always gets the job done

"I'll tell my pilot to move our ship closer to your storage area for loading," Luke told Director Shima, making a big show of using a handheld communicator rather than his implant. No need to reveal his hand. Once Bari confirmed the maneuver, he nodded to Shima, who in turn gave a signal to his men, and the small group began moving deeper into the asteroid tunnels.

There was a rope strung along the wall for ease of movement, though nobody had bothered to smooth the rock — plenty of jagged handholds were available. The few locals they passed looked unhealthy: pale, hollow-cheeked, and clad in ragged clothing that hung off their thin frames. Microgravity, lack of sunlight, and what was surely a monotonous, nutrient-poor diet had done them no favors. Still, the colony was far from idle. A cacophony of mechanical clatter and shouted commands echoed through the narrow corridors. In contrast, the lighting was minimal — pale blue LED strips pasted at irregular intervals offered just enough illumination to keep from stumbling in the dark.

No kids anywhere, Anslög subvocalized. Luke nodded slightly.

"Director, I noticed that there are no children here," Luke ventured, testing a hunch he already considered fact.

"Yes. They would just eat up what little profit we manage here," Shima replied with grim certainty. "I don’t hire families. If someone is careless enough to get pregnant, they’re told to leave."

Anslög snorted. Hope they let them leave on a ship and not just boot them out an airlock, she sent. Luke didn’t respond. It was a real possibility.

Bari disengaged from the asteroid’s main airlock using cold gas thrusters, then nudged the fusion drive for a half-second to get a sliver of velocity. As the torch ship slid sideways and the engine shield obscured the airlock from any external sensors, her voice came through the intercom:

"Macha, Meztli, time to go."

Down on Deck 8, the two women in shell suits stepped into the airlock. Amaterasu waved them off through the porthole. As the outer door opened, it revealed the asteroid's rugged surface gliding slowly beneath them. Bari had timed the roll perfectly. Macha and Meztli launched themselves out, floating smoothly before righting midair. Magnetic boots clicked into place as they landed in silence.

“Tracker is working flawlessly,” Meztli reported.

The pair moved carefully, navigating around pits and gouges in the rock. A hundred meters out, they came upon a jagged hole so deep it swallowed their headlights.
“Damn. I don’t want to know what caused that,” Macha muttered.
“Me neither. We’ll go around.”
“Hope Luke and Anslög won’t need us anytime soon. This is gonna be slow going,” Macha said as they picked their way forward.

"Here we are!" Shima shouted over the roaring din as they rounded a corner and entered a vast, roughly spherical chamber. He had to yell — the noise was overwhelming. Luke’s implant gave a rough readout: 500 meters tall, perhaps half that in diameter. Most of the volume was packed with industrial chaos. Conveyor belts and pipes crisscrossed in caged lanes, cables and ropes draped across overhead railings, and at the center, the glowing mouth of the foundry swallowed ore and spewed molten metal into molds, forming it into transportable cubes.

Dozens of workers bustled across catwalks and platforms, guiding drones, swapping castings, and keeping pace with the relentless rhythm of the forge. Luke was glad his implants filtered sound — anyone unmodified in here was likely half-deaf.

“Very impressive setup!” he shouted to Shima, who led them along a narrow wall path. For the first time, the director smiled with pride. He pointed out machinery and tried to explain processes, but Luke only nodded along, eyes scanning. He was getting impatient. Shima would eventually grow suspicious if they lingered. But then he saw him — bald, unremarkable, just as Alexei had promised.

Terrance Mae.

Luke tagged the ex-operative through his implant and shared it with Anslög. Gotcha, came her reply. Luke pinged Nepthys back on the Seraglio.

In an instant, the foundry plunged into pitch black. Machines groaned to a halt. Shouts erupted across the chamber.

Luke didn’t wait. He launched off the wall toward Mae, thermal vision painting the man in sharp contrast against the background. Behind him, Anslög moved without hesitation — shotgun slipping from beneath her poncho, barking twice. Shima’s guards spun and collapsed mid-yell, clouds of blood billowing like crimson mist in microgravity.

Luke didn’t look back. He trusted her implicitly.

Mae reacted faster than any normal man, augmented reflexes kicking in. A snub-nosed revolver appeared in his hand as he kicked off his perch, dodging Luke’s trajectory. Two shots rang out, loud and close — but either Mae was rusty, or the darkness had fouled his aim. Both rounds missed. Luke drew his own pistol midair. One round clipped Mae’s weapon, sending it tumbling. But Mae barely flinched. He grabbed a nearby worker and flung the man at Luke. Luke holstered his pistol just in time, catching the flailing miner before they collided. The momentum knocked him off-course, veering sideways. Terrance lunged forward, serrated knife in hand. Luke braced his boots against the stunned miner and kicked off in the opposite direction, narrowly avoiding the slash. Mae overshot, spiraling past him. Luke landed atop a mesh-covered conveyor belt; Mae grabbed hold of a cable bundle running beside it. Both men moved — Luke pulling himself forward, knife drawn, while Mae clambered along the wires like a spider.

Across the chamber, Anslög’s shotgun barked again.

Mae launched himself. His knife came in fast and wild — slashing, stabbing. Luke blocked and twisted, ducked and parried. For a moment, they were locked in a dance of blades and gritted teeth. Then Mae overcommitted. A lunge too far, too eager. Luke sidestepped, slammed Mae’s arm down, and drove his ceramic knife into the man’s throat.

Mae didn’t die.

He snarled, headbutted Luke, and grabbed for the pistol at his thigh. Luke growled back and returned the headbutt — harder — then wrenched the knife sideways, slicing clean through Mae’s throat and spine. That did it. Mae went slack. Blood pooled and hung in thick droplets as Luke exhaled and slipped the body away.

Quickly, he took photos and sealed the former operative’s eyeballs in a secure pouch as DNA proof of the deed.

"Heads up, team. Deed is done. Time to exit."