The Mutineer's sensors emitted a feeble beep, near drowned out by the engines, but they succeeded in rousing the pilot from her fitful slumber. Daphne rolled into sitting position, trying to clear the dream from her head. No, it was a nightmare.

Her brother lay on a long metal slab in the dark. She couldn't really see her surroundings, managing to make out Miles's outline with her sub-par night vision. Her brother was a large man, broad in the shoulders like their father, but he seemed so small lying on the table, incomplete.

"Miles?" She whispered, shuffling toward him.

"You need to stop looking Daph," His voice was distorted, an echo through water.

Daphne drew herself up, indignant even in her subconscious. "I'll never give up on you. You're family, my only family." She reached for him, trying to take his hand, except there was nothing to grab. Fear snaked up her back, wrapping its fingers around her neck so it was hard to breathe. "What's wrong with you Miles?"

Light flooded the room, glowing from the walls, the ceiling, and beneath the table. It didn't blind her like it should have, though she wished it had as the room gained horrible clarity.

Tools hung against the illuminated steel walls, dripping blood, coated with bits of flesh. Spatter coated the room, even the floor, drips falling around her from glistening red ribbons along the ceiling, splashing silently as they hit the ground. Blood everywhere, except on the island, the metal table which housed her brother.

What was left of him.

It was the fate she feared for him. She gazed down at the scant remains, bile rising from her stomach. His arms and legs were sheared off, his rib cage open, revealing several missing organs. She approached his face, unable to stop, unable to look away. She had to see him. Her gaze took him in, she choked back a sob. His face was mostly intact, except his eyes were missing, the closed lids sunken into the empty sockets. He turned toward her, his lips cracking open as he spoke.

"You will not like what you find."

Daphne rubbed her eyes, shoving her growing hair out of her face. She'd been searching for three weeks, chasing down scant clues and unreliable leads, attempting to follow the skittering path of the Nisseri raiding party that snatched her brother. Her dreams were growing steadily worse, but she knew no matter how gory or detailed they became, they did nothing to prepare her for the reality. If her brother was not sold into the slave markets, he would be sent to the flesh mechanics for Harvest. Unlike her nightmares, the mechanics salvaged everything. There would be nothing left to find of Miles Glouschester.

Dragging herself from the sleeping cot to the cockpit, she settled into the control chair, reading the instruments. She approached a planet on the fringes of the Pathosian empire, and one of the last rumored stops of the Nisseri clan she sought. Her task here was to hunt down another leader and gain more information on the activities of her quarry.

She learned a great deal about her little corner of the universe these past few weeks, and about herself. Daphne discovered she had a knack for making acquaintances in unlikely places. Her personality allowed her to make fast friends with some of the most unsavory and ruthless mercs in the system. She didn't understand her own appeal. She was a card shark, a sharp shooting, foul mouthed, flirt who held her liquor better than most men, of her race and others, but her new friends insisted these qualities only made her the perfect lady. Add this to the tricks she learned from the ladies of questionable repute on Anaon, Daphne could usually twirl a few lads around her fingers to get the information she needed. The rarity of actual women in these parts of the system improved her chances.

She guided her ship through the planet's atmosphere. Bacchanel was one of the first and furthest colonies of Pathosian expansion. All worlds in the system were within a day's journey of each other with a decent ship. The Pathosians kept their holdings close, even on a planetary scale. She broke through the low cloud cover, Bacchanel's main port lit up before her. There was no entry procedure or border guard for this planet, Bacchanel was pure mercenary in design and function. Anything could be bought for the right price, which meant she'd have to take extra precautions to conceal her most valuable asset.

After she landed in a decently secluded lot between two mining rigs, she dressed to go out, donning a low key thermal suit, waterproof duster, goggles and face-mask loose at her throat in case the atmosphere turned out to be less than human friendly. Last, she tapped on the bracelet she'd acquired on one of the Barlok worlds, activating the nanites implanted in her scalp. Her skull tingled as the microscopic machines went to work. In seconds Daphne's hair turned raven wing black, the effect set to last a few hours, plenty of time to glean some fresh information and down a few drinks.

She exited the Red Mutineer, following the familiar tells for the nearest drinking hole. Her stay in New Amsterdam taught her the best informational hotbeds on any world were these establishments. The mix of races and languages ensured a steady banter of unispeak, the alcohol eased the flow of conversation and no one drank more than merchants and mercenaries, her two main providers of information. The steady trail of drunks and the unerring paths of thirsty travelers lead to the hobbled together dive that passed for a tavern. She eyed the crooked sign over the door, taking a few moments to translate the scrawling Pathosian script.

