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Chapter Text

Quinn took a subsecond peek around the corner into the mess hall that was serving as a makeshift prison, pulling back and shooting a series of hand signals down the curved corridor to Tribore: “Three hostiles, armed, visual on the target.” Tribore signed his acknowledgement. Quinn shot him another signal: “Go in fifteen seconds.” Tribore nodded, then pressed against the wall, sliding away from Quinn as he approached the opposite entrance to the mess. They had to get this just right, down to the second, and Quinn counted them with her breaths.

Five.

She mused about how this was the—what, third?—time she’d rescued this particular target. He had a particular penchant for getting kidnapped. Stars know how he did it; a man of his status should surely have a permanent escort. Yet somehow he found himself captive on this backwaters space station.

Four.

The target was high value. Extremely high value. Quinn was being paid what would have taken her ten years working in the Infinity Guard to earn, all for a simple extraction. Well, not so simple. She and Tribore had had to dispatch ten fighter‐drones just to get on board the station, then knock out a dozen guards in order to get access to the inner sanctum.

Three.

By now it was starting to feel like she was falling into a routine, and she didn’t like that. Felt as if she was becoming complacent. Complacency was how you died in her line of work, and she had lost an unfair share of colleagues that way.

Two.

But the worst part was dealing with the target. He was going to hit on her. Again. That was more certain than the forward march of time. He had to be the most oblivious moron in the galaxy. She couldn’t care less that he was the scion of one of the Tera Con Empire’s most powerful families, there was no way she was getting together with him.

One.

Snap decision: she decided this was the last job. Not just for her current client, but for anyone, forever. She could retire quite comfortably with the dropnoids she had accumulated.

Go.

“Hands in the air!” Quinn barked as she whipped around the corner and into the mess. At the exact same time Tribore dashed through the opposing doorway and shouted, “Drop your weapons, fiends!”

“Don’t shoot! Please!” one of the hostiles—a Hooblot—said, immediately dropping to their knees and placing their hands behind the back of their head.

“Quinn!” the target said brightly from where he was tied by ropes to a chair, flashing a grin that was probably meant to come off as rakish, but only made her want to roll her eyes. “I knew you’d come rescue me!”

“Hands where I can see them!” Tribore ordered. The other two hostiles complied without objection. Not a single shot fired, which was a relief.

Too much of a relief? Now that Quinn got a closer look, she realized she had been duped. These were no criminals. Their outfits were all clearly new, and never before worn. They were way too fresh‐faced—the Hooblot couldn’t possibly be older than twenty—no visible scars or tattoos. And the weapons… were props?

“What is this?” Quinn demanded of the Hooblot.

“Please! We’re only performers!” the Hooblot blubbered. “From the Barnard’s Loop Company.”

Quinns eyebrows shot up. “You’re actors?” She tried to keep the disdain out of her voice. Tried.

“Hey now!” Goodspeed whined. “Acting’s a noble profession.”

Quinn stared at him. “Right.”

“There’s nothing wrong with acting,” Tribore said, pointing a gloved hand at himself. “You know, I’ve played the dashing lead in a couple of off‐off‐Sagittarius plays myself.”

Quinn was done with this charade. She whipped out a pocket‐knife and started cutting the ropes. “Hired actors? Really? This is a new low for you, Goodspeed, and that’s really saying something.”

“How many times do I have to say it? My friends call me Gary.”

“We’re not friends, Goodspeed.”

Goodspeed winced. “Ouch!” Then he tried to bring back the rakish smile. “Well, it’s never too late to start– hey!”

Quinn finished with the ropes and yanked Goodspeed by the arm into a standing position. Now that she had a moment to look him over she realized he was dressed in the latest fashion, all designer brands presumably, and all tailored to fit perfectly. His hair was immaculately done up to look just this side of disheveled, and his skin glowed in a way that suggested the latest in Betelguesian dermatological treatments.

It was only half a joke when Quinn asked: “Did you get dressed up for your own kidnapping?”

