Wilt Norcutt got through to Decimus Levin, her senior by rank. The link lagged, the image jittered, the audio dropped out in brief gulps, but his face stayed crisp on the screen. A worn man in his mid forties, close cropped hair, the look of someone who had listened to other people’s disasters for too many years.

  “Report, Norcutt,” he said.

  No time for pleasantries.

  “The whole Outcast crew. I’m enrolling them as Inquisition trainees and assistants. Officially. I need hands, and I need no one on Chukur thinking we drifted in on luck.”

  Levin did not ask why. He only nodded, as if he had been expecting the move.

  “Approved,” the Senior Inquisitor said. “No hesitation. I’ll push it through the channel. But listen carefully. Chukur is a sinkhole. Even our patrols don’t hold the streets there.”

  “I don’t care what goes on down there,” Wilt replied. “Adam Graf is on that planet.”

  Levin’s brow tightened.

  “You’re sure.”

  “Yes. And one more thing. He’s tied to an organization called Sperare.”

  Levin went quiet for a beat, then slowly shook his head.

  “Never heard of it.”

  Wilt’s mouth twisted.

  “Then you have a chance to learn. Do we have assets on the ground?”

  “One,” the Senior Inquisitor said. “Arbiter Karl Eckart.”

  “I’ll contact him.”

  Decimus lifted a finger as if to stop her.

  “Be careful with Eckart. He’s the slippery kind.”

  “He’s still Inquisition,” Wilt said, and let the words hang between them. “But treat him like a knife you didn’t see drawn.”

  No questions followed. The warning was enough.

  “Thank you, Senior Inquisitor.”

  Decimus exhaled, then continued as if the breath had cost him.

  “Don’t thank me. Come back alive. And don’t carry another planet on your shoulders like you did on Nozer.”

  Wilt narrowed her eyes.

  “I’m not planning to. I only need Graf.”

  Levin held her gaze for a few seconds, then said, low and rough, “May Mother Terra help you.”

  Wilt answered at once, without a smile.

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  “Amen.”

  The connection clicked and died. The screen went dark.

  She kept her hand on the dead terminal until the last hiss of static faded.

  Wilt stayed still for a moment. Then she stowed the terminal, stepped into the shuttle corridor, and said with clipped certainty, “Gear up. Chukur. Once we land, we’re not in a neutral zone anymore. Everything’s real down there.”

  From behind her came Tomos’ voice.

  “Finally. I was starting to get bored.”

  Terry did not react. He only glanced at Lothar. The boy sat in silence, hands locked together, eyes lowered. But his face said he had heard every word.

  Deep inside him, something shifted, like chain scraping metal.

  They set down on Chukur near dusk.

  From orbit the planet looked almost beautiful. Warm city lights, ribbons of roads, rare dark patches of wasteland. An ordinary world, if you kept your distance. The moment Outcast bit into the atmosphere, the lie fell apart.

  Signals came in crooked. Beacons argued with each other. The airwaves were a mess of screaming ads, threats, music, someone laughing, all tangled with dispatchers pretending they ran anything at all. On approach, two different channels tried to guide them in, like multiple hands reaching for the same hook.

  Terry stayed at the panel and said nothing. He watched Wilt stare at the city. Not with curiosity. With familiarity.

  “I’ve been on this planet twice,” Wilt said. “I get why Graf chose it. Illegal work is effortless here.”

  Tomos snorted.

  “Vacation spot for monsters.”

  Wilt did not answer. She was already up, checking her weapon the way some people checked their ID.

  “We need to meet the head of the Illget family,” Wilt said. “Norman Illget is an acquaintance.”

  Tomos looked at her with a crooked smile.

  “Look at you. Friends in every gutter.”

  Lothar sat nearby and kept quiet. After the colony he had gone inward. Not because he had gotten wiser. Because he had gained another voice in his life, and that voice never let him rest.

  Terry raised his eyes.

  “We all going?”

  “All of us,” Wilt said. “But I do the talking. Tomos, keep your mouth shut. Terry, you too. Lothar, you especially do not stress your throat today. Understood.”

  Lothar nodded.

  The Illgets’ palace sat on a hill like a dare. White stone, a high wall, metal gates worth more than the entire district below. The guards wore uniforms that mimicked an army’s, but their movements betrayed the truth. This was not service. This was paid work.

  At the gate they were met in silence. A scanner swept over them like a cold hand.

  “Who,” a guard asked.

  Wilt stepped forward.

  “Tell Norman Illget Inquisitor Norcutt is here. About an old matter.”

  The guard’s eyes lingered on her face, then on her badge, then back to her face. He looked like he wanted to speak, then thought better of it.

  “Wait,” he muttered, and disappeared inside.

  Wilt checked the approach twice before moving, habit more than fear.

  Tomos leaned toward Terry.

  “Cap, are you sure we need to be here?” he whispered. “Places like this always smell like you’ve already been sold. You just haven’t gotten the paperwork yet.”

  Terry answered quietly, “We’re already in. Too late to pretend otherwise.”

  A minute later the gates opened. They were waved through without ceremony.

  Inside, everything was clean and unnaturally calm. Paths, careful lighting, water murmuring in a fountain. The city’s noise vanished, as if this hill belonged to a separate planet. Servants moved softly. Guards stood where they could be seen.

  They were led through a broad hall lined with paintings and trophies. Weapons, helmets, rare hides that did not look like they had come from animals.

  At a set of doors they were stopped.

  “Lady Norcutt enters alone,” said a man in a strict suit. Not security. The house manager. Men like that always spoke gently while holding a knife behind their ribs.

  Wilt did not even turn. She only said over her shoulder, “You wait here. Don’t touch anything. Don’t go anywhere.”

  Tomos raised his hands as if surrendering.

  “I’m a saint,” he murmured.

  Wilt was guided into a guest room. Plush chairs. A table set with water. A window looking onto a garden. Too perfect to be safe.

  Then she was taken farther in, down a corridor stripped of decoration. Cameras in the corners. Guards at every door.

  Her pace stayed even. No hurry. No visible discomfort.

  At one door the manager stopped.

  “Norman Illget is expecting you.”

  He opened it.

  Wilt stepped inside.

  The door closed behind her with a quiet finality, as if there were no lock at all.

  Wilt knew better. There was a lock. More than one.