears perked, a faint smile tugging at her muzzle as she handed a blanket to a waiting resident.
         Matt leaned casually against a nearby crate, keeping his tone conversational. "You get enough supplies to keep this going? Must be tough to stretch it across all the slums."
         Syla's ears twitched, and she spoke up, her voice bright but tinged with frustration. "Barely. We get shipments from wherever we can, but it's never enough. We prioritize food and medicine, clothes when we can. Fortunately, we got a big shipment in last month and we've been busy getting those supplies out there."
         Matt nodded, his eyes scanning the truck's enclosed bed, its doors still open. "Where do those supplies come from, exactly? Must be a lot of places pitching in."
         Rajan's gaze narrowed slightly, but he answered smoothly. "Wherever we can get them--off-world donors, local charities, sometimes Dacorian relief funds. Gets funneled through the Emperor's council before it reaches us."
         Matt tilted his head, his smile unwavering. "How do you know where to take the supplies? Slums are a maze. You got a system?"
         Syla's tail swished, her enthusiasm returning. "We rotate daily, hit different zones based on need. The council gives us reports--population counts, disease outbreaks, that sort of thing. We try to cover as much ground as we can."
         Matt's eyes moved to Rajan, catching a faint tightening in the man's jaw. "How often do you change areas?" he pressed, his tone still light. "Like daily, weekly?"
         "Daily," Rajan said, his tone clipped now. "Helps us reach more people."
         Matt nodded, his smile steady but his eyes sharp now. "How do you keep track of where you've delivered? Seems like you'd need a lot of trucks to cover so much ground. Easy to hit the same area twice, right?"
         Rajan's eyes hardened, and he nodded toward the crates. "We have a central scheduler who keeps track of all that. We just follow the schedule they send us."
         Syla nodded, her ears flipping back and forth. "Yeah, they make sure we don't overlap. Keeps things organized."
         Matt's smile didn't waver, but his gaze lingered on Rajan. "Mind if I see the schedule? Just trying to get a sense of how you operate."
         Rajan's eyes hardened, and Syla's ears flattened, her hands pausing over a crate. Before they could respond, Matt gestured toward Anika, his tone shifting to one of quiet intensity. "You see, she's investigating some bad things happening in the slums. I'm here to help her stop those things."
         Rajan's brow furrowed, his voice cautious. "What kind of bad things?"
         Matt's smile turned slightly predatory, his eyes glinting. "The kind where I put the people doing them down, hard" he said, his voice low and deliberate. "And I sleep better for it."
         Rajan held Matt's gaze for a moment, then exhaled sharply, his shoulders slumping. "I've been hearing some disturbing rumors... alright," he said, his tone reluctant but resigned. He stepped to the truck's cab and retrieved a battered tablet, its worn screen flickering as he unlocked it. "Here's the schedule."
         Matt nodded to Anika, who stepped forward, her ears twitching as she pulled out her own device--a slim tube that unrolled into a flexible screen. She quickly copied the schedule, her claws moving deftly over the interface, her eyes scanning the data with practiced precision.
         Matt's smile softened, returning to its easy warmth. "Thanks for the help," he said with genuine gratitude, giving Rajan and Syla a nod. "Keep doing what you do." He turned, gesturing for Anika to follow, and the two moved away from the truck, the wary crowd parting as they headed back into the slums' dusty maze.


Chapter 4: What Isn't There
         Matt strode away from the red crescent-marked aid truck, his leather duster swaying as he weaved through the crowded Vyrnathys slum. The air hung heavy with the stench of uncollected waste, and wary eyes followed him from ramshackle stalls. He kept his pace brisk, putting distance between himself and the locals clustering around Rajan Patel and Syla Vren. Anika Veyr's boots scuffed the dirt as she rushed to catch up, her dark green uniform catching glints of neon from the market. "Why were you asking those questions?" she demanded, voice sharp. "And by the Huntress what did you mean by a rock and a forest?"
         Matt chuckled, his graying eyes glinting with amusement at Anika's frustration. "Hold on, Tracker," he said, voice low and teasing. "I'll explain, but not here. Too many prying eyes and ears in this slum." He scanned the bustling market, then nodded toward a shadowed alley between two crumbling concrete shacks. Anika followed, her elongated ears twitching as they slipped into the dim, narrow passage, the clamor of Vyrnathys fading behind them. The alley reeked of damp rot, its walls streaked with grime, a faint drip echoing from a broken pipe overhead, swallowed by the slums' distant hum. Matt leaned against a corrugated metal wall, gesturing for her to proceed. "Pull out your notes--the aid schedule on that tube display of yours."