The Janus, named for the god of the crossroads. How appropriate. Daphne shouldered her way into the crowded hovel. Truthfully, the pub was in better condition than many of the residential structures she'd spotted on her way in. Bacchanel was colonized for its natural resources, which meant the entire planet was a dumping ground for Pathosian peasants, aged slaves, and prisoners. It also made for an ideal slave market with no presence of law to speak of outside the penal mines. Sidling up to the bar, she ordered the second cheapest brew on the short list of options, surveying the evening's patrons for what she needed.

A dice game was in full swing in one corner, while a few tables had various card games in play. Dealing into one was tempting but the players were all merchant types, more respectable than the traders she searched for. There, she spotted the glimmer of silver. Because of their particular line of work, Pathosian slave traders identified themselves with a plain silver band around their right horn. Their culture thrived on this market, the band was a symbol of respect and earned them treatment comparable to a low born lordling, the very bottom tier of the Pathosian nobility structure. Bottom of the bucket or not, the position had its perks. It also fostered a deep resentment of the noble class, since the traders could never rise above this rank, no matter their success. Daphne found this resentment surfaced after the fourth or fifth brew, but the traders were her best source for leads since they usually dealt directly with the Nisseri.

She chugged her drink, opening her duster so the skin tight thermal suit was visible. She sauntered over to the trader, rolling her hips. Sex appeal was the easiest method of opening a conversation with this type. Halting at the table, she cocked a leg out, giving a favorable view of her modest figure. She addressed him in unispeak, with a sultry purr in her voice.

"May I join you for a drink?"

The slave trader choked on his brew, blinking at her with a lovely set of heavy lidded violet eyes. Despite his opulent profession, he possessed the same sigh worthy musculature males of his species were famous for. Whatever criticism people had of Pathosians, they kept themselves fit for such a lusty society. She made sure he read her appreciation of his body loud and clear.

"Please do luv, join me for a few. What are you having?"

"Whatever you are." She winked at him, causing him to lean over so he could adjust himself without her "noticing". Such a gentleman. She studied her companion, noting the fine quality of his travel worn robes, the band of silver on his horn was polished to a glow, while his dark red skin was smooth of the lines many older traders bore. This one was young, relatively new to the profession. The younger traders didn't possess as much information as the older, but they were easier to impress with a bit of feminine mystique and looser with talk after a couple drinks. They were also cheaper to bribe. One of the haggard parbreed barmaids set a drink in front of her.

"What brings a sweet little bit like you to this dung heap?" The trader asked, his eyes scanning the curve of her breasts inside her suit. What did the ladies say? As yes, you might not have much, but you have enough to stir any man to wanting. Daphne took a sip of her drink, savoring the much higher quality brew he'd ordered for her before placing an enticing pile of trimica on the table top. She glanced up beneath the loose curls over her forehead, her darkened hair framing her grey eyes. She wasn't a great beauty like her mother but now she knew how to work what she had.

"I come seeking information only a gentleman such as yourself can provide. Information I will gladly pay for." She tapped a nail on the trics.

"Beautiful and rich, I am fortunate in my drinking partners this evening." Daphne raised an eyebrow. She wasn't rich by any stretch of the word, but no need to inform him the trics in front of him were the bulk of her take from cards on the last world she visited. He set his brew aside, folding his hands.

"What information can a slave trader have for you?" He did not seem offended by the shift in her intentions.

"Have you done any recent trade with the Nisseri?"

He let out a throaty chuckle. "Sweet, out here, all my dealings are with the Nisseri. Are you looking for something more specific?"

"A raiding party, the Gearswitch Clan, they would be selling a sizable haul of human extractions."

The Pathosian frowned at her. "Are you sure you have the correct clan name? Those wretches are easy to mix up."

"I've been tracking them for a while now. I'm certain of the name and that Bacchanel was their last known stop."

The trader hesitated, grabbing his brew for a long pull. "Are you searching for someone because-"

"I'm aware any purchases have been carted away for the markets further in the system. Money is of no consequence for me, I wish to track down the buyer and reimburse them for their trouble, and I will generously tip any who aid my search." She hadn't meant to interrupt, but she could sense her search was at an end.

The trader sighed. "I wish I could help you, and I hate to upset a lovely lady, but I am afraid you have come all this way for nothing."

Daphne's grip tightened on her mug. No, this can't be the way it ends, it can't be. "What do you mean?"

"The Gearswitch clan is a pure extraction and salvage operation. They do not deal with the slave traders, since they only sell in parts."

The news seeped into her, leaving her numb. There was the truth. Miles was dead, likely dead for weeks. No tears rose to her eyes at the knowledge, no tightness in her chest, no anger, nothing. She felt nothing inside. What to do now? What could she do now? Could she go home? What home? There was nothing left to return to. She could travel, see the stars, try to fill this terrible void inside her. Or she could continue to track down the Nisseri. She hadn't been able to save Miles, but she could stop the monsters who so callously stole him away.

"Do you know where is the Gearswitch Clan is headed now?"