Page 1 of Taming Chaos

Chapter One

Zarhab Groht stank.

Unwashed bodies, chemical fumes, pungent spices. Torin Mardak could smell the putrid air even from behind his protective helm.

Damn inferior tech. The thing probably hadn’t sealed properly. He cursed his stiff, uncomfortable disguise, which had the dubious effect of making him look like a poorly paid Outer Sectors mercenary.

He would have much preferred his nanite exo-armor—an impenetrable obsidian layer that fit him like a second skin—but this was Zarhab Groht, the notorious black market trading station at the edge of Sector Eight, and he couldn’t afford to appear even the slightest bit Kordolian.

After all, he was on a mission, and he didn’t want to scare away his prey.

He sighed as he made his way through the crowd, deftly sidestepping a tri-wheeled robot as it skimmed across the patchy floor. What purpose it served and who it belonged to, he had no idea. It disappeared into the throng of bodies and machines like a bottom-dwelling insect, emitting a faint mechanical whine.

Zarhab Groht was noisy.

High-pitched machinery noises mingled with the roar of thrusters and the incessant buzz of thousands of voices, assaulting Torin’s sensitive ears. He caught snippets of conversation in various languages; Ifkin, Ordoon, Veronian, Ephrenian, Universal… It was as if the entire Universe had come out to play, without the Kordolians.

Torin didn’t want to spoil the party, but he had an objective, and if things didn’t go to plan, he had the all-clear to tear this place apart.

“Retrieve the weapons at all costs. I will not allow our technology to fall into unworthy hands. Find whoever is responsible and bring them to me. I want to have a little talk with them.”

Those were the General’s orders. According to their intel, some moron was offloading Callidum weapons onto the intergalactic black markets, and that was absolutely fucking unacceptable.

Why would anyone want to sell a blade that could cut through almost any known substance in the Universe? Why would any Kordolian in their right minds want to deliver such a thing into enemy hands?

And all for a few miserable credits?

Torin shook his head as he changed direction, avoiding a scuffle that had broken out between two large golden-skinned Bartharran males. They snarled as they circled one another, their lower jaws thrust forward to display vicious looking tusks. A group of onlookers had formed, and people were taking bets.

Zarhab Groht was dangerous.

Full of cutthroats, thieves, murderers, and sociopaths, it was a typical fringe trading station.

Here, only the strong walked alone. The weak moved in groups, because this was the sort of place where just looking at someone the wrong way could get you killed.

Not that any of that bothered Torin. He was First Division, and that made him the most dangerous thing on this floating cesspit.

Well, maybe his offsider was more dangerous, but that was only because Enki was a little bit unhinged.

Well, maybe more than a little bit.

Enki was… in a different place right now. They all crossed over to that dark place now and then, but Enki practically lived there.

Ever since he’d returned from the Ghost Planet, Torin’s longtime battle-partner hadn’t really been the same.

He was a work in progress.

They all were, to some degree.

“Anything interesting over in your patch, Enki?” Torin activated his comm, not entirely sure what to expect from his mission-partner.

Sometimes, Enki could be worse than a fucking Silent One. On a ten-point scale of talkativeness, if Kalan was a three and Kail was a one, then Enki Zakanin was a zero.

Scratch that. He was a negative.

Torin made his way down a narrow alley, passing a row of old freighter-crates that had been repurposed into market stalls. A wizened old Ifkin hawker yelled out to him in broken Universal, waving some sort of blaster-weapon in the air. “You need powerblaster, mercenary? I give discount, just for you. Three for price of two.”

Torin ignored the Ifkin. “Any sign of our cargo, Enki?”

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