         Anika frowned but unrolled her tube display, the flexible screen glowing with the aid truck schedule from Rajan and Syla. Matt gave Anika a mischievous grin. "Cal, read the schedule and plot the truck locations and their expected routes on Anika's display." Through the drone Cal had been quietly piloting over their heads, Cal made a secure connection with Anika's display. Anika opened her mouth, confusion etching her face, about to ask what he meant, when her screen cleared, a map of Vyrnathys's slums materialized, red crescent trucks marked with precise routes weaving through the east slums--data her simple tube display should never have rendered. When Anika looked closer, she realized the map was made up of letters to define the lines, edges and routes!
         Matt smirked at her wide-eyed stare. "That's Cal, my AI first mate on the Ronin. She's tapped into your device through my implant. She's been following me, us, with a stealth drone and she's a bit of a genius with data." Before Anika could respond, her screen flashed again, new text scrolling across: Greetings, Tracker Veyr. I am Cal, Matthew's assistant. No auditory output available, so this will have to do. Ready to assist.
         Matt folded his arms, his tone shifting to serious. "Those questions to Rajan and Syla? I was watching their reactions. Body language, hesitations--tells you more than words. It's amazing how universal body language can be across species. I don't think they're involved in the missing kids, Anika. They're just trying to help these slum folks, same as you." He paused, meeting her skeptical gaze. "Rajan's gruff but steady, Syla's too green to hide anything big. No guilt in their eyes. As for 'a rock and a forest,' think about it--when you picture a forest, you see trees, not the giant rock that's just as natural and still belongs. Same with these slums. You think rundown buildings, shanties, people barely surviving--not a perfectly serviceable aid truck. That mental blind spot hides their discreet activities, like slavers moving kids."
         Anika's brow furrowed, her fingers tightening on the tube display. "Then why'd you need the truck schedule?" she asked, voice edged with impatience. "What's this about?"
         Matt leaned closer, voice dropping. "You told me you saw an aid truck--one you couldn't track down. Rajan and Syla said they stick to a strict schedule, right? If that truck you saw was real, there'd be a record in the system. You'd have found it easily. No record means it was a fake--probably a front for something shady, like your missing kids. To find something that shouldn't exist, you look where it shouldn't be. Now I admit, I was working on a hunch, but it seems to have panned out," He nodded at the display. "That's why I needed Cal to map the schedule."
         Anika stared at the glowing map on her tube display, Cal's precise rendering of truck locations and routes snaking through Vyrnathys's slums. Her breath caught as she studied it, realization dawning. A glaring patch in the eastern slums stood out--barren, untouched by any truck's assigned route or scheduled stop. No red crescent markers, no paths crossed it. Her fingers traced the empty zone, her hybrid senses tingling with the weight of Matt's words.
         Anika's eyes narrowed, her mind racing. "Whoever made this schedule," she said slowly, "they're involved. Rajan and Syla might be clean, but the schedule's got gaps someone planned." She glanced at Matt, her voice hardening. "The aid workers ultimately report to the city council. They've got government oversight, ties to the Emperor's council. That's why I was told to leave it alone, Matt. Someone told them to bury it." Her gaze sharpened, connecting dots. "Your client knew this. They hired you from outside because you're not tangled in Saurath's politics. They want to help, don't they?" She stepped closer, her silver-streaked hair glinting in the dim light. "Who hired you, Matt?"
         Matt's just stood there, his eyes unreadable. He shook his head, voice firm. "I'm not spilling that, Anika. Not yet. I can say that my client is on your side and does want to help. And trust me, staying anonymous is part of that."
         Anika's ears twitched in frustration, but Matt raised a hand, his tone softening. "I'm impressed, Tracker. You followed the logic like a bloodhound. That Tracker title? Well deserved." He straightened, his duster rustling, a grin spreading across his face. "Are you ready to hunt something that doesn't exist to somewhere it shouldn't be?"
         Anika nodded, pocketing the tube display, and started down the alley, her boots crunching on debris, a slight smile at Matt's absurd comment. "I'm annoyed with myself," she admitted, her voice tight. "I should've seen the aid service could be involved, especially after I couldn't find that truck or the workers. Those kids--Priya, Ravi, Lila--deserved better than my blind spots." Matt fell into step beside her, his voice calm but firm. "You were only missing one piece--that interplanetary slavers were operating on your planet. Doesn't exactly jump to the top of most people's minds. You didn't know about the slave trade, Anika. Nobody here does. That's why the slavers get away with it--slavery's the last thing on anyone's mind in Vyrnathys." They pressed toward the empty zone, a newfound respect binding them, their shared purpose cutting through the slum's oppressive air. Now it was time for the slavers who hunted kids to be the ones hunted instead, and that, Matt thought, was his favorite part of the job.
