Xanthe's Dream was not a ship.
It was a statement. A challenge. A floating cathedral of commerce for the elite few who operated above and beneath the law.
Suspended in high orbit just beyond Proteus' upper traffic grid, the former Federation battleship had been refitted into something unrecognizable. Gone were the tactical struts and tri-plasma siege guns; in their place, gleaming grav-piers, holographic hull etchings, and a soft ambient shield glow that diffused the starlight like candlelight.
As Ethan's private ferry curved into docking formation, the ship loomed across the viewport, massive, like a myth etched in alloy. Its hull still bore the faded imprint of the Federation crest, now overlaid with a swirling silver sigil: the insignia of Silica Arc Logistics, Brion Dynamics' black-tier development arm.
"Iris," Ethan said quietly, fingers twitching against the hidden Astral Slayer inside his coat sleeve, "give me a readout."
"Shield strength within civilian tolerances. No exterior turrets active. Fourteen internal security nodes on standby, most routed through delegate-controlled priority access. No direct surveillance on your assigned ID quadrant."
He nodded, already shifting posture. It was time to become Navren Cole, wealthy, retired systems analyst; aloof, reclusive, with a taste for rare encryption artifacts and neural crystal patterns.
He adjusted the hem of his tailored duskcoat, the iridium threading catching faint light from the shuttle's cabin.
Deep breath. Neutral face. Subtle confidence.
Then: doors opened.
The docking atrium was pure theatre.
Gleaming obsidian floors reflected the guests like half-formed spirits. Gravity-suspended chandeliers swayed overhead, dripping kinetic lights that flickered as guests passed beneath them. Each wave of motion activated a unique harmonic tone, a personalized entry fanfare.
Ethan's boots struck the floor in calculated rhythm. He didn't rush. Didn't pause. He moved like someone accustomed to being watched, but no longer needing to care.
To his left, a pair of corporate lords, gold-veined implants glistening beneath pale, waxy skin, laughed through cranial vocal filters that modulated their speech to avoid pattern recognition.
One bore a breathing tank embedded directly into his sternum, its rhythmic hiss synced to his pulse. Their conversation was clipped and precise, trading jabs about quantum-stitch patents and exclusivity rights over psionic-mesh processors.
To his right, a Ghoryan naval strategist, tall and sinewy, stood amid a trio of human and half-blood officers in dark blue trim. His mouth was a narrow slit beneath his gill-like cheek ridges, but his voice carried: calm, accented, and full of cold condescension as he pointed at a rotating holo-map of outer sector skirmishes.
He kept moving, posture fluid, footwork exact as the corridor widened.
Ahead, three veiled figures stood in a semicircle beside a gravity-frozen sculpture of a burning sun. Their features were shrouded beneath mirrored masks, but their bodies gave them away.
One was clearly Vekran with smooth obsidian scales and a dual-shouldered frame. Despite the high collars of his ceremonial robes, the edges of his subdermal plating glimmered faintly under the atrium lights.
Next to him stood a Rellian, tall and lithe, with smooth, deep-blue skin and three luminous eyes arranged in a vertical line down his forehead. His hands were folded elegantly behind his back, fingers twitching as he whispered into a hidden sub-vocal implant. His skin pulsed softly in response to ambient light, casting shifting patterns across his silken robes.
The third was a Lorskian, small and furry, with round eyes that darted constantly beneath a hood stitched with metallic threading. Clawed fingers tapped against a thin data tablet, and despite his size, none of the others ignored him. Lorskians were famous for running information syndicates. Their size was misleading. Their memory was terrifying.
Further down the chamber, a Zelsari glided across the floor, her body encased in a flowing gown that shimmered like oil on water. Her skin was nearly translucent, revealing veins of pale light beneath the surface. Four luminous eyes blinked asynchronously, absorbing and parsing ambient energy as she passed.
A Vennari, towering and broad-shouldered with four arms folded across his barrel chest, followed behind her. His steps were heavy, measured. No armor. He didn't need it.
"Iris," he murmured under his breath, "ping anyone too clean."
"Already running match algorithms," she replied. "Thirteen attendees bear altered telemetry. Five are proxies."
"Of course they are."
The grand atrium opened beyond the security corridor like the inner sanctum of a royal citadel. Columns soared high into a vaulted ceiling painted with simulated starlight and swirling nebula frescoes.
Between the columns ran display panels, cycling through previews of auction lots: high-caliber plasma cores, genetically stabilized bio-chambers, stasis-sealed fauna, even what looked like an ancient map etched on bone.
The guests had begun to drift, like schools of polished sharks.
Ethan moved with them.
He passed a dining lounge where gravity fluctuated rhythmically, causing wine to float in elegant spirals above crystalline glasses. A waiter offered him a tray, he took a slice of fire-bloomed Rhedari eel, its edges still glowing faintly with internal heat. The texture was somewhere between velvet and silk. The taste, wild, spicy, aged.
He sipped Trion Weave sky-nectar, recognizing it from the border systems near the ice-harvest worlds in an outer sector called Ruvoor. It was a very expensive delicacy according to the article he had read. Here? A casual garnish.
He didn't break character. But inside, something cold and serrated twisted against his instincts.
Extravagance at this level didn't whisper. It taunted. And the wealth on display wasn't just monetary. It was control. These people could erase colonies with a signature. Rewrite laws with a favor.
In a side chamber, he caught a glimpse of something that stopped him. An incredibly rare species named Grentalian dusk lark, according to Iris. Dead. Preserved in translucent stasis and displayed on a rotating plinth.
"That's not possible," he whispered.
"Confirmed," Iris replied. "DNA match: 100%. Species declared extinct 43 years ago following the collapse of the Nevar Ridge ecosystems."
"And here it is, glazed for display."
"Estimate: eight million credits, non-auctioned."
Ethan moved on, his face unreadable.
The guests were soon directed toward the auction hall, a cavernous space where sound was carefully sculpted and ambiance regulated by pulse-sync filters. Ethan's private chamber was positioned on the second ring, semi-isolated by a transparisteel barrier and darkened privacy field.
He entered, nodding once at the silent attendant stationed near the console.
"Navren Cole," the attendant confirmed. "Credentials accepted."
Ethan took his seat, high-backed, cushioned, climate-adjusting. A glass sphere of filtered oxygen pulsed near his shoulder, laced with whatever strain of air a bidder preferred. His console projected the auction catalog, now live.
"Iris," he said, eyes sweeping the crowd. "Log every gesture, every bidder ID."
"Tracking active. Seventeen known corporate arms, five political proxies. One unmarked delegate in Obsidian Mask formation. No facial records."
Ethan leaned back as the lights dimmed further, spotlighting the first item: a Separation-era fuel core, still humming faintly in its case.
The bidding began, calm, elegant, a slow crescendo.
He didn't move.
A fusion catalyst brick was next, then a preserved relic from the Turos Accord, an imperial peace pact etched into the jawbone of a founding admiral.
"What's that?" Ethan asked softly.
"A stasis tomb," Iris answered. "Bio-locked. Federation cryo-standard. Subject likely unknown. Currently illegal under nine planetary constitutions."
Someone bought it without hesitation.
He made no bids. Instead, he watched, like a predator behind glass, waiting for the right scent in the wind.
The Gryllex shard hadn't appeared yet. But it would.
And when it did, the real game would begin.
He leaned forward slightly, gaze sharpening behind the calm mask of his assumed identity.
"Iris," he said quietly. "Let me know when they bring out the real prize we are here for,"
"Yes, Captain." she replied.