“What do you think?” Goodspeed said, pouting his lips and cocking his hips in a pose that Quinn had seen Tribore take many a time.

“Is that a van Newton?” Tribore practically shrieked, right on cue, pointing a shaking finger at Goodspeed’s jacket. It was woven with photonic thread. An array of warm colors bubbled and shifted along the material in psychedelic lava lamp patterns. “Oh! My! Stars! How did you get your hands on the new collection? I’ve been on the waitlist for over a year.” He scoffed dramatically. “Imagine. Me! Tribore! Fashionista extraordinaire! On the waitlist!”

“I do look great, don’t I?” Goodspeed said to Tribore’s nodding agreement, then turned to Quinn. “Admit it. You like what you see.”

This time Quinn really did roll her eyes. “Forget it, Goodspeed. I’m not interested.”

“Oh come on! How can you know that when you haven’t even given me a chance? Just one date. That’s all I’m asking. Just wait until you see me dance.” Goodspeed gyrated his hips, ugh. “You won’t be able to resist my manly charms.”

“I’m seriously considering knocking you out,” Quinn warned.

Goodspeed threw his hands up in defense. “Okay! Okay! Message received!” He slumped his shoulders. “Guess we might as well blow this joint,” he said, pointing his thumb in the direction of the station’s docking bay. “And I guess thank you for the rescue.”

“Don’t mention it,” Quinn said, and when Goodspeed opened his mouth she hastily added, “No seriously. Don’t mention it.”

Quinn almost felt pity at the dejected look Goodspeed shot her.

Almost.

Chapter Text

The music was bumping, the overhead lights flashing, the dance floor hopping, but Gary found himself unable to enjoy any of the revelry that surrounded him in his favorite nightclub. Slouching at the bar next to his best pal, Jeff, he stared forlornly at the empty glass in front of him, wondering where it had all gone wrong. He had thought he was getting through to Quinn, but after their most recent rendezvous, it felt like she had slipped to a greater distance than she had ever been before.

“Cheer up, buddy, there’s always next time,” Jeff said, planting a commiserating clasp on one of Gary’s shoulders and pushing a cocktail across the bar and into his hands.

Gary sighed forlornly, downing the offered drink in one go. “I don’t get it, y’know? I mean, look at me.”

“You’re handsome,” Jeff supplied.

“I’m handsome,” Gary agreed.

“You’re rich.”

“I’m rich!”

“You’re one hell of a dancer.”

Gary rocked in his seat, causing the front legs to lift off the floor, and he grabbed onto the bar in a panic, setting himself right with all the nonchalance he could muster. “I know, right? What’s not to like?”

“Nothing. You’re perfect,” Jeff sighed, shooting Gary an indecipherable look.

Before Gary could say anything, his wrist comm beeped, a pixelated image of his mother appearing on the small screen. His stomach dropped. “Ohhhhh crap.”

Jeff’s face creased in concern. “What is it?”

“My mom,” Gary said. “Probably wants to chew me out.” He pushed off the stool and headed for the entrance, sending Jeff a salute over his shoulder. “Wish me luck!” He was barely out the door when he tapped his wrist comm and a holoprojection sprang forth. “Hello, mother. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Gary.” Even through the tinny speakers of the wrist comm, Lady Goodspeed’s stern tone came across loud and clear.

When she failed to elaborate, Gary gave a diffident, “Yesss?”

“It is good to see you.” There was very little affection in it. Lady Goodspeed could rarely be bothered to get in touch with Gary unless she needed something from him; it was usually he who initiated contact. “How long has it been? A month?”

“Fifty–” Gary had to stop himself from recounting the exact number of days it had been since the two of them last communicated. It would have made him look needful, and he knew his mother would latch onto that perceived character weakness like a space barnacle to a ship’s hull. “It’s been some time,” he said, all affect carefully modulated out of his voice.

“Your latest escapade had me worried,” Lady Goodspeed said, but experience told Gary that her concern was not for him.

“My apologies.”

“Were you injured at all?”

