Chapter 1: First Taste of Fear
The metal was cold. A deep, sucking cold that ate through the soles of her feet and climbed the bones of her legs. Lieutenant Commander Eva Rostova ignored it, the same way she ignored the perpetual film of condensation on the gangplank’s handrails and the wet, rhythmic thump-thump of Kro’Vash guards moving in the mist beyond the forcefield.
Her focus was absolute, a laser-tight beam aimed at the group of women huddled at the far end of the skeletal bridge.
The Hope’s Anchor loomed behind them, a tired Terran bulk-haulier whose hull gleamed dully under the station’s sickly bioluminescent glow. The gangplank stretched between worlds—human engineering meeting Kro’Vash organics, all rivets and shuddering pipes laid over a pulsing, veined membrane that passed for the station’s hull. The air hummed with ozone and something else. Something briny, and hot, and alive.
“Move!” Eva’s voice cracked like a whip, carried on the recycled, frigid air. “Double-time it, now!Do not look at the guards.Do not stop. Eyes forward, move!”
The line of them—seven new diplomatic auxiliaries, fresh out of the Luna academies—jolted into motion.Their bare feet slapped against the metal in a panicked, uneven rhythm. They were all so young.Faces pale, eyes wide and darting toward the shifting shadows in the mist. Each clutched a single item against her chest: a standard-issue data-slate, her transfer orders.That was the rule.One possession.No clothes, no weapons, no sentimental trash. Just you, your orders, and your nerve.If you had any left.
A low, guttural croak reverberated through the gangplank, a sound that seemed to vibrate up from the deck plates.It was answered by another, closer.From behind her.
Eva didn’t turn.She knew the sound. It was the station’s Docking Master, a particularly voracious Kro’Vash named G’hulk.He’d caught the scent. Fresh meat.Her jaw tightened.
The first recruit reached her, a girl with cropped black hair and terror-glazed eyes.“Ma’am, I—”
“No talking.Inside. Go.” Eva grabbed her shoulder, spun her gently but firmly, and shoved her toward the archway that led into the Enclave’s sterile, human-maintained corridors. The girl stumbled forward, a flash of relief on her face as she crossed the threshold.The second, third.Another croak, louder. The thump-thump of webbed feet was closer now. The mist near the gangplank’s starboard side swirled.
“Faster!” Eva snarled, positioning her body between the recruits and the mist.She felt exposed, vulnerable in a way that crawled under her skin. Her modified plasma pistol, the one with the molecular-stripping charge, was locked in her quarters. The rules.Always the damn rules. Her mind, her tactical computer of a mind, mapped the gangplank: fourteen meters to the arch, five potential ambush points, three escape routes if the forcefield failed.All of them bad.
The fourth recruit, a redhead, froze, her eyes locked on a massive shape coalescing in the vapor. A silhouette twelve feet tall, with the unmistakable hunched profile and bulbous head of a Kro’Vash.
Eva stepped in front of her, blocking her view. “Look at me,” she commanded, her voice low and fierce.The girl’s eyes snapped to Eva’s.Green on green. “You see me?Good.I am your commanding officer.Nothing else exists. Now move your ass.”
The girl blinked, nodded, and scurried past.Five.Six.
The last one, a petite blonde, was sobbing quietly, her body shaking.She’d dropped her slate. It skittered toward the railing. Eva lunged, grabbed the girl’s wrist with one hand, the slate with the other.“You cry later,” Eva hissed, pulling her close. “You fall apart in your bunk, where it’s safe.Out here, you are a statue. You understand?A stone.They can’t eat stone.”
A shadow fell over them. The air grew thick, saturated with the smell of swamp water and ripe pheromones. Eva shoved the blonde toward the archway, then turned, slowly, placing herself squarely in the path of the creature emerging from the mist.It was G’hulk. His mottled, olive-green skin was slick with station mucus. His enormous golden eyes, with their horizontal black slits, regarded her with a lazy, predatory interest.His wide mouth twitched.
“Lieutenant Commander,” he rumbled, the words bubbling up from a deep chest. His long, prehensile tongue flicked out, a blur of pink, tasting the air between them.It lingered near where the blonde had been standing. “A… lively batch.Plump. The Ancestors favor us.”
“They are diplomatic personnel, Docking Master,” Eva said, her voice flat, neutral. She kept her spine straight, her chin level.Showing fear was an invitation.Showing anger could be a challenge. Neutrality was a wall. “Under the protection of the Enclave Accords.”
