The transport descended without identification, through the stench of burned fuel and rancid oil spilled across the port.

  Drones circled overhead.

  Corven patrols with thermal visors swept through the crowd.

  Biometric scanners beeped like dogs scenting fear.

  It wasn’t routine.

  It was a hunt.

  Nebula walked through the masses with her helmet sealed.

  Steady stride.

  She did not avoid eye contact.

  Running triggers algorithms.

  Running flags you.

  A drone hovered over her a second too long.

  Scan initiated.

  A hand aligned with her pace. She did not look.

  —They’re tracking genetic anomalies. Low voice. The doctor.

  —In this pit, you’re the only one worth anything.

  She didn’t slow.

  —And I need you alive.

  —For what?

  —To live.

  At the far end of the corridor, a drone emitted a sharp tone.

  The doctor raised his grimy terminal and generated a false alert in the opposite sector.

  The drone patrol changed course.

  —Now

  They turned toward a maintenance zone.

  The doctor’s shuttle was hidden behind torn panels.

  No registry. No transponder. Preconfigured. He never improvised.

  They boarded.

  A dirty vertical takeoff.

  Unauthorized departure—like every rat in the port.

  Inside the narrow cockpit, the smell of stale grease mixed with the acrid burn of engine combustion, oily smoke seeping through poorly sealed joints and clinging to the tongue like scorched fuel.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Nebula stood.

  The doctor sat at the controls.

  —What do you know about the Veyra?

  He took his time answering.

  —A species declared extinct.

  —What happened?

  —Biological enslavement. Regenerative blood. They were turned into a resource. Into treatment. Into merchandise.

  Silence.

  —They tried to break control. It didn’t work. They triggered coordinated antimatter charges. Facilities. Cores. Laboratories. An explosion that erased an entire system.

  He glanced sideways at her.

  —No one survived. That's what they made us believe.

  She didn’t react.

  —Your blood shares their markers. That shouldn’t be possible.

  Nebula felt the implant pulse hot at the base of her skull.

  She said nothing.

  The message from the dead ship echoed in her mind:

  Mission accomplished. We are in contact.

  After hours of silence

  —We’ll stay here. — The doctor said.

  The asteroid was an irregular rock welded together with scrap and hatred.

  Twisted structures. Rusted antennas. Minimal lights.

  They landed.

  Three men waited, armed with improvised rifles.

  —Well, look who decided to come back…— said the one in the middle, crooked smile.

  —Xanders sends his regards.

  They looked at Nebula.

  Closed armor. Dark visor.

  One of them stepped too close.

  He didn’t finish the movement.

  Nebula seized him by the throat.

  Knee to the groin.

  He folded.

  She smashed his skull against the shuttle’s hull.

  The visor cracked.

  Red blood spilled through the seams.

  The second fired.

  The projectile grazed Nebula’s shoulder, tearing away plating and flesh.

  She turned, drew the blade from her thigh, opened his abdomen.

  He fell trying to hold what was no longer his.

  The third backed away screaming.

  Nebula reached him in three steps.

  Drove the blade into his trachea.

  Gurgling.

  Arterial spray streaked her visor.

  The body collapsed, twitching.

  Silence.

  —Tell Xanders I’m back in my lab! — the doctor shouted.

  —And that he owes me the credits for my exile.

  No one else approached.

  The laboratory was crude—assembled from recycled junk.

  Flickering monitors. Tanks filled with murky liquid.

  Two drifters fled when they entered.

  The doctor settled in and began working with the violet blood sample he had stored.

  He injected the experimental compound.

  His hands trembled less than before.

  —I need something else… CORV-317.

  She watched him.

  —For what?

  —It stabilizes tissue undergoing active mutation. Like yours.

  Pause.

  —If it’s what I think it is, you could regenerate more than you imagine.

  She didn’t answer.

  —The problem is the labs belong to Corven.

  Nebula activated the helmet seal.

  The visor darkened.

  —You’d better be right, Doc.

  —Send me coordinates.

  The asteroid receded behind them.

  The shuttle initiated its departure sequence.

  For the first time in a long while, she wasn’t obeying a contract.

  She was obeying because she wanted to know.

  And that was more dangerous than any implant.