The first Zaterman lunged, crowbar shrieking down. Greg twisted aside, conduit slipping on his shoulder, sparks bursting where his skull had nearly been split. He yanked the teaser-blade free—the husk at the hilt flaring alive with a crackling charge—and drove it forward. The blade kissed the scav's side. Lightning snapped. The man convulsed, crowbar clattering from twitching hands, before the blast hurled him into the heap. Metal avalanched down with a crash.
The other three surged in at once.
Greg's pulse spiked. Outnumbered. Maybe outmatched. But not untrained.
He slid his feet wide, centering his weight the way the Sidans had taught him—San Wu, the art of flow and evasion. ESC's gift to the unarmed, for times exactly like this.
The other three scavs charged.
One swung his metal rod. Greg dropped the flux conduit and pivot sideways letting his swing slice air. His palm shot out, guiding the scav's wrist aside—a San Wu redirection technique. The rod went wide, clattering over scraps. Leaving the scav's ribs open. Greg's blade flicked across, a quick tap to the ribs—crack!—the jolt dropped the Zaterman stumbling back. The second came in hard, arms locking around Greg's shoulders. Greg twisted, rolling his arms in a circle, slipping the grip. He drove an elbow up with everything he had. Bone met mask with a sickening crunch. The Zaterman reeled, clutching at his broken filter. A wet hiss escaped as the poisoned air of the pits rushed in. They couldn't breathe long without those masks—every gasp sent him clawing harder at his face, staggering back in panic.
Greg's chest burned. His breath came ragged. He wasn't built for this—never was. But instinct carried him forward.
The third Zaterman swung high with a stolen katana. Greg stepped in instead of back, dropping low, sliding his leg out. The scav toppled with a grunt, steel clattering as he slammed into the grit.
Greg staggered upright, chest heaving. For once, the moves had come smooth. Almost too smooth.
Maybe luck's on my side for once—
A crack cut the thought. The second scav had returned. Pain exploded across his ribs as a rod smashed into his chest. His cry tore out raw, breath ripped away.
He dropped to a knee—too slow. A crowbar hammered his back. White fire shot through his spine. The first scav was already on his feet, mask hanging loose, eyes wild and desperate.
Blows rained down, unrelenting. Greg pressed the hilt of the teaser-blade blindly. A searing laser bolt snapped. One scav screamed, smoke rising from scorched cloth and scales. Greg rolled away, gasping, ribs screaming.
The crowbar swung again. The fourth scav closed in, boots pounding metal. Greg's heart sank. So this was Alan's plan—send him down here to die.
Then the roar split the pit.
Sharp. Guttural and ear-splitting.
All of them froze.
Greg looked up through haze and pain. Perched high on the wreck heap was a monster. Purple scales shimmered in the dim light, a red mane flaring around its head. Its jaws split wide, teeth glistening, steam curling from its breath.
A Fadui.
Legends said Galu once crawled with them, until Exnec burned them out for mining. Greg had never seen one alive. Until now.
It roared again and leapt down. The heap shook under its weight, metal screaming as claws tore through plating. The Zatermen scattered instantly, gasping curses through their masks as they bolted into the wreck fields.
Greg ignored the agony burning in his chest and grabbed the conduit. Adrenaline lit his veins, boiling the pain to background noise. He sprinted.
The Fadui's roar chased him, heat rolling off its massive frame, every stride thunder against the steel floor.
The cage was ahead. Greg hurled himself inside, conduit clattering beside him, and yanked the lever.
The lift groaned upward—just as the Fadui slammed against it.
Bars screeched. Claws raked the underside. The whole cage shuddered, metal tearing by inches. Greg slammed the door shut and pressed his back against it, conduit tight in his arms. The beast's jaws snapped inches from his boots, teeth clanging off the bars.
Then the cage lurched higher, dragging him away.
Greg's chest heaved. Sweat stung his eyes. His ribs screamed. But he was alive.
Too close. Way too close.
Greg hit the surface on shaking legs, nearly crumpling as the cage clanged into place. The air was no better up here, but at least it wasn't crawling with Fadui. He staggered three steps and collapsed against a rusted strut, the conduit still hugged tight to his chest.
For a long moment he just lay there, ribs screaming, sweat soaking through his collar. His mind wanted to shut down. But the thought gnawed at him: he was not done. Not even close.
Three coolant cores. One phase inverter. Without them, the ship was a corpse.
Greg let his head fall back, staring at the ceiling struts lost in shadow. Alan hadn't sent him into the pits just to fetch a conduit. He knew what was missing. He knew the cost. This wasn't supply running—it was survival hazing. A test to see if Greg was worth his help.
"Bastard," he muttered, throat raw.
The coolant cores came first. Galu miners worked them—the cores kept the Xilvi refineries alive, and the refineries kept Exnec's grip on the planet unbroken. If production faltered even for a day, Enforcers would descend in droves. And when Enforcers came, people vanished. Everyone knew that.
Getting close to the cores meant slipping through fences, dodging patrols, ducking floodlights. But worse were the miners themselves. Greg had seen what hunger and fear could carve into a person. He remembered a woman no older than thirty beating a thief bloody over a crust of bread. They weren't cruel—they were desperate. And desperate people never hesitated.
Greg's ribs throbbed as he forced himself upright, conduit heavy in his arms. He wasn't sure what scared him more—scavs with crowbars, or miners with nothing left to lose.
His back muscles screamed with every step, but he kept moving. He couldn't risk resting long—not with Zatermen scattered back into the pits, not with a Fadui prowling below. The conduit dug into his shoulder, it was going to be a burden if he was to steal coolant cores. He looped a rope around the conduit and slung it across his back, freeing his hands. No more excuses.
The refinery yards weren't far. Follow the old tramline. Keep low under the pipes. Avoid the floodlit walkways. He repeated the route in his head like a prayer.
The path was worse than he remembered—more rust, more rot, or maybe it was just him breaking down. Pools of oily water reflected strips of sickly light. Machinery pounded in the distance, steady as a war drum. The air reeked of burnt minerals and acid steam, burning the back of his throat.
Then he saw the yards.
They stretched out like a prison camp, fences laced with wire to keep out scavs, smugglers, and opportunists like him. Floodlamps swept slow arcs across the grounds. Guards stood on high balconies, rifles slung, visors gleaming in the light. Inside, the miners moved like ghosts in soot-stained uniforms, wheeling carts of glowing slag.
Greg's eyes found the coolant rigs—tall stacks venting vapor, cores slotted into their sides like beating hearts. Guards patrolled close, alert. He could sneak there and pull the cores, or try the ones locked in storage deeper inside. The rigs would cause chaos if one failed—overheating could cripple the refinery. It would make escaping easier. But it would also bring ruin on the miners. The storage would be safer but harder to reach.
Greg pressed himself flat against a pipe, his heart hammering. The ship needed three cores. Ten guards, maybe more. Twice as many eyes on the balconies.
It wasn't impossible. Nothing ever was. But this? This would take more than sneaking in. Timing. Luck. And maybe a little chaos.
He clenched his jaw. One way or another, he had to walk into the lion's den.