         "I grew up in a repair yard," Matt suddenly said. "Grew up learning how to fix ships, even build 'em from scratch sometimes. It's how I got the Ronin. Found an old hulk in a salvage yard, fixed it up, tuned up the engines and now she flies me everywhere I need to go."
         Anika looked at him, before realizing he was just offering her his own story. "So how did you go from fixing starships to hunting down slavers?" she asked.
         Matt just grinned, a bit of sadness in his voice, "That's a much longer story than we have time for. Maybe I'll tell you if we have more time."
         "Why so secretive?" Anika asked.
         "In my line of work, secrets can keep you alive," was all Matt would say as they trudged through the slums, hoping to find something that shouldn't exist in a place it shouldn't be.


Chapter 5: The False Crescent
         Matt and Anika reached the coordinates Cal had mapped from the aid truck schedule, an empty lot on the edge of the east slum market. The space was eerily quiet, devoid of the usual clamor of vendors or children splashing in murky ditches. Broken crates and rusted metal scraps littered the ground, framing a patch of barren dirt. Matt's eyes scanned the lot, his instincts humming. "Too quiet," he muttered, his voice low, barely stirring the stagnant air.
         Anika nodded, her claws flexing briefly on the hilt of her nightstick. "This is it," she said, her tone taut, ears twitching back and forth as she studied the map on her screen. "The schedule said no aid trucks should be here today. If we're right, this is where they're hiding."
         They didn't have to search long. A white enclosed truck with a red crescent stenciled on its side sat tucked against a crumbling wall, half-hidden by a tattered tarp. Its paint was chipped, the crescent bold and unfaded, identical to the aid trucks they'd seen earlier. Matt's jaw tightened, his gaze locking onto the vehicle. "That's our slavers' rig," he said, his voice grim.
         Anika's ears flattened, her eyes narrowing as she crouched slightly, her daggers glinting faintly at her belt. "Agreed," she whispered, her voice sharp with certainty. "No workers. Let's move in. I want to make sure this is what we're looking for. No mistakes. I can't afford any and if you're right, neither can the kids."
         They approached together, staying low, using piles of debris and the shadows of shacks for cover, their movements silent and coordinated. The truck loomed closer, its rear doors shut, no sign of movement. Just as they neared, a doorway in the adjacent shack creaked open. Two human men emerged, carrying a coarse sack between them, its contents shifting slightly, heavy and limp.
         The taller man, dark black skin gleaming under the dim light, was bald, his frame lean but muscled, his eyes scanning the lot with casual arrogance. The shorter man, pale white skin flushed red, had a shock of red hair and a nervous energy, his grip on the sack unsteady. They were a stark contrast, their presence jarring in the culturally Hindu slum, where kurtas and Luparan fur dominated.
         "It's about time we almost hit the quota," the tall man said, his voice low and smug, hefting the sack higher. "I'm ready to get off this backwater. Just a few more, and we're done. I'm thinking a week in a luxury orbital--real food, real beds and real women that don't look as ugly as you."
         The red-haired man chuckled, his voice higher, edged with greed. "Yeah, no more of this shithole. I'm spending my cut on a private suite, maybe some company. I'll be flush enough to afford renting out a couple of real, well trained, beauties for a few weeks."
         The slavers' words left no doubt in Matt or Anika's minds--these were their targets. Anika's claws tightened on her daggers, her body tensing to approach, ready to demand answers. Before she could move, Matt's scarred hand gently but firmly grasped her shoulder. She glanced at his face, her ears twitching, and saw him press a finger to his lips, signaling silence. His eyes jerked to the slavers meaningfully before turning back to Anika, then he mimed stalking behind them and striking them down, a swift gesture of knocking them out. Anika hesitated, her jaw tightening, but Matt's steady gaze held a weight of experience. Trusting him, she nodded sharply in agreement.
         They moved quickly and quietly, splitting to flank the slavers as the men parted, each heading to one side of the truck after tossing the sack into the back with a dull thud. Matt drew his D-guard Bowie knife, gripping it in a reverse hold, the rounded pommel forward, the blade lying flat along his forearm. Anika silently slid her nightstick from her belt, her movements fluid, her eyes locked on her target. They timed it almost perfectly, closing the distance in sync.