“No. Not so much as a scrape or bruise.” Then, catching the meaning behind the meaning: “Quinn performed admirably. As usual.” His heart twanged at the memory of the rejection.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Lady Goodspeed said. “I need not remind you that this is a delicate time for your father.”

Ah, so there it was.

Sir John Goodspeed had recently been “promoted” from Sector Fleet Commander to Director of Research and Development for the Tera Con Empire by orders direct from Lord Commander. It was an unusual and unexpected move, and the House Goodspeed intelligence officers were scrambling to decipher Lord Commander’s motives. Such it was with the Emperor: there was meaning to be extracted from even the slightest twitch of the finger. Whether this bode well for the Goodspeeds remained to be seen.

There was an audible sigh through the connection. “I know your father and myself have been very busy as of late, but these pleas for attention are starting to generate unwelcome attention. I know I don’t need to remind you that as the heir to the Goodspeed estate and all that entails–” she barreled over Gary’s attempt to interrupt “–and even more so, as the son of one of the most politically scrutinized people in all the empire, it behooves you to put this family in the best possible light.”

Gary could feel himself physically deflate, utterly defeated. He might not have the greatest respect for his mother, but he had nothing but the utmost admiration for his father, and the thought of putting him in danger with his actions gnawed at him. “Yes mother. Sorry to be such a bother.” He winced, worrying that he was coming across as petulant, and feeling like he was eight years old again and being chastised for accidentally burning down the treehouse at their rimward residence.

“Your father and I have always given you a lot of freedom to pursue your… passions,” said Lady Goodspeed, and Gary had to repress an angry snort; she had never shown any interest in his own, probably couldn’t name even one of them. “All I ask is that you repay our leniency with more discretion.”

“I understand,” Gary said with a click in his throat. The booze in his system was amplifying his shame, and he could feel tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. He needed to end the call ASAP. “Is there anything else?”

“There will be a special ceremony in two week’s time for the launch of the Argentum–” (the Empires newest Dreadnought‐class warship, it had been all over the news because an attempt at sabotage by elements outside the Empire) “–and I’ve arranged for you to be the guest of honor.”

Gary had to marvel that she was able to swing something so huge on such short notice. He could only assume he had just earned the personal enmity of several dozen dignitaries who’d been passed over for the opportunity for some noble brat such as himself. “Where is it?”

“I’ll send you the details shortly.” Lady Goodspeed didn’t even wait for acknowledgement before she terminated the connection.

Gary sagged against the wall of the nightclub with a heavy sigh, resting his bowed head in his hands. The hiss of sliding doors alerted him to someone exiting the club.

“Everything alright?” It was Jeff. Good old reliable Jeff. A dependable friend if there ever was one, standing there with an expression like a concerned puppy.

“Yeah,” Gary said with a heavy sigh. “Stars, I just want to forget this day ever happened.”

Jeff bumped him with an elbow. “Then it sounds like an epic bender is just what the doctor ordered.”

“I don’t know…” Maybe Lady Sheryl was right; maybe it was time for Gary to take a little more responsibility. On the other hand, it wasn’t like he asked to be born into this life. In only a few short years he was destined to be thrown into some military or governance post—most likely a minor one at that, where he could only do so much damage, but he’d still be responsible for the lives of hundreds, if not thousands of citizens of the Empire, a thought which gave him an unwelcome sense of vertigo.

What the heck? What trouble was there in one last hurrah? Gary let himself be led back into the night club, trying his best to psych himself up.

Ten minutes and six shots later, all his previous worries melted away as a new Gary prepared to take the helm. This Gary knew how to live in the moment, didn’t give a damn about annoying concepts like “decorum” and “responsibility”, really knew how to live it up and be the center of the party. He had Jeff slip the DJ two hundred dropnoids to put on some Loggins and shimmied onto the dance floor, the sea of writhing bodies parting for him. With every ounce of swagger he could muster he burned through his repertoire of his very best dance moves. The crowd around him cheered in raucous approval.

“We love you, Goodspeed!” a voice cried out, and beneath the haze and strobing lights Gary soared on that high that only fame and fortune (and a generous dash of good looks) could grant you.

