[ASC 923.7.15]

  193 cycles since the Xolarii Purge.

  “In my culture,” Xaryk drawled into the gun barrel, “pointing a gun at someone is considered a sign of respect.”

  The bounty hunter pulled back the hammer on his revolver—its chambered bullet aimed squarely at his aggressor’s gut.

  “I guess we’re both feeling mighty respectful today.” He smiled.

  “You pull that trigger,” the man rasped, voice coarse as desert sand, “and we’re both dead.”

  “That is the idea,” Xaryk agreed. “Seems to me we have two options. We both shoot and shuffle off this mortal coil in tandem, arm-in-arm as brothers.”

  “I got brothers.” The man spat over his shoulder. “They’re assholes an’ I don’t care for more. Option two?”

  “We both lower our weapons and have a mutually beneficial discussion. Like rational beings.” Xaryk raised his brows sheepishly.

  Another set of footsteps echoed through the standstill, underscoring the tension like a death knell.

  “Drop it, Tu’rak,” a bored voice sounded.

  “An’ why should I go first?” the gravel-voiced man snarled.

  “Because we have the advantage, and he knows it,” came the reply. “Besides, he just killed a khethriss single-handed. That deserves respect.”

  The barrel lowered with a sigh, revealing a heavyset takalan.

  The native had a jaw like an anvil. A scar looped from his jaw, through his left eye, and into his tawny hairline. The eye it bisected was ivory-white, a sharp contrast to its ebony twin.

  The takalan extended a hand—rough, calloused, and nearly as wide as Xaryk’s head.

  Xaryk holstered his weapon with a flourish and took the offered hand.

  He allowed himself to be hoisted to his feet.

  “Strong and reasonable.” Xaryk dusted the sand from his coat, wincing as pain arced through his weary bones. “We’ll get along just fine.”

  Tu’rak grunted.

  “Eloquent,” Xaryk replied.

  “It’s foolish to carry magus-class iron out here,” the dry voice commented.

  Tu’rak stepped aside to reveal a lean takalan with a bald head and bored eyes. Xaryk could see through the veil of disinterest, spying the cunning that lurked beneath—a dormant serpent that threatened to strike should he drop his guard.

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  “The khethriss are highly resistant,” the man continued, raising a repeater rifle to the xolus’ chest for emphasis. “Best to stick with iron-class.”

  A younger native beside him, barely old enough to be called grown, mirrored the motion with dual revolvers.

  A clipped nostril fed into a scar that vanished into the corner of his mouth. His hands trembled, but his eyes promised violence.

  Nothing more dangerous than a twitchy trigger-finger on an experienced gun-hand, Xaryk thought, eyeing the pistols warily.

  “Your rookie there is looking somewhat spooked,” Xaryk said, nodding toward the trembling barrels.

  “Zhella don’t much like strange guns,” Tu’rak grunted. “Likes ‘em better cold and stiff.”

  “That was my primary concern,” Xaryk drawled, fighting to keep the tension from creeping into his shoulders.

  “I’m Xen Corsair,” he offered, dipping his hands into his coat pockets with casual ease.

  The trade-off for being further from his gun was the cool kiss of an obscuris orb beneath his fingertips.

  “We know who you are, Foe,” the bald takalan said. “You’re the bounty hunter. Touched down in Longshadow recently.”

  Xaryk sighed. “That’s me,” he admitted.

  Dying light… he cursed internally. He’d hoped to keep his purpose in the desert quiet—at least until he knew where these takalans stood on Redmark.

  “Who’s your mark?”

  “Mark? Perhaps I’m simply out here taking in the sights,” Xaryk said, grinning.

  The takalan replied with a deadpan stare. Unimpressed.

  “This usually goes more smoothly,” Xaryk exhaled. “My mark is as red as the sand we stand upon,” he said, thumb hovering over the activation sigil.

  Should they react poorly, he’d set it off and hope the erupting smoke would make them miss.

  “Redmark?” The bald one asked, and Xaryk felt a flicker of satisfaction at the surprise in his words. “You’re going after the ostean?”

  The girl—Zhella—stiffened, her guns shaking like tree branches in a hurricane.

  “It would seem so,” the bounty hunter replied coolly.

  He glanced over to Mayweather: she nibbled at her shallow wound. She’d be slower to move than the takalan’s quadral idling nearby, but if he could take them out first…

  The moment stretched like the breath that preceded thunder following a lightning strike.

  It wasn’t a matter of if, but when.

  Finally, thunder cracked—

  —Zhella lowered her revolvers. Her eyes were wide, chest heaving like she’d just run a click. Sweat traced the curve of her shaved head, glinting in the heat.

  The leader looked to her, a knowing expression on his face.

  With a nod, he slung his rifle over his back. The stock poked above his shoulder like a white flag of truce.

  “Drakkan,” the leader introduced himself.

  “A pleasure,” Xaryk replied, lifting his hand from the orb. “I assume, since none of us are killing the other, that you’re no friends of Redmark.”

  Zhella seethed, eyes full of rage.

  Tu’rak spat over his shoulder, settling into formation with the others. One thick hand settled instinctively on the machete strapped horizontally across the small of his back.

  “Friends?” he growled. “Naw. But I would like him to have a real intimate relationship with the heel of my boot.”

  Zhella nodded firmly, her approval clear.

  “You were going to take on Redmark and his gang… alone?” Drakkan scoffed.

  “I heard you were good, not insane.”

  Xaryk chuckled. “I prefer to think of myself as insanely good.”

  Drakkan gave an exasperated sigh.

  He glanced skyward, squinting against the intrusive sunlight.

  “We’ve got a couple hours of light left. We can cover good ground before we lose it,” Drakkan mused. “We shouldn’t travel after dark: khethriss are harder to spot.”

  “An’ don’t even get us started on trap spiders…” Tu’rak muttered, visibly shuddering.

  “We?” Xaryk asked, brow raised.

  “If you’re as good as they say,” Drakkan said, “then together we might actually have a chance.”

  “Meaning?”

  Drakkan stepped forward, framed by Zhella’s scornful eyes and Tu’rak’s looming presence.

  “That’s right,” he said. “We’re going to help you take down Redmark.”

  Zhella gave a venomous smile.

  Tu’rak cracked his knuckles with a series of snaps.

  Drakkan just sighed at the theatrics.

  “Well alright.” Xaryk grinned. “Let’s go kill a legend.”