Deep inside Brussels, built into the belly of an old starship whose name had long ago been scoured away by sandstorms and time, stood one of the settlement's most infamous places: the Rusted Halo. From the outside it looked like nothing more than the split-open hull of a retired frigate, its plating patched with mismatched sheets of metal and its lights flickering like dying stars. But once you stepped through its pressure-lock door — half working, half welded shut in permanent resignation — you entered a world entirely of its own.
The interior kept every scar of its former life. Its curved walls were the ship's original bulkheads, streaked with rust and burn marks and still carrying fragments of warning labels in languages no one in Brussels could read anymore. Loose cables hung from the ceiling like vines, some dead and some still carrying a lazy flicker of current. The deck plates groaned with every step, so that the whole place felt as if it were constantly deciding whether to hold together or collapse in protest. The bar itself was built from a salvaged reactor casing split in half, turned on its side and reinforced with scrap steel, its top layered with polished plates engraved with the names of everyone who had ever won — or survived — one of the Halo's legendary brawls. Behind it the shelves held bottles in every color imaginable: black-market brews, distilled fungus spirits, synthetic liquors from a dozen worlds, and a few mysterious jars that even the bartender refused to explain.
The bartender was a square-jawed woman named Marella. She ran the place with one cybernetic eye that glowed a steady red and one human eye that still carried the weary kindness of someone who had chosen Brussels as a place to stay rather than a place to hide. Her customers were a living map of half the galaxy's forgotten corners — wanderers with dust still on their boots, traders with crates of contraband under their tables, and outlaws leaning back in dented chairs with their weapons on open display, because hiding them was considered suspicious. Nobody asked questions in the Halo. The only rule was painted over the bar: Don't bleed on the bar unless you're buying. Dim amber lanterns salvaged from cargo pods softened the rust and the shadows. The room was full of the low hum of muttered deals, sharp laughter and clinking bottles, broken now and then by the thud of someone regretting an insult, and an ancient sound terminal hung crookedly on the wall and crackled out a steady tune that made the whole place feel strangely like home.
Youri and Oscar sat at the bar, having a drink as they usually did. There was nothing else for them to do these days but pass the time. Marella came over to them, wiping the counter. "So when are you two going to leave? They say the galaxy is crawling with Imperial ships looking for you."
Oscar smirked. "Don't worry, Marella. There's no way they can find us here. This place isn't called an outlaw haven for nothing."
Marella looked at him with real concern in her human eye. "You know this place isn't built on trust. Ten million zells can buy a new life and then some. Just don't forget that." And she went off to take an order at one of the tables.
Oscar let out a slow breath and turned his glass in his hand, then looked over at Youri, who was slumped against the bar. "You're blind drunk, aren't you?" He sighed, took Youri's arm and pulled it over his shoulder. He had just started to haul him toward the door when someone burst into the Rusted Halo, barely able to breathe.
"The Empire is here! They've just passed the second moon, and they'll be here in minutes! Everyone get out!"
Panic broke out across the bar as everyone in it rushed for their ships and their shelters. Oscar dropped Youri back onto his stool, pushed his way to the man in the doorway and grabbed him by the collar. "How many are there?"
The man was shaking, and so was his voice. "More than a hundred!"
Oscar's eyes went wide. He ran back to Youri, hauled him up again, and headed straight for the Atomium, where the rest of the crew was.
When he arrived, Halley was standing outside, confused by all the commotion, and the moment she saw him, she came straight over. "What's going on?"
"Get everyone ready," Oscar said, out of breath. "We have to leave now. The Empire has found us."
Halley did not need to hear anything else. She gathered everyone at once, and they made their way to the base as fast as they could. Inside, the hired workers were still on the ship, but at the news that the Empire was coming, everyone who was not crew left as quickly as they could, hoping to get away in time. The crew flooded aboard and took their positions. As the hangar doors began to open, they braced themselves for a quick escape.
The ship had just begun to rise when the copper sky turned gray. Terrian warships were descending toward the surface of Antia — long, angular hulls swept forward in razor-sharp silhouettes, like predatory spears seen from above, with twin engine arrays dominating their rears and their central spines bristling with weapons: long-range particle lances, plasma cannons and concealed missile pods, every one of them aimed at the Tartarusios. Once again, the Empire had surrounded them — only this time, with ten times as many ships. Beyond Antia's orbit waited even more, and the first vessel to come within striking distance was the Morphius, the flagship of General Mikhail Rozasar.
In the Tartarusios' control room, Bjorn turned to Oscar. "Captain, they're sending a message."
"Put it on."
The face that appeared on the screen belonged to a man they had only heard of, and standing beside him was someone they knew all too well: Emilia Rozasar, the commander they had escaped from after Zellion. Then the man began to speak.
"Greetings, crew of the Tartarusios. I trust I don't need to explain that I have not come in good will. In fact, I am here for one reason and one reason only — to eradicate you."
His words echoed through the ship. It was not the first time they had heard words like those, and it would not be the last. But what came next caught every one of them by surprise, even the captain himself.
"I will give you one final chance to surrender, on a single condition, and it is not negotiable. Hand over Duke Youri Kaelthorn, and you may die a painless death."