The air changed first.
They left the heavy, humid stench of the Hangar Bay and climbed a service ladder inside a ventilation shaft.
Rust flaked under Marcus's hands. The metal was cold.
Ratchet climbed above him, his mechanical leg clanking rhythmically against the rungs.
"Quiet," Ratchet hissed. "Vent patrols use thermal scopes. If you run hot, they shoot you."
"Good thing I'm freezing," Marcus muttered.
[BATTERY: 14%.]
[CORE TEMP: 36.2°C. NORMAL.]
They reached a hatch. Ratchet spun the wheel. It groaned.
He pushed it open.
Light flooded in. Not the harsh orange of the sodium lamps below, but soft, golden light.
And music.
Jazz. A saxophone wailing over a slow drum beat.
"Welcome to the Velvet Deck," Ratchet whispered.
He pulled Marcus up.
They stood in a corridor carpeted in deep red fabric. The walls were paneled with polished mahogany—or good plastic imitations.
It smelled of ozone, expensive tobacco, and real alcohol.
"Officers' Mess," Ratchet explained. "Converted. This is where the Captain's pets play."
He adjusted his jumpsuit. He tried to wipe a grease stain from his chest, smearing it further.
"Act like you belong," Ratchet said. "You're a mechanic fixing the AC. I'm your supervisor."
"Got it," Marcus said. He rubbed dirt on his face to hide the pale scars of his burns.
They walked down the hall.
Doors opened on either side.
To the left, a lounge. Men in clean uniforms sat on plush sofas, smoking cigars that smelled like burning tires.
To the right, a bar. Bottles of clear liquid glowed under blue lights.
At the end of the hall was a set of double doors.
Two guards stood there. They wore exoskeletons—powered armor, painted matte black. They held shock-spears.
"ID," the left guard grunted. His voice was amplified by a helmet speaker.
Ratchet flashed a badge. "Maintenance. Cooling unit in the VIP section is rattling again."
The guard scanned the badge. BEEP.
"Clear. Five minutes. Then you're out."
The doors slid open.
The Casino.
It was a cavernous room, two decks high. A chandelier made of fiber-optic cables hung from the ceiling, shifting colors slowly. Blue to purple to gold.
Tables were scattered across the floor. Not green felt, but polished steel.
People crowded around them.
Officers in crisp navy blues. Merchants in silk robes. Scavengers who had struck it rich, wearing necklaces of rare microchips.
The sound of chips clicking was constant. Click-clack. Click-clack.
Except they weren't chips.
They were capacitors. Small, glowing cylinders. Blue for 1 amp. Green for 5. Red for 10. Gold for 50.
Energy. Raw power on the table.
"Don't stare," Ratchet elbowed him. "Find a low-stakes table. Grind it out."
"No time for grinding," Marcus said.
He scanned the room.
[TARGET IDENTIFIED.]
[TABLE 4. HIGH STAKES. GAME: VOLTAGE.]
[CURRENT POT: 450 AMPS.]
"There," Marcus pointed.
A round table near the center. Three players.
One was a Merchant Captain. Fat, sweating, wearing a gold-plated breathing mask that hissed every few seconds.
One was a woman with cybernetic eyes that zoomed in and out like camera lenses.
One was an Officer, smoking a thin cigar.
And in the middle of the table, a pile of gold capacitors.
"Are you crazy?" Ratchet hissed. "That's Merchant Varrick. He eats mechanics for breakfast."
"Then I hope he's hungry," Marcus said.
He walked toward the table.
He didn't slouch. He didn't look like a mechanic. He walked like a Warlord.
He pulled a chair out. It scraped loudly on the floor.
The players looked up.
"Service entrance is in the back," the Officer sneered.
Marcus sat down. He reached into his pocket.
He pulled out the handful of blue capacitors Ratchet had given him. Thirty amps.
He slammed them onto the steel table.
CLACK.
"Deal me in," Marcus said.
Varrick, the Merchant, laughed. A wet, wheezing sound through his mask.
"Thirty amps?" Varrick said. "That's a tip, boy. The buy-in is fifty."
Marcus leaned forward.
"Thirty amps," Marcus said. "And a Level 5 Neural Link diagnostic."
He tapped his temple. The gold lines of his interface pulsed.
"If I lose, I strip my own head. You get the processor. It's military grade. Worth five hundred, easy."
The table went quiet.
Varrick's eyes narrowed behind his mask. Greed.
"A diagnostic link?" Varrick said. "Rare tech. Illegal."
"High risk, high reward," Marcus said. "Are we playing?"
Varrick looked at the Officer. The Officer shrugged.
"Your funeral, grease-monkey," the Officer said.
"Sit," Varrick commanded.
Marcus sat.
The dealer was a droid. A simple arm mounted on the table. It shuffled a deck of plastic cards. They were transparent, with circuitry etched inside.
"Game is Voltage," Varrick said. "Highest charge wins. Three cards. One draw."
The droid dealt.
Zip-zip-zip.
Marcus picked up his cards.
They felt warm. The circuitry inside hummed.
[HAND ANALYSIS: 7-VOLT, 3-VOLT, 2-VOLT. TOTAL: 12.]
[WIN PROBABILITY: 8%.]
"Fold," JARVIS advised. "You have garbage."
"I can't fold," Marcus thought. "I'm all in."
Varrick smiled. He pushed a stack of gold capacitors into the center.
"Raise fifty."
The Officer folded. "Too rich for me."
The woman with cyber-eyes matched the bet. "I'm in."
Marcus looked at his pile. Thirty amps. He was short.
"I call," Marcus said. "With the Link."
"Show," Varrick said.
He flipped his cards.