         As one, they struck. Matt glided behind the tall, dark-skinned slaver, his left hand seizing the man's collar, yanking him back. His right drove the Bowie's pommel into the slaver's lower back, just right of the spine and into his kidney, targeting a nerve cluster. The man grunted, his body buckling in pain, collapsing to the dirt. Anika, less precise but no less effective, swung her nightstick in a brutal arc, catching the red-haired slaver at the junction of shoulder and neck. He dropped without a sound, crumpling to the ground.
         Matt gestured toward the truck, his voice a low whisper. "Anika, check inside for something to tie them up with--rope, straps, anything."
         Anika nodded, her ears twitching as she slipped to the truck's rear, quietly opening the doors. She rummaged through the cluttered interior, her claws sifting through crates and loose supplies. Matt knelt beside the slavers, his hands swift but careful, searching their fake aid worker uniforms. On the tall man, he found a compact pistol tucked into a hidden holster under the jacket, its grip worn from use. On the red-haired man, a large knife was strapped inside his waistband, its blade gleaming with a wicked edge. Matt tucked both weapons into his duster, his expression grim.
         Anika returned, holding a coil of rough rope and a handful of loose cargo straps. "This'll do," she said, her voice low, tossing the rope to Matt. Together, they worked quickly, binding the slavers' hands and feet tightly, looping the rope to secure wrists to ankles, ensuring no chance of escape. The men remained unconscious, their breathing shallow in the dusty air.
         Anika's gaze moved to Matt as she secured the final knot. "Why'd we have to knock them out?" she asked, her tone curious but edged with doubt. "I could've questioned them."
         Matt held up the pistol and knife, their metal catching the dim light. "I've got an aversion to being perforated by blades and bullets, and I didn't think these two would know or even care about the weapons restrictions," he said, his voice dry but firm. "Didn't want to risk it."
         Anika's eyes widened slightly, her ears drooping as she absorbed his words. A flash of humility crossed her face, her ears drooping slightly. "Fair point," she murmured, her voice softer, a trace of respect in her gaze.
         With the slavers secure, Matt nodded toward the sack in the truck's bed. "Let's check it," he said, his tone heavy with dread. They approached the coarse bundle, its shape disturbingly still. Anika's claws carefully untied the knot, her movements precise despite the tension in her posture. Matt held the fabric back, revealing what they'd both expected and feared--a small girl, about ten years old, her eyes closed, her thin frame curled tightly inside the sack.


Chapter 6: Interrogation in the Dust
         Matt's blood ran cold, a frozen rage crystallizing in his veins as he stared at the girl curled in the coarse sack, her small frame still, her breathing shallow from some forced sleep. His scarred hands clenched, the urge to carve the slavers into pieces a sharp, eager edge in his mind. Beside him, Anika's claws dug into the truck's frame, her Luparan ears flattened, her dark eyes blazing with a primal desire to tear out the slavers' throats. Her breath came in short, ragged bursts, her nightstick trembling in her grip. Both fought to leash their fury, their control fraying but holding--just.
         Matt's gaze switched to Anika, his voice low and steady despite the ice in his tone. "Stay with her. Make sure she's safe." Anika's eyes met his, a trace of protest swallowed by a curt nod. She crouched beside the girl, her claws gentle as she checked for a pulse, her ears twitching at the faint rhythm of life.
         Matt turned, his boots crunching on the slum's gritty pavement as he scanned the empty lot. His eyes locked onto a rusted steel bar, half-buried under a pile of debris, its length perfect for his purpose. He dragged it free, the metal scraping harshly against the dirt, and hauled it to the slavers, still bound and slumped against the crumbling wall. The tall, dark-skinned man groaned, his body twitching as he stirred, pain etched into his face from Matt's earlier strike to his nerve cluster. The red-haired slaver lay limp, his face pale, a bruise blooming where Anika's nightstick had cracked his shoulder.
         Matt dropped the bar with a dull clang and knelt, his hands swift as he untied the slavers' wrists from the rope, only to rebind them to the steel bar with the cargo straps Anika had found. He splayed their fingers across the metal, securing each wrist tightly, their hands exposed and vulnerable. The tall man's eyes fluttered open, his gaze hazy but sharpening as he registered Matt's cold, unyielding stare. Matt turned to the redhead, his rage barely contained, and delivered a slap--meant to be gentle but landing with a sharp crack, fueled by the ice in his veins. The redhead jolted awake, wincing, his headache pulsing from Anika's blow.
         Both slavers froze as Matt's eyes bore into them, hard and merciless, like polished steel. He crouched low, his voice a low growl, each word deliberate. "Now that you're awake, here's how this works. I ask questions. You answer. First to talk keeps a finger. The one who doesn't loses one. If neither of you talk, you both lose fingers. If I run out of fingers, I start on toes. If I run out of toes, I get creative. I don't care about your names. I want your operation--every detail."