G’hulk emitted a wet, clicking sound—Kro’Vash laughter.“Accords.Yes. Thin paper, for thin beings.” He took a heavy step forward, his webbed foot settling on the deck with a soft squash.He was well within striking distance.Eva calculated the angles. A kick to the vocal sac, a thumb in the eye. It would cost her her life, but it might give the last recruit two more seconds to clear the arch.
“The station governor,” Eva said, not moving a muscle, “expects their processing to be uninterrupted.”
At the mention of the governor, G’hulk’s posture shifted almost imperceptibly. The lazy hunger in his eyes dimmed, replaced by a flicker of something else—annoyance, perhaps, or wariness.He hissed, a sound like steam escaping a pipe.
“The Wet-Skinned has peculiar tastes,” he muttered. He gave Eva one last, lingering look, his gaze traveling over her with an appraiser’s cold efficiency, then turned and melted back into the glowing mist, his croaking orders echoing behind him.
Eva didn’t allow herself to shudder until she had backed through the archway, until the heavy Terran-alloy doors, inscribed with the twin eagles of Earth, hissed shut behind her.The sterile, recycled air of the Enclave corridor felt like a blessing.
The seven recruits were clustered a few meters away, a pale, shivering monument to shock. The blonde was still crying silently.
“Get them to debriefing room three,” Eva said to a nearby rating, a young woman with a security band on her bicep. “Get them thermal blankets and nutrient paste.Standard orientation spiel. No one talks to them until I’m there.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Eva walked down the corridor, the cool grate of the floor a familiar sensation under her feet. Her heart was still hammering, a frantic drum against her ribs.Stone, she told herself.You are a stone.
Her quarters were a spartan cell: a bunk, a terminal, a sanitizer unit, and a secure locker. She palmed the lock.The door hissed open.Inside, on a shelf, lay her pistol. Its dark, polymer grip was comforting.She didn’t pick it up.Just looked at it. Then she closed the locker.A soft chime came from her terminal. An invitation, encrypted with the governor’s personal cipher.She accepted. The screen resolved into the immense, froglike face of Ambassador S’Sarthak. His mottled skin was drier than G’hulk’s, patterned with intricate whorls that denoted age and status.His enormous golden eyes blinked slowly.
“Lieutenant Commander Rostova,” his voice boomed, filtered through the speakers into a low, grinding baritone. “I trust the transfer was… uneventful?”
“The Docking Master found them lively, sir,” Eva replied, her tone carefully devoid of accusation.
S’Sarthak’s throat pouch inflated and deflated.A sigh.“G’hulk is traditional. His Ancestors swam in primordial soups and ate whatever swam with them. He finds our… restraint… confusing.” The long tongue flicked out, a reflexive gesture he seemed to catch mid-motion. He pulled it back in. “The new arrivals are well?”
“They are frightened.”
“Wisdom, in its infancy.” S’Sarthak’s bulbous eyes seemed to soften. “You performed your duty with customary efficiency. The protection edict for non-cloned sentients proceeds to the Station Council for vote tomorrow. Your report on G’hulk’s… enthusiasm… may be entered as evidence of its necessity.”
A flicker of something dangerous, something like hope, tried to ignite in Eva’s chest.She crushed it. Trust was a luxury, and luxuries got you eaten.“Will it pass?” she asked, blunt.
S’Sarthak was silent for a long moment.“The galaxy is a hungry place, Little Sweetmeat. My people see a resource, teeming and defenseless.I see… complexity.Beauty. It is an unpopular view.” He leaned closer to his pickup, his massive face filling her screen. “Continue your vigilance, Lieutenant Commander.And keep your statue-face.It suits you.”
The transmission cut.
Eva stood in the quiet of her cell, the governor’s words hanging in the air. An ally, perhaps.Or a more sophisticated predator.The difference, in the end, might not matter.
She turned and left her quarters, heading for debriefing room three. She had seven stones to teach how to be statues. And a tactical map of a hungry station to update in her mind, where the only safe route was one you carved yourself.
Eva Rostova’s bare feet slapped against the cold, ridged metal of the gangplank. Each impact sent a jolt up her spine, a sharp reminder of vulnerability. The air in the Kro’Vash Prime docking bay was thick with the smell of ozone, alien musk, and something else—something metallic and sweet that turned her stomach.It was the scent of fear, she knew, bleeding out of the new arrivals.