"King, Queen, Jack. Overcharge."
His cards glowed bright red. A strong hand.
The woman sighed and tossed her cards away.
It was just Marcus and Varrick.
"Read 'em and weep, boy," Varrick wheezed.
Marcus looked at his cards. 12 Volts. Varrick had 28.
"I need a draw," Marcus said.
"One card," Varrick said. "But it'll cost you."
"Put it on my tab," Marcus said.
Varrick laughed. "No credit at the table."
"Then I raise," Marcus said.
He placed his hand flat on the table.
Right next to the deck.
"JARVIS," Marcus thought. "Pulse it."
[Pulse? Boss, that's cheating. I like it.]
[Charging EMP emitter... 3... 2... 1.]
Zzzzt.
A tiny spark jumped from Marcus's finger to the deck. Invisible to the eye.
The droid shuddered.
It dealt a card.
It wasn't random. The EMP had shorted the shuffler's logic gate. It spat out the top card.
The Ace of Spades. The "Lightning Bolt."
Value: 50 Volts.
Marcus caught it. He slid it into his hand. He discarded the 2-Volt.
"Total?" Marcus asked JARVIS.
[60 Volts. A distinct 'God Hand'.]
Marcus flipped his cards.
The Ace glowed blinding white.
The table gasped.
Varrick choked on his cigar smoke.
"Impossible," Varrick sputtered. "The odds of drawing the Bolt..."
"Luck of the draw," Marcus said.
He reached for the pot.
"Hold on," Varrick slammed his hand down on the credits.
His other hand went under the table.
"You're a mechanic," Varrick hissed. "You rigged the deck."
"Prove it," Marcus said calmly.
"I don't need to prove it," Varrick said. "I own this table. Guards!"
The two exo-suit guards at the door turned.
"Trouble, sir?"
"Cheater!" Varrick yelled, pointing a fat finger at Marcus. "Scrap him!"
Ratchet, standing behind Marcus, groaned. "I told you. We're dead."
Marcus didn't move. He kept his hand on the pot.
"I won," Marcus said. "Fair and square."
"Get him!" Varrick screamed.
The guards stepped forward. Their boots clanged on the floor.
Then, the music stopped.
The heavy double doors at the back of the room burst open.
BOOM.
Not opened. Kicked.
The wood splintered.
A hush fell over the room. Even Varrick froze.
A figure filled the doorway.
She was seven feet tall.
She wore armor made from the hull plates of a destroyer. It was painted blood red.
One of her arms was human—muscular, tattooed with tally marks.
The other was a hydraulic ram. A massive, three-fingered claw used for loading torpedoes.
She dragged a hammer behind her. The head was an engine block on a steel pole.
Scylla. The Butcher.
She walked into the room. Her footsteps shook the glasses on the bar.
She didn't look at Marcus. She looked at Varrick.
"Varrick," she rumbled. Her voice was like gravel in a mixer.
Varrick turned pale. His mask hissed rapidly. Hiss-hiss-hiss.
"Scylla," Varrick squeaked. "I... I was just..."
"You owe the House," Scylla said. She stopped at the table. She loomed over him.
"Last week," she said. "You shorted the pot. Ten amps."
"I forgot!" Varrick stammered. "A clerical error! Here! Take it!"
He shoved a handful of gold capacitors toward her.
Scylla looked at the money.
She smashed her claw down.
CRUNCH.
The steel table buckled. Capacitors flew everywhere. Varrick screamed as his hand was pinned under the metal.
"The House doesn't want money," Scylla said. "The House wants meat."
She grabbed Varrick by the neck with her human hand. She lifted him out of his chair like a doll.
He kicked. He gurgled.
"To the Pit," Scylla announced to the room. "Tonight's entertainment."
The crowd cheered. They didn't care about justice. They wanted blood.
Scylla turned to leave.
Then she stopped.
She saw Marcus.
She saw the mechanic's jumpsuit. The dirt on his face.
And the glowing gold eyes.
She paused.
She dropped Varrick. He hit the floor, gasping for air.
She leaned down. Her face was inches from Marcus.
She smelled of old blood and engine oil.
"You," she whispered.
Marcus didn't flinch. He held her gaze.
"Me," Marcus said.
Scylla's mechanical eye whirred. Zooming in.
"Gold eyes," she said. "Like the Titan in the hangar."
Ratchet whimpered behind Marcus. He tried to hide.
"He's with me!" Ratchet squeaked. "Just a temp!"
Scylla ignored him. She reached out with her claw.
She touched the Neural Link on Marcus's neck. Gently. Surprisingly cold.
"You're the one," she said. A smile spread across her scarred face. It was terrifying. It was a shark sensing blood in the water.
"The one what?" Marcus asked.
"The Boatman has been watching the cameras," Scylla said. "He saw the shield. He saw the trick with the deck."
She straightened up.
"He wants to see you."
"The Captain?" Marcus asked. "Now?"
"Now," Scylla said.
She grabbed Marcus's arm. Her grip was iron.
"Come," she said. "Don't keep the King of Rust waiting."
"My winnings," Marcus said, looking at the scattered capacitors on the floor.
"Leave them," Scylla said. "Where you're going, you won't need money."
She dragged him toward the door.
Marcus looked back at Ratchet.
The mechanic was scrambling on the floor, shoving gold capacitors into his pockets.
"Sorry, kid!" Ratchet mouthed. "Good luck!"
Scylla pulled Marcus through the shattered doors.
Varrick lay moaning on the floor. The crowd parted like the Red Sea.
They walked out of the casino. Out of the jazz and the light.
Toward the elevator that led up.
To the Spire.
To the Captain.
To the only man who could save Narcissus.
Or kill them all.