Chapter 1
In the farthest, most remote corner of the known universe — though space has no corners, which is precisely why no sane person should ever trust it — a ship comes into view. A ship belonging to the Maldurian Union. It isn't particularly large or impressive. It is, however, particularly there — which, for our purposes, is enough.
And somewhere inside it, was Leuchen.
Leuchen might be the only person actually working on this ship, the bartender aside. Being a janitor in space was a brutal job, and most people were aware of it. So somewhere along the way, someone had the brilliant idea of declaring it sacred — figuring that if you couldn't make the job easier, you could at least make it holy. Whether this actually helped with recruitment is a separate question entirely. If you ever see a janitor on any ship — even a salvage bucket held together by rust and optimism — you bow your head in reverence. They probably won't care. But it doesn't hurt to try.
Leuchen was genuinely good at this sacred work. All he had to do was turn on his antique music player and mop the same spot for the eighty-ninth time — because the engineers, who were as famous as they were catastrophically stupid, refused to grant him access to the other sections. A holy man, barred from his own temple.
He was just turning back to mop the corner again when the alarms tore themselves apart. Deafening. The corridor flooded with deep purple light — not red, because apparently red was considered bad luck. It wasn't like these alarms were playing for a wedding.
Leuchen flinched at the sudden noise and pulled out his earbuds. He stepped into the main corridor to make sense of what was happening — and, to their credit, the engineers had somehow managed to implement the already-obvious measure of granting everyone access during an emergency.
He started walking toward the command center. That's when he saw them — a dozen marines rushing toward the commander's office in tight, purposeful formation.
One of them tried to scan the door with something that looked vaguely like a credit card made of glass, pressing it against the right panel. It did not work. He then moved on to the more traditional approach — knocking.
— Commander Jarchovil... COMMANDER.
A few seconds passed. Nothing could be heard but the alarms. Then, a voice from behind the door:
— Ughh... who is it?
— It's the emergency, sir. Could you please open the door?
— What do you want, emergency?
A pause.
— Sir, it's about the prisoner. The Valdric queen — Seravyn. She's... not in her cell, sir.
— WHAT.
The door flew open. Behind it stood Commander Jarchovil — half asleep, eyes barely open, hair pointing in three directions that didn't exist. If there were a species dumb enough to invent a screen door for a spaceship, Jarchovil would be its first discovered member. Somehow still in charge of an entire ship.