They stood in a shuddering line just inside the pressure seal, twelve young women clutching small data-slates to their chests like shields. Their eyes were moons, wide and white-rimmed, tracking every shadow in the vaulted chamber above. They were all clones, born in vats on Earth’s orbital farms, tailored for diplomacy and service.Expendable. The word was a cold stone in Eva’s gut.“Move! Now, damn it!” Her voice cut through the hum of machinery and the distant, wet cacophony of the station. It wasn’t a request.
A low, guttural croak reverberated from the mist-shrouded depths of the bay behind her. It was a sound that started in the belly and ended in a phlegmy rattle.The Docking Master.He’d caught the scent.
The girls flinched as one. One of them, a redhead with a spray of freckles across her nose, dropped her slate.It clattered, the sound absurdly loud.Eva didn’t break stride. She swooped, grabbed the girl’s thin arm, and propelled her forward. “Don’t stop.Don’t look back.The gangway. Go.”
Their bare feet pattered behind her, a frantic rhythm against the deeper, slower thump… thump… of something massive moving in the mist. Eva’s mind mapped the bay: forty meters to the service elevator, two possible cover points if they had weapons, none if they didn’t. Their only allowed possessions were the slates. Her own favourite modified plasma pistol was locked in the Terran Enclave armory, rendered useless by the Kro’Vash rule.For security, they said. To promote trust.It was to make them feel soft, edible.
“Lieutenant Commander?” a small voice piped up.The redhead, stumbling alongside her. “The… the noise…”
“It’s just the Docking Master.He’s checking the hull integrity.” It was a lie. They all knew it.The Kro’Vash were amphibious, their senses hyper-acute. They could smell adrenaline, taste cortisol on the air. That croak hadn’t been about the ship.The service elevator doors hissed open. Eva herded the last of the recruits inside, the grubby yellow light of the car a fragile sanctuary. As the doors began to close, a shape coalesced in the mist. It was vast, a mountain of mottled olive-green flesh and shadow. A single, bulbous golden eye, the pupil a horizontal black slit, peered at them. Then a long, pale pink tongue, thick as Eva’s thigh, flicked out, snaking a good three meters into the air before retreating.The doors sealed.
Silence, except for the choked sobs of one of the clones.The car began to rise.
Eva leaned against the wall, her heart hammering against her ribs.She scanned the faces. Young, terrified, genetically optimized for beauty and compliance.Meat for the grinder of galactic politics.Her girls. Her responsibility.“Listen up,” she said, her voice lower now, forged from steel and fatigue. “You’re on Kro’Vash Prime.The rules are simple.You obey the protocols. You stay within the Enclave sectors unless escorted. You do not, under any circumstances, make eye contact with a Kro’Vash in the food markets.Is that clear?”
Nods.Shaky. The redhead wiped her nose. “What… what happens if we do?”
“You become a personal complication for me. And I don’t like complications.” Eva pushed off the wall as the elevator slowed.“You are diplomats.You are representatives of Earth.Act like it. Even if you feel like lunch.”
The doors opened onto the Administrative Spine. Here, the air was drier, recycled until it tasted of dust and static. The lighting was a harsh, unforgiving white, gleaming off polished alien alloys.And it was crowded.
Kro’Vash officials moved through the corridor, their immense forms brushing the ceiling. Their conversations were a series of clicks, croaks, and deep, watery rumbles. They paid little attention to the cluster of humans, except for the occasional languid turn of a head, a golden eye swiveling to track their progress. Eva felt their gaze on her skin like a physical weight.
She led the recruits through a maze of passages, her own senses hyper-alert.She noted every alcove, every access panel, every potential choke point. Her tactical mind, a relic from a different life, constantly updated the survival odds. Today: seventy-thirty.Tomorrow: worse.They reached the vaulted archway of the Governor’s reception hall. Two Kro’Vash guards stood sentry, their ceremonial harnesses polished, massive ion-blade pikes held vertical.Their nostrils flared as the women approached.
“Wait here,” Eva ordered the recruits.She stepped forward, feeling naked without her boots, without her sidearm. “Lieutenant Commander Rostova, Terran Security. Here with the new diplomatic adjuncts for Governor S'Sarthak.”
