Chapter 4: Champagne and Threats
The heavy thrum of the Star Drifter’s engines vibrated through the deck plates, a deep, resonant pulse that echoed in Jax’s bones. The air tasted metallic, thick with ozone and the faint, greasy tang of recycled atmosphere. He moved down the bridge access corridor like a shadow coalescing from the gloom. Sleek metal walls curved overhead, bathed in the cool, shifting blues and greens of holographic navigation schematics projected onto panels. It felt sterile, functional, a stark contrast to Luxor’s gaudy opulence, yet still leagues above the Dauntless’s utilitarian grit. His boots made almost no sound on the textured flooring, his senses stretched taut, scanning for any sign of the Valerius heiress – or trouble. Trouble usually found him first.
He rounded a junction where conduits snaked overhead. The scent shifted abruptly. Underlying the ship’s metallic breath came something jarringly decadent: the crisp, effervescent tang of expensive champagne and the cloying sweetness of ripe strawberries. His nostrils flared. That didn’t belong on a freighter hauling ore.
A woman emerged from a side hatchway, her back momentarily turned. She carried a heavy tray laden with crystal flutes bubbling with pale gold liquid, a small bowl piled high with glistening red berries, and a folded linen napkin. Her uniform, a dark blue jumpsuit, was cinched tight at the waist, emphasizing a voluptuous figure. Platinum blonde hair was pinned up in a messy knot, exposing a long neck. She hummed softly, off-key, adjusting her grip on the tray.
Jax moved. Fast and silent. He didn’t grab her. He simply stepped into her path, a sudden, immovable bulkhead of scarred muscle and worn grey fatigues. She gasped, stumbling backwards. The tray tilted precariously. Champagne sloshed violently against the rims of the flutes. One tipped, fell, shattered on the deck with a sharp, musical crash. Liquid sprayed, strawberries tumbled like crimson dice.
“Hey! Watch where you’re—” Her indignant cry died as she looked up, truly seeing him. Her eyes, a startlingly pale blue, widened in shock, then flickered with instinctive fear. She pressed herself flat against the cold bulkhead, the surviving flutes trembling violently on the tray she clutched like a shield. “You… you’re not crew.”
Jax ignored the spilled luxury. His gaze pinned her, cold and assessing. “Zara Valerius.” His voice was low, gravel scraped over stone. “Where is she?”
The woman swallowed hard, her throat working. Fear warred with a flicker of defiance. “Who’s asking? Security? Daddy’s hired muscle?” Her eyes darted over his face, lingering on the thick, pale scar that ran from his temple down to his jawline. “You look like you’ve seen the wrong end of a plasma cutter.”
“The answer,” Jax said, his tone dropping another degree, making the ambient engine hum seem louder. “Now.”
She flinched. The defiance crumpled. Her gaze dropped to the mess on the floor – the shattered crystal, the wasted champagne soaking into the deck plating. “Captain’s quarters,” she whispered, her voice tight. “Deck A, forward section. Private lounge.” She looked back up, her pale eyes meeting his icy blues. There was pity there, mixed with the fear. “She’s… negotiating passage. Entertaining the Captain.” The word ‘entertaining’ was loaded, heavy with implication.
Jax’s jaw tightened. The image flashed – spoiled rich kid playing at rebellion, using the only currency she understood. Fury, cold and precise, coiled in his gut. Another complication. Another debt added to Inaya’s ledger. His hand shot out, not to strike, but to brace against the bulkhead beside her head, caging her in. She gasped again, shrinking back. The tray clattered as her grip spasmed.
“Negotiating,” Jax echoed, the word dripping with contempt. “With Captain…?”
“Vorlag,” she supplied quickly, breathlessly. “Borus Vorlag.” A shudder ran through her. “He’s… not a man who likes interruptions. Or sharing.” Her gaze drifted back to his scar. Almost unconsciously, drawn by the brutal history etched there, her free hand lifted. Her fingertips, trembling slightly, brushed the raised, knotted tissue near his temple. The touch was feather-light, cool against his skin. It wasn’t flirtatious. It was morbid fascination, a tactile confirmation of the danger radiating from him. “He never shares his toys willingly,” she breathed, her voice barely audible over the thrumming engines. “Especially ones that look like her. You go in there, you’re walking into a hornet’s nest.”
Jax didn’t move. He held her trapped gaze, feeling the tremor in her fingers against his scar. The scent of spilled champagne was sharp in his nose, mingling with the ship’s metallic tang and the faint, expensive perfume clinging to her skin. Janika’s hopeful warmth on the Luxor tram felt galaxies away. This was the reality: a frightened woman warning him about a possessive captain and a reckless heiress bartering her way across the stars. The Kestrel rifle dug into his shoulder blade, a familiar, grounding pressure.
