LEAGUE OF PROTECTORS.

Deep Space.

Orb Seek.

1901 hours.

June 11.

Jarok locked himself in the cabin. He dropped into the steel chair bolted to the deck. The hum of the shuttle was his kind of lullaby. Low and steady. The sound of a tired machine still doing its job.

He loosened his collar and thumbed the safety off his jackblaster. He then set it within easy reach.

Paranoia wasn't paranoia anymore. It was survival.

Then the call came.

The holographic interface snapped to life. Bleeding pale blue light across the cabin. Out came Gripps.

The Grand Imperator. All slick silver robes and those eyes - flat and cold like gun barrels. He had the face of a preacher and the smile of a mortician.

"Jarok Mirr," Gripps said. Voice oiled and venomous. "You look tired."

"War does that," Jarok said, leaning back like he wasn't coiled up inside. "Even when it's over."

Gripps chuckled. It wasn't the friendly kind. "The war's over, Marshal. But the work? The work's just beginning. I have plans. And you… my favorite hammer… you're going to help me forge them."

Jarok rubbed at his temple. It was like he was massaging out a bullet. "Say it, Imperator."

That grin sharpened. It was like a blade. "We're assembling an exploration team. A special unit. Long-range ventures. I need someone to head the panel. You."

Jarok barked out a laugh. It sounded like broken glass. "Exploration? That's Republic turf. The Martian Treaty makes it crystal. You push that line and you're begging for a war. One even you can't bury."

Gripps leaned forward, the hologram flickering across his cadaver face. "The Council of the Republic cannot be trusted."

Jarok's eyes narrowed. "You mean Jedd Spool? The man who stopped the Wolves from turning your empire into chew toys? He's a retired Field Marshal. One of the few men you owe your throne to."

Gripps went still. "That relic has his own agenda. He's too wrapped in his Republic daydreams to see the bigger picture. I don't trust him. Neither should you."

Jarok leaned in, his face lit up in that ghastly glow. "And that's why you want him out of the loop? Tell me, Gripps…" His voice dropped to a razor whisper. "…is that why he's already dead?"

Gripps didn't blink. Didn't breathe. Just smiled. That kind of smile that could slit a man open.

"Careful, Jarok," he said softly. "I like you. But liking you doesn't mean I won't ruin you. Fall in line. Do this for me. Or you'll wish the Arcane Wolves had finished the job."

The call cut. Dead air.

Jarok stared at the blank screen, fingers twitching toward the jackblaster. Old reflex. When the room smelled like a trap, you kept your trigger close.

He needed someone he could trust. Someone who wasn't dripping poison under silk.

Jedd Spool.

Jarok keyed the comm, patched through to Neptune.

The screen blinked alive after a long. It was an ugly pause.

Jedd looked like hell. Gaunt and pale. He was wrapped in a coat two sizes too big. The backdrop was all blues and whites. Someone's residence. But not his.

"Jarok," Jedd said. Voice gravelly and rusted. "Make it quick. We're choking on a pandemic out here."

Jarok leaned forward. "Just got off a call with Gripps. He's assembling an exploration unit. Says he doesn't trust the Republic. Says he doesn't trust you."

Jedd's face froze. "That son of a bitch."

"Yeah," Jarok said. "That son of a bitch. I asked him if that's why you're dead. He didn't answer."

Jedd snorted. No humor in it. "Of course he didn't. He doesn't answer questions like that. He buries people who ask them."

Jarok lit a sync-cig. Five years clean, but his nerves wanted poison. "He threatened me. Told me to fall in line. Or else."

Jedd didn't flinch. "Then you'd better decide fast. Gripps doesn't do second warnings."

Jarok blew smoke at the screen. "And if I don't play his game?"

Jedd's voice dropped to a whisper that could freeze blood. "Then you don't live long enough to regret it."

The line crackled. Then cut.

Jarok sat there. Smoke coiling toward the ceiling. It was like a ghost looking for an exit. The hum of the shuttle felt louder now.

Something in his gut told him this wasn't about exploration. Gripps was moving pieces on a board no one else could see. And Jarok Mirr? He was just another pawn staring at a darker emperor wearing state colors.

**************

Neptune. Sector 3.

1910 hours.

June 11.

Jedd Spool was what deep space spat out when it needed killers and kept when it needed bureaucrats. Battle-hardened, prosthetic-limbed, still breathing after too many tours in hellholes no sane man visited twice. He'd been shoulder to shoulder with the Dark Emperor once. Friends, if that word still meant anything.

The Arcane ended his soldiering. A pulse mine ended his leg. They pinned a medal on him, gave him a prosthetic, called him a hero. He called it survival. Then the Martian Treaty dragged him back in—this time in a suit, pushing pens instead of plasma rifles.

Tonight, he was in Neptune. Sitting across from Mills Klume, the Republic's mouthpiece. The man looked like the planet carved him out of sharp corners and bad habits.

The place was a trapezoidal bunker dressed up as a house. Neptunians liked their edges like they liked their laws—sharp and unfriendly.

A fireplace spat heat. Klume's wife and kid played some holo-game that chirped like a dying bird. The furniture looked like the Empire outsourced ergonomics to a torture chamber.

Spool nursed a tankard of something that tasted like it came out of an engine. Klume matched him sip for sip.

"A storm's brewing on Earth," Spool said, voice low, steady. "Big one."

Klume didn't blink. "Why's peace always so damn fragile? I thought the treaty ended wars. Gave everyone their slice."

Spool laughed. Dry and bitter. "As long as men are in charge, they'll find a weakness. Treaties are just paper. People bleed right through them."

Klume scowled. "You're saying we need an emergency Council meeting?"

"Yeah."

Klume slammed his glass down. "That's nice. But I didn't drag you here for Imperium politics. My people need water. Not debates. Not Blokes grandstanding while they choke on dust."

"The Council will deliberate," Spool said. He sounded like he'd practiced the line.

Klume sneered. "Deliberate. Right. Meanwhile, the Imperium's drunk on power and stynx while my people die thirsty."

Spool stood. Conversation over. "The Council will deal with it."

He stepped out to the pad. The hovercraft waited, sleek and humming, ten meters over nothing.

The Neptunian sky was a smear of dirty gray. The moon sagged behind clouds. Throwing mean little shadows across Klume's quaint abode. The place was perched atop thick stilts. Like it expected the planet to try and knock it down.

The air reeked of methane. Step outside without a mask and be dead in a minute.

Klume followed. Boots clanking. "We're relying on you, Spool," he said. His voice was flat, but the fear underneath wasn't. "If you don't fix this, we'll have a problem bigger than the Dark Emperor."

Spool didn't answer. He just climbed into the craft.

Because on Neptune, hope wasn't a commodity. And Jedd Spool wasn't in the business of selling it.