One guard croaked, a short, formal sound. The great iridescent doors, carved from some deep-sea creature’s shell, parted with a whisper.
The hall was cavernous, dimly lit by bioluminescent fungi growing in wall niches. The floor was a mosaic of imported Terran marble—a conciliatory gift. At the far end, on a dais of black stone, sat Ambassador S'Sarthak the Wet-Skinned.
He was enormous, even for his kind.Twelve feet of powerful muscle and sleek, damp-looking skin. His golden eyes, each the size of a dinner plate, swiveled to take them in. He leaned forward, the webbing between his long, thick fingers stretching as he placed his hands on his knees.
“Ahhh,” his voice rumbled, the sound vibrating in Eva’s chest cavity. “The Little Sweetmeats arrive. How… vibrant they look.”
Eva forced her spine straight, her chin up.“Your Excellency. The contingent from Earth, as requested.”
S'Sarthak’s long, prehensile tongue flicked out, impossibly fast, and curled back into his wide mouth.A reflexive gesture, she knew.A tasting of the air. It took everything she had not to flinch.“Come closer, child. Let me see them.”
She ushered the recruits forward, stopping them at a respectful—and hopefully safe—distance. S'Sarthak’s gaze swept over them, lingering here and there.On the redhead.On a girl with dark, coiled hair. His tongue flicked again.“A good batch,” he pronounced, a sound like submerged gravel shifting. “The vats on your orbital farms improve. The fear… it gives the flesh a certain piquancy, but it fades with proper conditioning.” He settled back. “You may take them to their quarters, Lieutenant Commander. See that they are… prepared for tomorrow’s briefings.”
“Yes, Your Excellency.”
As she turned to leave, his voice stopped her. “Rostova.A moment.”
She froze, then gestured for the recruits to exit. They fled, their soft footfalls fading.Eva turned back to face the dais, alone.
S'Sarthak regarded her, one enormous eye focusing on her with unnerving precision. “You continue your… scans of my corridors.Your eyes are always moving, little one. Do you find my station lacking?”
“I find it unfamiliar, Excellency. Security is my duty.”
“Is it?” He croaked softly, a sound that might have been amusement.“Or is it your habit? Your people have such fierce, brief little lives.All heat and spark. It is what makes you so… delectable to many of my peers.”
Eva said nothing. The cold of the marble seeped into her soles.
“I am not like many of my peers,” S'Sarthak continued, his tone dropping to a confidential rumble.“I find the spark… interesting.Worthy of preservation. A new draft of my protection edict for non-cloned humans is before the station council. The debates are… moist.”
Protection edict.The words were a life raft in a toxic sea. She didn’t dare believe in it. “That is… generous, Excellency.”
“Generosity is a political calculation, sweetmeat. Remember that.” His tongue flicked out, this time with deliberate slowness.“You may go. And Rostova?”
“Yes?”
“Tell the red-haired one.She will serve in the hydroponics observation nexus. The light there… it will complement her coloring.”
Eva’s blood went cold.It was a statement of ownership, of preference. She bowed, a short, sharp movement, and walked out, her bare feet silent on the cold stone.
In the corridor, she leaned against the wall, breathing slowly, forcing the rage down into a hard, dense core. The redhead—her name was Elara, the slate had said—was already marked.
A muted alarm pulsed through the station, a soft purple light flashing at intervals along the corridor.A sector lockdown.Not hers.Probably the commerce ring. Something had spooked the Kro’Vash, or something had tried to escape.
Eva pushed off the wall and started back toward the Enclave. Her mind was already clicking through the implications, the security protocols, the odds. As she passed a servitor drone scrubbing a dark, sticky stain from the floor, her tactical assessment updated automatically.Survival odds for the non-cloned: fifty-fifty.And falling.
The stain smelt of copper and brine.She didn’t look at it. She already knew what it was. Yesterday’s complication, on its way to reprocessing.
Eva didn’t dwell on it. She had enough to worry about. Like the fact that the station’s power grid was flickering again. The Kro’Vash were fond of their bioluminescent fungi, but they were shit at maintaining the infrastructure that kept them alive.
She reached the Enclave’s main hub, a sprawling, open-plan space filled with makeshift workstations and the hum of human activity. A dozen or so diplomats and support staff were hunched over terminals, their faces bathed in the harsh glow of their screens. They looked up as she entered, their eyes flicking over her naked form with a mix of familiarity and discomfort. She was used to it.