He danced up to an attractive young Nosprit and, catching their approval, pulled them to the center of the dance floor to dance in tandem. He couldn’t have picked a better partner; the Nosprit was able to match him move for move, their multicolored lace wings sparkling brilliantly and scattering light like a disco ball.

The song switched to a hot new Zalphian number and the crowd collapsed inward to join in on the action. Gary reveled at the press of bodies all around him, the fact that he was sharing this blissful moment with so many like‐minded seekers of life’s greatest pleasures, and let himself fade into the pulse of the music—

—”–got to try thisss,” a Kssess chittered across the low table as it poured the powdery contents of a glass vial into a shallow metal bowl filled with water which hissed and sputted, releasing a cloud of orange smoke. “From Syrnax. Called Titan’s Bliss.”

Gary breathed deeply and within moments could feel his whole body relaxing. The colors of the walls and ceiling of the private room above the dance floor started oozing into psychedelic patterns. “Oh my crap,” he mumbled as he let the sensation of weightlessness float him up and up and—

—the stadium roared as one of the thimbles players lost an arm to a well‐aimed ripperblade.

“And that’s four points to the Mykorian Marauders!” The announcer’s voice echoed throughout the arena. “And what’s this? It looks like Eberat’s not trying to clear his arm! Oh wait!–” there was an explosion where the opposing player had been carrying the stolen limb. “–It looks like Eberat rigged explosives into his own arm! Talk about dedication!”

From the seat next to Gary’s, Jeff winced. “I don’t know how you can stand to watch this stuff.”

“Oh c’mon!” Gary shouted over the din of the crowd as the Marauders scored a thimble. “Where’s your sense of fun?” He pulled a flask from inside his coat and took a deep swig—

—two young human women and their Kormidorn companion squealed with delight as Gary struggled to scrawl his signature across the arms they held out to him.

“I’m never going to bathe again!” one of them exclaimed.

Gary felt a twinge in the back of his mind. It was always gratifying to meet his adoring fans, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that somebody else was watching him, somebody who didn’t want his signature—

—Gary was aware that he was in the back of a luxury transport. Had he called it? He couldn’t remember. He stretched his limbs across the velvet lined seats, delighting in how soft they were, and tried to recall how he had gotten there, where he was going. It took him a few minutes to realize that Jeff wasn’t with him, and he hoped he hadn’t done anything to upset his friend.

There came a loud thud from the roof, and the transport rocked to the side as Gary instinctually scrabbled for something to hold onto. “What the heck was that?”

As if to answer, a large metal pole smashed through the tinted window across from him, revealing a figure obscured by a heavy black hooded cloak.

A robotic voice helpfully piped up from the cabin’s ceiling: “It appears this vehicle is being hijacked. Your coordinates are being relayed to the nearest authority.”

Gary instantly felt himself sobering up. This wasn’t one of his planned “abductions.” He raised his hands to shield himself. “Whoah! If it’s money you want, I can pay!”

Four stubby arms snapped open at the end of the pole, bright blue arcs of electricity buzzing menacingly.

Gary yelped. “I’ll have you know I’m Gary Goodspeed, the son of House Goodspeed. You’re messing with a very powerful–” His body convulsed at the sudden surge of electricity and he could feel himself falling out of consciousness. His last thought before going under was that his mother was going to be supremely pissed.

Chapter Text

Gary woke up with the mother of all hangovers, worse than that time he drank three Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters in one night. He opened his eyes, felt an immediate stab of regret straight to the retinas, closed them and silently prayed for a quick death. He lay there somewhere between fifteen minutes and ten hours, emitting every so often the type of pitiful moan that at his parents’ estate would have summoned an entourage of servants to administer every hangover cure known throughout the galaxy.

When he was finally able to get up without fear of passing out he sat up and leaned against the cold metal wall and took stock of his surroundings. Small, rectangular room, smooth featureless walls, no amenities, forcefield on one end: he realized with sobering clarity that he was likely trapped in the brig of some space faring vessel.

