Special services

"Ah," the Zenthari rasped, its voice modulator glitching into something almost... amused. "You discovered our... alternative revenue streams." A hydraulic limb twitched toward a hidden panel. "The death race entrants make such *enthusiastic* donors."

Eris's liquid form surged from the pod's vents like mercury poison, her fingers elongating into scalpels as she analyzed the biochemical traces in the air. "Cryo-preserved cerebral tissue detected," she reported, her voice gone clinical. "Recent extraction. Human."

Susan's needler pistol was drawn before the last syllable faded. The shot grazed the Zenthari's neural cluster, sending it staggering into its own tools. "Here's my counteroffer," she snarled, kicking over a vat of greenish preservative fluid. "You show us where you're keeping the last three donors alive, and we only melt half your exoskeleton."

The mechanic's laughter sounded like bones in a blender. "You misunderstand." Its abdominal plates split open, revealing rows of pulsating organ sacs. "We don't keep them alive."

The Zenthari's organ sacs pulsed under the flickering work lights, their veined surfaces glistening with a thin film of preservative gel. Susan's finger twitched against her needler's trigger—not out of hesitation, but calculation. She'd seen enough black-market chop-shops to know those sacs were already prepped for transport. Whatever poor bastards had been inside were long past saving.

Adam's knife pressed deeper into the Zenthari's tracheal slit. "You're missing the sales pitch part," he said conversationally. "Where you explain why we shouldn't turn your carapace into a colander."

The mechanic's mandibles clattered in a wet chuckle. "Because Station Law 47-C designates this outpost as a sovereign trade enclave." One chitinous limb gestured lazily toward a rusted placard near the hangar doors, its etched glyphs barely legible. "No jurisdiction for... moral objections."

Eris's liquid form rippled violently across the floor, her quicksilver threads infiltrating the facility's ventilation system with predatory intent. "Lying," she hissed through the PA. "Cerebral scans confirm three human life signs in cryostasis. Neural patterns intact."

Susan exchanged a glance with Adam. Cryo was expensive—too expensive for mere organ harvesting. Which meant the Zenthari was after something far more valuable: intact nervous systems. Probably for some rich fucker's illegal consciousness-transfer rig. Her stomach turned at the thought of some corporate ghoul wearing a racer's memories like a new suit.

The Zenthari's ocular stalks twitched toward a flickering holoscreen displaying their damaged Stormcrow. "Repairs completed," it lied smoothly. "Fuel cells replenished. All systems... operational." The image glitched—revealing the truth for half a second—before correcting to show their ship gleaming as if fresh from drydock.

Adam's knife didn't waver. "Bullshit. Our port stabilizer's still venting plasma." He nodded toward Eris, who'd reconstituted into a humanoid shape near the hangar's main terminal. Her silver fingers were buried wrist-deep in its circuitry.