Chapter 1

Syd

I swear, if one more drunk asteroid-jockey yells for “Freezerburn Heartbreak!” I’m gonna toss my holokeytar into the plasma engine and detonate the whole damn lounge.

I twist the tone dial, cranking distortion until it growls like a feral cat. The crowd at Syfer Station's ‘Blue Vacuum’ bar is a mash-up of tech grunts, traders, and twitchy-eyed smugglers too wired on narcotics to sit still. A haze of booze, ozone, and recycled oxygen wraps around me like a musty coat I can’t shake. My boots stick to the deck plating with every step—some kind of spilled synthale, maybe blood. Hard to tell. This place doesn’t clean. It absorbs.

“Let’s take it down a notch,” I purr into the mic, voice laced with artificial reverb and fake confidence. “Something for the lovers. Or the lonely. Whichever pays better.”

The first few notes echo, low and dirty. I feel the hum of the bass under my skin, see the ripple of recognition in the crowd. No one screams requests now. Good. I’m not in the mood for nostalgia. I play for myself tonight. The strings burn hot beneath my fingertips—literally. The instrument's plasma-core frets heat up if you slide too hard. I like the pain. It means I’m still here.

A guy near the bar leans over and yells, “Play something that doesn’t suck!”

I flick him off mid-solo. The bar erupts in laughter. He tries to stand, trips over his stool, and falls flat on his synth-addled face. More laughter. He doesn’t get up. Probably passed out. I don’t care. I’m already deep in the rhythm, eyes half-lidded, letting the music crawl into the marrow of my bones. For a moment, I’m floating.

Then the power flickers.

Not just the lights—everything. A low whine hums through the floor. The gravity stutters for half a second, just enough to make everyone stumble. The crowd groans. I kill the reverb.

“Sorry, folks,” the bartender, a grizzled Augment named Jex, calls out. “Station’s having one of its tantrums. Drink fast, tip well.”

But it’s not a tantrum.

I feel it before anyone else reacts. That shift in air pressure. That drop in temperature. The kind of silence that hums, like the universe is holding its breath.

Then comes the first explosion.

The far bulkhead detonates inward—metal screams, glass shatters, alarms wail. I drop flat, keytar clattering beside me. Something sharp tears across my shoulder. The crowd erupts in chaos. Screaming. Running. Dying.

A tall figure in black and silver armor strides through the smoke like a ghost out of a nightmare. His eyes burn amber. His voice cuts through the air, warped by a helmet modulator.

“Take the women alive…everyone else, belly up!.”

Vortaxians.

Fuck. What are they doing out of the Galactic Core? They’ve always been content to stick to their own business and let the galaxy tear itself apart around them. They’re here now, though.

I crawl backward, fingers searching for my weapon. I keep a stunblade duct-taped to the underside of the synth console. My dad says it’s paranoia. I call it realism. My hand finds the hilt. I yank it free, thumbing the charge to max. Blue arcs dance along the blade.

One of the invaders grabs a dancer near the stage—lashes her wrists with a glowing manacle and throws her over his shoulder like luggage. She screams. He doesn’t even blink.

I lunge, blade slicing through smoke, heart pounding. I’m not a fighter. I’m a musician. But I don’t care.

I drive the stunblade into a Vortaxian’s ribs. It sings—a crackle and burn as armor fries and skin chars. He collapses, twitching. Another one turns toward me, raising a shock rifle. I swing the keytar into his face. It shatters, pieces of crystal and circuitry scattering like stardust. The blast catches me in the stomach. Everything goes white.

I wake up with a taste of metal in my mouth and fire behind my eyes.

My wrists are bound. Some kind of energy cuffs. My head lolls against the cold metal wall of a drop shuttle. Across from me, a dozen women—all in various states of blood and confusion—sit chained and silent.

We’re moving. Fast.

The shuttle jolts. I groan.

“Hey,” a woman to my left whispers. “You alive?”

“Barely,” I croak. My voice sounds like gravel soaked in static.

“Where do you think they’re taking us?” she asks, too calm. Like she already knows.

“Not home,” I whisper.

I close my eyes. My shoulder’s bleeding. My mouth is dry. I can feel the press of fear rising in my chest. I’ve played for soldiers. I’ve toured during war. But I’ve never been stolen before. Not like this.

And somewhere deep in the pit of my stomach, I know this isn’t random. This isn’t opportunistic.

This is targeted.

They knew who to take. Where to strike. And how to make it clean.

I think about my father.

Walter Malmount.

Galactic arms dealer. One of the biggest suppliers during the Centuries War. I think about how he always said I’d never be worth anything outside his name. That one day, my rebellion would catch up with me.

“Bet you’re real smug now, you bastard,” I mutter under my breath.

The shuttle banks hard. A voice crackles over the intercom—deep, clipped, imperial.

“We approach the Ravager Ascendant. Prepare the assets for presentation.”

The what now?

A shadow looms across the viewport. A massive, angular warship eclipsing the stars. Black metal. Vortaxian design. Predatory and perfect. I stare at it and feel ice crawl down my spine.

This is where the story changes.

This isn’t a rescue story.

Not yet.

This is where the girl gets stolen. Where she sees what monsters look like when they wear crowns. This is where I learn that survival isn’t about how loud you scream.

It’s about how quiet you can plan.

I curl my fingers, testing the cuffs. I feel the rhythm under the hull. I memorize the guard rotations. I taste blood and fury.

I’m not just a captive.

I’m a Mal-mount.

And if they think I’m gonna make a good little prisoner…

They’ve clearly never watched me burn a stage down.