The acid rain lasted for hours, a relentless, hissing curtain that trapped them in their shallow shelter.
The air thickened with corrosive fumes, forcing them to cover their mouths and noses with strips of fabric torn from their uniforms.
When the storm finally passed, the landscape had been transformed. The metallic desert floor was now a steaming, pockmarked wasteland, the air shimmering with heat and chemical vapors.
The journey had only just begun, and Tartarus had already shown how easily it could kill.
They pressed on, their boots sinking into the soft, muddy residue left by the rain.
SC was quiet, his earlier glibness replaced by a grim respect for a world that wanted to kill them.
He no longer questioned Kaelen's commands, following his lead on when to rest, when to drink, and which paths to take through the treacherous terrain.
Two days later, their nutrient bars were gone. Hunger, a gnawing, persistent ache, set in. Kaelen's survival skills were pushed to the limit.
He managed to trap a small, six-legged creature that looked like an armored rat, roasting its tough, gamey meat over a tiny fire.
It was barely a meal, but it was enough to keep them moving.
On the fourth day, Kaelen spotted the signs. A discarded ration wrapper, not Imperial. A footprint, half-erased by the wind.
A trail of disturbed rocks too uniform to be natural. Someone else was out here. He signaled for SC to halt, hand held low.
They moved cautiously, Kaelen shifting from cover to cover, eyes scanning every shadow.
They found the camp in a hollow at the base of a low mesa.
It was a sad sight, a cluster of makeshift hovels built from scrap metal, scavenged ship parts, and stretched animal hides.
A thin plume of smoke rose from a central fire, carrying the stench of something foul being cooked. This was a community of outcasts, prisoners who had escaped the main complex or been exiled to fend for themselves.
Kaelen and SC observed from a ridge above. The outcasts were a sorry lot, gaunt, filthy, wrapped in rags.
Their movements were furtive and paranoid, eyes constantly scanning the horizon.
They were armed with crude, handmade weapons: sharpened pipes and clubs studded with jagged rocks.
They were survivors, but desperate people are dangerous.
"We need information," SC whispered. "And maybe supplies. But a direct approach is suicide. They'll kill us for our boots."
"We don't approach them as a threat," Kaelen whispered back. "We approach them as potential allies."
He held up a small, salvaged power cell. "We have something they need. We trade."
They stepped forward openly, hands empty and visible. As expected, they were met with immediate hostility.
Two outcasts, faces smeared with grime, jumped up, brandishing sharpened spears.
"That's far enough! Who are you? What do you want?"
Kaelen stopped, holding up the power cell.
"We're new arrivals. Crash-landed. We're not looking for trouble. We want to trade. This power cell for information."
The outcasts eyed the cell greedily. A power source, even a small one, was treasure in this primitive society. An older man, clearly the leader, emerged from the largest hovel. He was missing an eye, a long, jagged scar ran down the side of his face. He looked Kaelen and SC over, his gaze lingering on Kaelen's powerful build and SC's clean, un-calloused hands.
"Information is cheap. That cell is not. What kind of information?"
"We're looking for a place," SC said, stepping forward, voice calm and disarming.
"A facility. High security. Not part of the main prison. Maybe a research station. Have you heard of anything like that?"
A wave of fear washed over the outcasts. The leader's one good eye widened, and he took an involuntary step back.
The others muttered nervously to each other. SC had struck a nerve.
"You don't want to go looking for that place," the leader said, his voice low and fearful. "No one does. It's a ghost story. A place the guards whisper about when they think we can't hear."
"What do they call it?" SC pressed, voice gentle but insistent.
The leader hesitated, looking around as if the very name could summon its attention.
"They call it The Foundry," he finally said, spitting the words like a curse. "It's where they take people. Prisoners who cause too much trouble, or sometimes just the quiet ones. They're taken for special assignments. They never come back. Not ever."
Another outcast, a younger man with wild, terrified eyes, added, "I saw it once. From a distance. A transport went there. It's deep in the Gorgon's Maze. There are no walls you can see, but the air hums. The rocks glow at night. It's a wrong place. A hungry place."
The leader glared at him, silencing him. "You're fools for even asking. The guards fear The Foundry more than they fear us. They say it's where they melt people down. Stay away. No information is worth what you'll find there."
SC's face was a mask of intense focus. This was it. The first concrete confirmation of his objective. The name, the location, the fear it inspired and it all matched his data.
Kaelen tossed the power cell to the leader, who caught it awkwardly.
"We've made our trade. We'll be on our way."
As they walked away, the outcasts' fearful eyes followed them until they were out of sight.
SC was practically vibrating with excitement.
"The Foundry. In the Gorgon's Maze. It's real."
"It's also a place that terrifies even the hardened killers on this planet," Kaelen said grimly. "The whispers we heard weren't just rumors. They were warnings."
SC smiled thinly.
"Every great discovery is hidden behind warnings, General. We're no longer chasing a ghost. We're hunting a monster. And now we know its name."