He slowly lowered his arm from the bulkhead. The sudden lack of confinement made her sag slightly, relief washing over her face, quickly followed by renewed apprehension.
“Deck A. Forward lounge,” Jax stated flatly, committing it to memory. He glanced down at the spilled champagne, the ruined strawberries. A waste. Like this whole damn job. He looked back at the navigation officer. “Your name?”
“L-Lysa,” she stammered.
“Lysa.” He nodded once, a curt acknowledgment. “Pick that up. Stay here. If anyone asks… you dropped the tray. Got dizzy.” His tone brooked no argument. It was an order, delivered with the same calm certainty he’d used commanding marines. Safer for her if she wasn’t involved.
He didn’t wait for her response. He turned, his movements fluid and economical, and strode down the corridor towards the forward section lifts. The holographic lights cast shifting patterns on his grim face. The thrum of the engines deepened, vibrating in his teeth. Deck A. Forward lounge. Captain Vorlag’s private domain. Where Zara Valerius was ‘entertaining’.
Lysa’s warning echoed in his mind: He never shares his toys willingly. The cold fury solidified into a razor-sharp focus. The weight of the Kestrel was comforting. The grip of his holstered pistol was familiar leather against his palm.
He reached the lift bank. The indicator showed a car descending from Deck A. He didn’t press the call button. Instead, he spotted the maintenance ladder recessed into the wall beside it, leading upwards through a narrow shaft. Faster. Quieter. He wrenched the access panel open, the metal groaning in protest. The smell of lubricant and dust wafted out. Without hesitation, he hauled himself into the cramped, vertical tunnel, the pack scraping against the sides. He began to climb, hand over hand, the rhythmic clang of his boots on the rungs echoing faintly in the confined space, a grim counterpoint to the Star Drifter’s heartbeat. Above him, Deck A awaited. And whatever game Zara Valerius was playing.
The climb was a vertical gauntlet of greased metal and stale air, every clang of his boot against the rung a potential alarm bell. Sweat stung his eyes, mingling with the metallic tang that coated his throat. He focused on the rhythm: reach, pull, climb, ignoring the ache in his shoulders and the weight of the Kestrel digging into his back. Deck A’s access hatch loomed above, a dull grey circle in the gloom.
He shoved the heavy hatch cover aside with a grating scrape that sounded deafening in the confined shaft. Cooler, filtered air washed over him as he hauled himself into a dimly lit service corridor. Conduits snaked along the ceiling; the ever-present thrum of the engines vibrated the deck plates under his palms. He crouched, scanning left and right, senses hyper-alert. Clear, for now.
A startled gasp echoed from his right. A young man froze mid-stride, eyes wide as saucers beneath a messy mop of dark brown hair. Ulf’s gaze darted from Jax’s scarred face to the rifle slung across his back, then down to the comm-pad clipped to his belt. Panic flared in his amber eyes. "Hey! Who the hell—?"
His hand flew towards the comm-pad’s emergency alert button. There was no hesitation. Jax lunged forward, a silent predator closing the distance before Ulf’s finger could make contact. One hand clamped over the engineer’s mate’s mouth, stifling a cry, while the other drove a precise, piston-hard punch into the soft spot just below Ulf’s ribcage. The air whooshed out of him in a silent scream.
Ulf went rigid, eyes bulging, then sagged like a puppet with cut strings. Jax caught the lanky frame before it hit the deck, lowering him carefully into the shadow of a humming power converter. He checked the pulse at the kid’s throat – strong, just unconscious. "Sleep tight, sparky," Jax muttered, pulling Ulf’s comm-pad free and crushing it under his boot heel with a satisfying crunch. One less alarm bell.
He left the young engineer tucked away and moved deeper into the forward section. The utilitarian corridors grew marginally wider, the lighting slightly less harsh. A thick, reinforced door marked ‘CAPTAIN – PRIVATE QUARTERS’ stood at the end of the passage. No guards. Vorlag felt secure behind his bulkhead. Mistake.
Jax pressed his ear against the cold metal. Muffled sounds filtered through: the low murmur of a man’s voice, gruff and confident, punctuated by the sharp, crystalline chime of glassware. And underneath it, a lighter, higher tone – feminine, lilting, edged with a forced brightness. Zara. Lysa hadn’t lied.
He tested the door control panel. Locked, naturally. Standard mag-lock. He pulled a thin, multi-tool from his belt, its edges worn smooth. Inserting it into the slim gap beside the panel, he felt for the manual override circuit. A twist, a faint click, and the panel’s status light flickered from red to green. Vorlag’s security was as slovenly as Lysa implied.