Replaying the events of the last night—was it the last night? Gary had no idea how long he had been out—he tried to remember how he had ended up in this situation. He had vague memories of partying it up with Jeff, something about a thimbles match, and then…

Gary’s stomach turned to ice. Oh crap. He’d been kidnapped. For realsies this time.

He staggered over to the forcefield, testing it by placing a palm against it and yelping at the static shock he received that sent him reeling several steps back. That… wasn’t standard Empire issue. No, whoever was holding him was going above and beyond. He turned around to examine the walls, floor, and ceiling for clues as to exactly what type of ship he found himself in, but the details were not exactly forthcoming. Aside from the dust accumulated where the floor met the walls, there was absolutely nada.

“Good. You can stand on your own.”

Gary whipped around, startled by the intruding voice. Standing in the doorway—when had the door opened, and how did he fail to hear it?—was a tall Ventrexian in a tattered and threadbare getup: a tan tank‐top, leather bandolier, pants that had been sloppily cut just below the knee, bargain barrel steel boots, and what looked like makeshift armor padding on the shoulders and lower arms, more befitting a cosplayer than an actual soldier. Perhaps most striking was the teal fur, a coloration that Gary had never seen before on a Ventrexian, not that he had seen many in person in his life. He briefly wondered if it was a dye job before the Ventrexian spoke, his voice a low and resonant rumble: “I was worried we’d knocked you out too hard. Stars know you humanoid trash break like fuzz sticks.”

Gary’s mind was so busy working through the implications of his captor being a Ventrexian that he almost missed the insult. “Hey!” He strode over to the edge of the forcefield and drew himself up to his full height. “Do you have any idea who you’re messing with, buddy? You’re in some deep crap. Mondo deep crap.”

The Ventrexian snarled. “Perhaps you should worry about your own situation, human filth.”

The vitriol was not unexpected. Ventrexia was by far the greatest of the holdouts against the expanding Tera Con Empire. Its bounty of natural resources and tradition of military innovation and excellence made it a prized target, as well as a formidable opponent; it was an open secret that the ongoing Tryvuul‐Ventrexia war was a ploy by the Emperor to soften them up before sending in his own ground invasion force, but no one dare speak this truth out loud lest they appear to be questioning the Empire’s might, and by extension, that of the Emperor. That said, it was clear, even to someone like Gary, who never waded too deep into politics (too boring and depressing), that the conflict was not proceeding in Ventrexia’s favor and had not been for quite some time.

“And I know perfectly well who you are, Goodspeed.” The Ventrexian spat the name. “If you were anyone else you probably wouldn’t still be alive.”

That sent a foreboding shiver up Gary’s spine. He had no doubt the Ventrexian meant his words. Whoever he was, he wasn’t playing only table stakes. Since intimidation was obviously not going to work, he decided to try a different hand, drawing upon his many (booooring!) lessons in diplomatic maneuvering. “In that case, you have me at a disadvantage, so, uh, mind telling me your name?”

The Ventrexian glared at him in silence.

Tough crowd. “Ooookay then. Look, I’m sure that whatever this is, we can work something out. Make a deal, yeah?”

“Oh we’re going to make a deal alright,” the Ventrexian said. He jabbed at the comm on his wrist and the forcefield dropped. “There are at least two things you Tera Con nobles are good for.”

“What are those?” Gary immediately regretted asking, but the Ventrexian looked pleased, pulling his lips back to reveal his fangs.

“Leverage.”

“And?”

The Ventrexian’s grin widened. “Dying.”

Gary gulped. The Ventrexian grabbed Gary’s hand at the wrist and twisted it painfully. “Yow! What the hey, man!”

“You’re coming with me.”

“Well, you don’t have to do it with all the yanking and snarling! I’ll come willingly!”

The Ventrexian paid Gary no heed, pulling him out of the brig and through a series of narrow corridors. Gary tried asking a few questions, both to try to establish a connection with his captor and to quell his own mounting anxiety, only to be met with a series of noncommittal grunts.

