“So… what happened to the colony?” Nick asked, Tiffany’s heavy hand finding placement on his lower thigh as he patted her in reassurance. He used his free hand to finish off the last sip of his drink as he focused back on Zurii. Her obsidian and molten golden eyes swirled as they looked at the floating dregs swirling around the bottom of her mug.

  “Well, that’s when we had to step up, and partially why the Galactic Security Administration had a drastic revamp on how we fund the organization.”

  Nick looked at her, puzzled. Zurii looked up briefly, catching Nick’s expression before continuing.

  Sigh. “Like any organization, they need to be funded. We originally were backed by tributes and volunteer services, in exchange for protection and citizenship… until this colony was overlooked… This was a poor logging colony that made very little profit and lived off the land. Value to most companies was practically nonexistent…”

  She paused, looking up at Nick with a somber look in her wet, glassy eyes.

  “Tell me, do you believe the poor should be ignored for not being financially well off?”

  Nick closed his eyes, shaking his head. “No ma’am. I know life isn’t perfect, but I’d like to believe in equal protection under the law… but sometimes that’s not how life works.”

  Zurii nodded with a faint grin. “I knew there was something else I liked about you… Needless to say, the colony was trapped in that shelter for about two deka-cycles… two weeks, your time.”

  “Have you had any luck raising help?” Hans asked Rodcheck.

  “You bloody well know everyone in this shelter would know if anything was sent.”

  Hans threw his hands up in a shrug. “Scuuuse me, I was just asking.”

  Rodcheck shooed the man away as he sat at the monitor, trying to hail someone, anyone—especially after being trapped for a deka-cycle in the cramped shelter with the whole town.

  “Come on now! Somebody answer!” Rodcheck flashed in frustration.

  After hailing for what felt like mono-cycles into pingable distance, he gave up, putting the system on auto-ping, and frustratedly pushed away from the desk to go talk with the governor.

  *Knock-knock-knock.*

  “Come in…” the governor responded wearily.

  Rodcheck let himself in, a depressed look on his face.

  “No response, I take it?”

  Rodcheck shook his head.

  “It may take more than a couple of weeks for any pings to be picked up this far out. We are on the outer rim of any major traffic lanes, sir.”

  Sigh. “I kinda figured that… just… do your best to make sure Johnson doesn’t eat us out of house and home… What’s the ration level look like?”

  Rodcheck pulled his data slate from the pouch on his utility belt, flicking through the options as he found the status on the shelter.

  Rations — 84.3 percent

  Water filtration — within tolerable range

  Water storage — full

  Environment — filters optional

  Furnace — below optimal threshold

  “Well, I think we’ll make about… by my calculations… eight deka-cycles. I expect us to get a response within two out of the eight. Hopefully nobody gets cabin fever and does something stupid. Food and water are well within levels… but water filtration looks like it’s having some issues, like the furnace, which is most likely why the water is starting to taste like biofuel, and the temperature is dropping indoors.”

  Governor Mash nodded at this, rubbing his hands together to warm them.

  “Any chance we have extra filters, and someone that knows how to fix a furnace…?” Mash asked as he got up to button his heavy wool coat.

  “I’ve got someone on the water filters so we don’t poison ourselves… but I’m afraid the only man that knew how to fix the furnace was… Jonus… crazy bastard…”

  Rodcheck took his knitted hat off, running his fingers through his dark hair in frustration.

  “No communications with him outside?” Mash asked, looking at Rodcheck with concern.

  Rodcheck’s head dipped down as he gently shook it. “Not a one, sir. When I checked the outside systems records, it showed the loader last powered shortly before the bulkhead was damaged by the creature… I’m assuming the worst with no response…”

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  “Well, I’ll address the people and try to keep things calm. Worst thing that can happen is panicking and turning on ourselves… or… freezing to death.”

  Rodcheck nodded solemnly and left to go check the jobs listed on his data slate as he departed.