         He leaned closer, his Bowie knife glinting faintly in the dim light filtering through the tattered tarp overhead. "First question: how many slavers in your crew?"
         The redhead's eyes darted to the tall man, his pale face twitching with nervous energy, sweat beading on his brow. The tall man's jaw tightened, his dark eyes stoic, refusing to break under Matt's gaze. Silence hung heavy, the air thick with dust and tension. Matt's lips curled into a cold smile, devoid of warmth. He drew his D-guard Bowie knife, its razor edge catching the faint light, and placed it against the tall man's index finger, pressing down slowly. Blood welled, a thin trickle at first, then more as the blade bit deeper. The man's face contorted, his stoicism cracking, a low groan escaping as he fought to stay silent.
         Matt's smile widened, his voice soft but laced with menace. "Never said I'd take it off quick."
         The tall man's resolve shattered, his voice hoarse as he choked out, "Twenty-five! Twenty-five came in for this job!" The redhead's nerve broke in the same instant, his words tumbling over the other's in a panicked babble. "Yeah, twenty-five! All of us, on one cargo ship! We're based at an old industrial farm outside the city--abandoned, rusted-out place! Kids go straight to the ship's cargo hold there!"
         Matt eased back, his knife still in hand but resting lightly on his knee, his cold gaze unwavering as the slavers spilled their guts, each racing to outtalk the other. The redhead's voice cracked, frantic. "We bought three trucks, painted 'em to look like them white aid trucks--red crescents, all of it! Three teams, we go out to grab kids. Scouts scope the slums, find ones nobody'll miss. Sometimes we pay parents--couple of credits, don't even care if they're really the parents!"
         Anika's head snapped up from the girl, her ears flattening further, her face draining of color. Her claws froze on the sack, her eyes wide with a numb horror that silenced her rage. Matt's jaw tightened, but he stayed still, letting the slavers ramble. Through his translator implant, Cal's presence hummed faintly, recording every word with clinical precision, as she had done in countless interrogations before. When the redhead slowed down, Matt turned to the tall man, raising his knife. The tall man, sweat mixing with dust on his dark skin, added, "We rotate the trucks, hit different slums every day. The ship--same one we came in on--is parked at the farm. Kids go to its cargo hold, ready for transport."
         Their words petered out, the slavers panting, eyes darting between Matt and the knife. He leaned forward, his voice cutting through the dusty air, calm but edged with ice. "What's your quota? How many kids have you grabbed?"
         The tall man swallowed hard, his voice rough. "Don't know the whole number. Sometimes we go out, come back with nothing. But the quota's supposed to be thirty kids per team. We're close--real close." The redhead nodded rapidly, his eyes wide. "Yeah, almost there! Maybe a few left for each team!"
         Anika's ears twitched, her gaze sharpening as she did the math, her voice low and trembling with disbelief. "Ninety kids? Three teams, thirty each... How could you take that many without anybody noticing?"
         The redhead flinched, his voice shaky. "Not just the slums! We hit run-down areas outside Vyrnathys too--shantytowns, old farms. Places where aid workers visit, take kids nobody tracks."
         Anika's claws tightened on her nightstick, her eyes blazing anew, but she stayed by the girl, her focus torn. Matt leaned forward again, his voice colder still. "How do you get to the farm?"
         The redhead swallowed, his voice unsteady but eager. "South edge of the slums, past the old water tower. Dirt road, ten kilometers. Farm's got a collapsed roof, rusted silos, ship's in the back lot--big cargo ship."
         Matt nodded, his eyes narrowing. "How'd you get on-planet? Only authorized ships land near Vyrnathys."
         The slavers sat silent, their faces frozen in fear, eyes locked on Matt. The tall man's jaw clenched, the redhead's sweat-slicked hands trembling against the steel bar. Matt slowly raised his Bowie knife, its blade glinting as it hovered over their splayed fingers. The redhead's breath hitched, and both men broke, their voices overlapping in a panicked rush. "We don't know!" the tall man blurted, his voice cracking. "We're just grunts! They tell us where to go, what to do!" The redhead nodded frantically, his words spilling out. "Yeah, low-level! We load the trucks, grab the kids--nobody tells us the whole operation!"
         Matt studied them, his gaze piercing. Their nervous twitches, the dull panic in their eyes--they weren't lying. Neither had the brains to orchestrate a planetary breach. Of course, if that had any brains to be worth anything, they wouldn't be out here grabbing the kids. He lowered the knife, his expression unreadable but his rage still simmering beneath the surface. "I believe you," he said, his voice flat, cold. "You're too stpuid to know anything more."