It wasn’t long before they spilled into a larger, open room, consoles adorning the walls, chairs stationed at regular intervals, a large black screen covering one side—Gary could only assume this was the bridge.

He also noticed that there were three others awaiting them. Two Ventrexians and a Geltian. One of the Ventrexians was cream colored, with darker fur around the face, ears, hands, and tail, and the most striking blue eyes that seemed to peer directly into one’s soul, providing a more intimidating presence than someone of such small stature would normally command. The other had medium gray fur that haloed blue in the warm light of the bridge and was impressively built, his resting expression not as unfriendly as the others, which was probably due to the round face and folded ears. The vaguely reptilian Geltian was olive green and wore an outfit similar to the teal Ventrexian, three yellow eyes narrowed at Gary.

“Is everything prepared?” the teal Ventrexian asked.

“As well as can be, captain” the gray Ventrexian said with a twitch at the side of their mouth. Gary didn’t miss the term of address, and started plotting the command structure at play in his head should it prove useful later.

The cream colored Ventrexian started to roll their eyes, but caught themselves and straightened into the most stereotypically military pose Gary had ever seen. “All preparations have been made, sir. We’ve verified the prisoner’s identity and the contacts we were given. Our frequencies should take at least an hour to crack, giving us ample time to scramble if we need to.”

“I still don’t like this,” the Geltian said to the room.

“You’re trepidation is noted, Terk,” the cream colored Ventrexian said, answered by the Geltian’s scowl.

Gary was forcefully maneuvered onto center stage in front of the massive screen as his captor said, “Open the channel.”

The cream colored Ventrexian tapped a few times on the padd they were holding and the screen blinked to life. The House Goodspeed family crest appeared—a hawk in flight, its wings outstretched, attacking from above a long and wiry dragon that snapped its jaws in retaliation. Gary’s father had told him that the family crest represented the inward struggle for greatness, both in deed and in character. His mother had told him a sordid family legend where the crest was the result of the Goodspeed House violently absorbing a more minor house centuries ago. Gary had liked that explanation a lot less.

It took a couple minutes before the image of Lady Sheryl Goodspeed appeared on the screen. “Commander Stone, I hope you have a good reason for–” She froze, a frown creasing her brow and pursing her lips. “Gary. Why are you calling using Stone’s channel certification?”

Gary gave a nervous chuckle. “Well, you see–”

The teal Ventrexian stood next to Gary, pressing something into his back. Something that felt suspiciously like the muzzle of a laser pistol. “We’re here to negotiate the terms for the return of your son.”

“I see,” Lady Goodspeed said, betraying no hint of emotion. She squinted. “Is that a Ventrexian with blue fur?” Her expression grew dour with disappointment. “Son, you’re going to need to use a better AI if you’re hoping to fool me.”

“It’s not an AI!” Gary insisted. As if to emphasize the point, the Ventrexian pressed the (very real) pistol harder into his back, not that his mother would be able to tell. “I swear!”

Aside from one raised eyebrow, Lady Goodspeed appeared entirely unmoved. “That’s enough,” she said, and her tone brooked no argument. “Either way, these pleas for attention have gone too far. I’m sending Quinn out to retrieve you. I expect your presence at Skyreach Hall in three days time. We’ll discuss what disciplinary measures will be taken then.” With that the connection terminated.

Gary turned toward the teal Ventrexian to see a slack look of utter disbelief.

Off to the side, the cream colored Ventrexian was wearing a matching expression. “Did she just?…”

There was a long moment of silence. Gary could feel the sweat dripping down his back.

“Should we try again?” asked the gray furred Ventrexian uncertainly.

“No,” the teal Ventrexian ground out. He grabbed Gary by the shoulder and manhandled him around. “We’ve already risked too much. We’re dealing with one of the great houses, every second counts.” He started pushing Gary out of the bridge.

“Wait. Where are we going?” Gary asked, tripping over his own feet.

“Airlock.”

Gary’s whole body froze, every muscle locking up. His voice was little more than a whisper as he struggled to breathe. “What?”