  *Woosh—kathunk.*

  Sigh. “I hate politics…” Mash grumbled as he slouched in the battered leather office chair in the small broom-closet of an office he claimed as his sleeping arrangements.

  ***

  *Beep-beep-beep----*

  A stunned Rodcheck, passing through the cramped hall of the shelter, heard a message notification on the communications system. He darted into the communications room to check the display.

  *Distress signal received — Reply back? Y/N?*

  Rodcheck tapped Y, initiating a live broadcast to whoever had answered the ping.

  “Hello?! This is Chief Security Officer Timothy Rodcheck, stationed at the Sans Outpost Colony. Can you read me? Over.”

  There was a long, silent pause before a tired voice answered over the comm.

  “This is the USS Californian. We picked up your distress call. How may we assist?” the operator asked like this was just another day, and to her… it was.

  “We were attacked by a grizmonger and it damaged the bulkhead and we’re trapped in the—!”

  Rodcheck was cut off as the voice on the other end of the call suddenly sounded a little more lively.

  “A Grizmonger???? Please hold…”

  Rodcheck tried to keep his posture as some polite transit music started to play over the mic and the transmission briefly cut.

  The long pause seemed to stretch forever, until his thoughts were interrupted by a brief static burst over the mic as the music cut out.

  “This is Captain Ulysses Anderson of the USS Californian, of the G.S.A. To whom am I speaking?”

  Rodcheck jumped at the professional introduction, his hand fumbling with the mic until his thumb finally found the talk switch.

  “This is Timothy Rodcheck, Head Security Officer of the Sans Colony. We’re in a tight situation, sir…”

  Before he could explain, Captain Anderson cut him off.

  “Yes, you… seem to have encountered a grizmonger,” the captain replied, almost dismissively.

  A knot of dread started to form in Rodcheck’s throat at the captain’s unhurried tone.

  “It says on my data slate you’re a low-yield, low-profit logging operation… and your colony doesn’t pay the appropriate tribute for organizational aid. Is that correct?”

  The knot tightened, making it difficult for Rodcheck to breathe.

  “Um… I believe that’s accurate. If you want, I can confirm with Governor Ma—”

  Captain Anderson cut Rodcheck off again, making the officer wince.

  “No—that’s not necessary. I have all the data I need in front of me, thank you very much. Well… it pains me to say this, but this isn’t our jurisdiction. Please feel free to log a formal request for aid for the crew that’s responsible for your district. Any complaints or grievances can be sent to the appropriate offices. My subordinate will send you a link. Please allow the standard four deka-cycles for a response, pending approval…”

  Rodcheck’s heart felt like it was going to fall down and roll out his thermal pants leg onto the icy steel flooring.

  “But—” Rodcheck started to protest.

  Captain Anderson kept flowing ahead through his red-tape monologue.

  “Also, we wish you the best of luck, and have a nice day. Captain Anderson out.”

  A slight crackle came over the mic before it fell toward the floor, the audio cable connected to the mic saving it from shattering… like Rodcheck felt he was currently doing in that moment.

  “Bloody hell…” Rodcheck mumbled in disbelief, still reeling from the complete brush-off.

  ***

  “So… wait! They just left them to die?! What kind of captain does that?!?” Nick asked, not able to comprehend that someone would actually do that.

  Nick composed himself as he noticed something off with Zurii. Her eyes were glazed over, and the ceramic mug started to tremble as glowing purple fractures began to grow down Zurii’s arm…

  *Crack.*

  The sound drew Tiffany’s glassy gaze to Zurii’s hand as a light web of fractures started to cover the Director’s mug.

  “Ma’am—are you okay?” Tiff asked, concerned, her calm voice snapping Zurii back to the present before the ceramic shattered in her white-knuckled grip.

  “Oh—yes. Sorry about that… I… was a tad lost in thought,” Zurii mumbled, setting the cracked mug away from her at the edge of the desk.