The door slid open silently. The scene inside hit him like a wave of contrasting sensations. The captain’s quarters were surprisingly spacious, dominated by a large viewport showing the streaking stars of warp transit. But the opulence ended there. The air hung thick and cloying with the sweet-sour smell of cheap synth-ale, clashing violently with the lingering ghost of expensive perfume.
Captain Borus Vorlag filled a large, worn synth-leather chair like an overstuffed sack. He was immense, his gut straining against a stained uniform tunic, jowls resting on his collar. Greasy strands of grey hair clung to a sweaty scalp. He held a crystal flute awkwardly in his meaty hand, dwarfed by his thick fingers.
Perched on the arm of his chair, leaning in with an artful tilt of her head, was Zara Valerius. Her vibrant purple hair was a shocking explosion of color against the drab surroundings, defying gravity in artful spikes. She wore a shimmering, low-cut top that looked wildly out of place, one leg crossed over the other, a matching flute held delicately. A mischievous glint danced in her emerald eyes, but Jax saw the tightness around her mouth, the subtle tension in the line of her shoulders. Vorlag’s free hand rested possessively, heavily, on her bare thigh. Her knuckles were white where she gripped her glass.
"…faster route through the Myrmidon Belt, sweet thing," Vorlag was rasping, his voice thick with ale and entitlement. He squeezed her thigh, making her flinch almost imperceptibly. "Costs extra, mind. Risky jump. But for you…" He leered, his breath visible even from the doorway. "Maybe we work somethin' out. You got… other talents."
Zara’s laugh was bright, brittle. "Captain, you flatter me. But my credits are good as gold." She shifted slightly, her movement designed to dislodge his hand without appearing to. It didn’t work. His grip tightened.
"Credits?" Vorlag snorted, spraying flecks of ale. "Got plenty. What I ain't got enough of is… pleasant company." His eyes roved over her with crude appreciation. "Especially company that looks like somethin’ stepped off a pleasure barge. Why’d a pretty thing like you wanna slum it on the Drifter, huh? Runaway from some stuck-up corpo?"
Zara’s smile tightened. "Let's just say daddy's world felt a little… suffocating." Her emerald gaze flickered towards the door, then widened in genuine shock as it landed on Jax filling the doorway. Her forced composure cracked, replaced by naked surprise.
Vorlag’s head swiveled, his piggy eyes narrowing to furious slits as he took in the intruder – the scarred face, the worn fatigues, the weapon openly displayed. Rage purpled his features. "What the fuck?" He surged to his feet, the movement surprisingly fast for his bulk, sending his flute crashing to the deck. Synth-ale splattered the floor. "Who the hell are you? How'd you get in here?" He instinctively stepped slightly in front of Zara, a territorial gesture. "Ulf! Sound intruder alert!"
Jax didn’t move from the doorway, a grim monolith blocking the exit. His icy blue eyes locked onto Vorlag’s. "Your sparky’s taking a nap," he stated, his voice low and dangerously calm. He shifted his gaze past the fuming captain to Zara. "Playtime’s over, Princess. You’re coming with me."
Vorlag puffed out his chest, spittle flying. "Like hell she is! She’s my passenger! You ain't takin' nothin', you scarred sonofa—" His bluster died abruptly as Jax’s hand moved. Not towards a gun. A flick of the wrist, and the heavy, razor-edged combat knife Jax had palmed when lowering Ulf was suddenly gleaming in the dim light, its point aimed unwaveringly at Vorlag’s broad chest. The captain’s face drained of color.
"Try," Jax suggested, the single word colder than the void beyond the viewport, "and see what happens." The knife didn't waver. The silence in the cabin became absolute, thick with impending violence. Vorlag’s hand twitched near his own sidearm, frozen. Zara stared, wide-eyed, frozen between shock and a flicker of something dangerously like exhilaration. The standoff crackled. The only sound was Jax's slow, steady breathing and the frantic thud of Vorlag's heart practically visible through his stained tunic.
The knife point hovered, unwavering, a cold star aimed at the pulsing sweat stain above Vorlag's heart. Jax’s breathing remained a slow, controlled metronome against the captain’s ragged gasps. Vorlag’s eyes, wide with fury and sudden, dawning terror, flickered between the blade and Jax’s ice-chip stare. His hand trembled near his holstered pistol, frozen by the sheer, silent promise of evisceration radiating from the scarred intruder.
"Think," Jax murmured, the word slicing through the thick air. "Is she worth dying in a puddle of cheap synth-ale?"
Vorlag’s jowls quivered. Spittle flecked his lips. "You... you don't know who you're messing with!" The bluster sounded hollow, desperate. His gaze darted to Zara, still perched on the chair arm, frozen like a startled bird. "She's mine! Deal's struck!"
Zara found her voice, sharp and laced with defiance that couldn't quite mask the tremor beneath. "I struck nothing, you bloated gas-sack!" Her emerald eyes burned with sudden fury, directed at Vorlag. "Get your filthy hand off me!" She tried to wrench her leg free, but his grip tightened like a vise, his knuckles whitening.
The possessive squeeze was Vorlag’s fatal mistake. It snapped the fragile thread holding Jax’s restraint. The knife didn't plunge. Instead, Jax exploded forward, a blur of grey fatigues and lethal intent. His left hand shot out, not for Vorlag, but for Zara’s wrist. He yanked her sideways with brutal force, tearing her from the captain’s grasp. She stumbled, crashing into Jax’s side with a gasp, her champagne flute flying from her hand to shatter against the viewport.
Vorlag roared, a sound of pure, wounded pride and rage. Freed from the immediate threat to Zara, instinct took over. He lunged, not for his gun, but bull-rushed Jax, his immense bulk propelled by fury. His meaty fist swung wildly, aiming for Jax’s head. It was clumsy, fueled by ale and panic.
Jax didn't try to dodge fully. He turned his shoulder into the charge, absorbing the glancing blow with a grunt. Simultaneously, his right hand, still holding the knife, moved with terrifying economy. Not a stab. A vicious, upward slash. The blade flashed, catching the harsh overhead light.
It opened Vorlag’s throat.
The roar choked instantly into a wet, gargling rasp. Vorlag’s eyes bulged, shock obliterating rage. He stumbled backward, hands flying to his neck, fingers scrabbling uselessly against the crimson tide welling between them. A horrific, bubbling sound escaped him. He crashed into his synth-leather chair, overturning it with a heavy thud. His legs kicked spasmodically, boots scraping against the deck plates slick with spilled ale and now, spreading blood.
He hit the floor hard. The wet rasping intensified, a grotesque counterpoint to the ship’s steady thrum. His hands fell away from his ruined throat, revealing the ghastly wound. Blood pulsed rhythmically onto the stained metal, pooling darkly around his head. His eyes, wide and unseeing, stared fixedly at the ceiling panels. A final, shuddering gasp escaped him, followed by absolute stillness. The stench of iron flooded the cabin, overwhelming the synth-ale and perfume.
Silence descended, heavier than before. Only the ship’s hum remained. Jax lowered the blood-slicked knife, his expression unchanged granite. He didn't look at the corpse. He looked at Zara.
She stood frozen beside him, pressed against his arm. Her face was bone-white, her vibrant hair a shocking contrast. Her emerald eyes were locked on Vorlag’s body, wide with horrified fascination. Her chest rose and fell rapidly. She wasn't screaming. Just staring. Breathing fast.
"Move," Jax commanded, his voice rough but devoid of anger now. Pure necessity. He grabbed her upper arm, his grip firm but not bruising. "Now."
The command jolted her. She blinked, tearing her gaze from the spreading pool of crimson. Her eyes met his, filled with a chaotic mix of terror, exhilaration, and something else – a raw, unsettling understanding of the violence she’d just witnessed. Of the man who’d delivered it. She didn't resist as he pulled her towards the door.
The corridor outside felt colder, emptier. The metallic tang of the ship was now underscored by the phantom scent of blood clinging to Jax’s knife hand. Zara stumbled slightly, her legs unsteady. Jax propelled her forward, scanning the passageway. Clear, for now. Ulf was still out cold. Lysa was hopefully still cleaning spilled champagne far below.
He pulled her towards the maintenance ladder shaft he’d used. "Up," he ordered, shoving the hatch open. "Fast."
Zara stared at the dark, greasy shaft. "Are you insane? Where are we—"
"Nowhere safe," Jax cut her off, his voice low and urgent. He pushed her towards the opening. "That," he jerked his head back towards the captain's quarters, "wasn't quiet. Someone heard. Someone will come." He saw the lingering shock in her eyes, the tremor in her hands. "Move your ass, Valerius, or you'll end up like him when his loyalists find us."
The blunt threat, coupled with the chilling image of Vorlag’s final moments, snapped her into motion. She scrambled awkwardly into the shaft, her impractical clothes snagging on the rungs. Jax followed immediately, pulling the hatch shut behind them with a heavy clang, plunging them into near-darkness punctuated only by dim emergency strips. The rhythmic clang of their ascent echoed in the tight space, a grim drumbeat marking their escape from the scene of Vorlag’s very dramatic demise. Below, the silence of the captain's quarters was broken only by the insistent drip of blood onto cold metal.