“I took the long way,” I replied. “Around the southern ridge. Adds three weeks to the journey, but the weather’s milder.”

  The captain studied me, skepticism evident. “And what do you trade, exactly?”

  I reached slowly into my jacket, noting how the enforcers were each watching for a reason to draw and use their weapons. I withdrew not the stolen sidearm but the handful of small blue crystals I’d collected from the frost-fang after killing it. “Predator parts. Medicinals. Information.”

  This caught the captain’s interest. “Information?”

  “Travel between settlements is uncommon[H1], but news still has value. I go places, I see things, I remember details.” I dropped the crystals back into my pocket. “For the right price.”

  The captain’s expression shifted slightly, reassessing me from potential threat to potential resource. That had been my goal. “And what would the price be for information about, say, a missing patrol?”

  I spread my hands. “Depends on the information’s value. A place to stay. Supplies. Maybe some local currency?”

  “Or maybe not reporting you for possessing enforcer property?” she countered.

  “The walker was abandoned,” I maintained. “I was bringing it to the proper authorities.”

  “Of course you were.” The captain’s tone made it clear she didn’t believe me but was willing to play along for now. She gestured to one of her men. “Take the walker to the maintenance bay. Have Sorens check the damage.”

  The enforcer approached cautiously, the walker shifting nervously at his approach. I placed a calming hand on its neck.

  “Easy,” I told the machine.

  The walker hesitated, then allowed itself to be led away, occasionally looking back toward me with what seemed like reluctance.

  “Interesting,” the captain mused. “It’s bonded with you already.” She extended a hand. “Captain Ada Jern. Head of Northaven security.”

  I shook the offered hand. “Malcolm.”

  “No family name, Malcolm?”

  “None worth mentioning.”

  Jern smiled thinly. “Welcome to Northaven. You’ll find accommodations at Bergen’s. Tell him Jern sent you.” The smile faded. “And do stay within the settlement limits. We’ve had trouble with outsiders lately.”

  I nodded my understanding. “I appreciate the hospitality. Oh, one more thing.” I reached behind me slowly, withdrawing the ironwood axe from where I’d secured it to my belt. “Found this on the road too. Any idea who it might belong to?”

  Jern examined the axe, recognition flashing in her eyes. “Halverson make… Could belong to any of that clan.” She handed it back. “Keep it. Consider it payment for returning the walker.”

  With that, she turned away, effectively dismissing me. Her men remained, silent but watchful. Deciding I’d received enough payment, I began walking toward what appeared to be the settlement’s central district.

  Northaven revealed itself as I walked its streets—a colony struggling under harsh conditions and harsher rule. The people moved with the hunched posture of the chronically oppressed. Their eyes were downcast, their conversations hushed. Enforcers patrolled regularly, their walkers giving them an imposing height advantage over the pedestrians who scrambled to clear their path.

  Periodically throughout the day, I observed what appeared to be tax collection. Enforcers would enter businesses or residences, emerging minutes later with goods, materials, or what looked like data chips. The colonists offered no resistance, their expressions showed only resignation and smothered anger.

  Bergen’s turned out to be a combination lodging house and tavern near the settlement’s center, a sturdy two-story structure built from local timber. The proprietor—Bergen himself, I presumed—was a barrel-chested man with a magnificent beard streaked with gray. He eyed me suspiciously when I mentioned Captain Jern.

  “Another one of the captain’s guests?” Bergen grumbled, though he took my offered payment—one of the frost-fang crystals—without complaint. “Room at the end of the hall upstairs. Shared washroom. Meal service at dawn and dusk. Don’t make trouble.”

  The room was spartan but serviceable—a narrow bed, a small table with a single chair, a chest for storage, and a window overlooking the settlement’s central square. I took inventory of my meager possessions: the ironwood axe, the enforcer’s sidearm concealed in my jacket, the remaining frost-fang crystals, and the ill-fitting clothes I’d acquired from the Halverson brothers.

  As evening approached, I made my way back downstairs to the tavern portion of the establishment. The space was already half-filled with locals—mostly men, though a few women were scattered among them. Conversations hushed momentarily when I entered, suspicious gazes following me as I made my way to the bar.

  “Whatever’s local,” I told Bergen, placing another crystal on the counter.

  He snatched the payment away. He nodded toward a corner table. “Sit there. I’ll bring out our best.”

  The table offered a good view of both the room and the door—a tactical position that came naturally after years of walking into potentially hostile situations. I settled in, back to the wall, and observed.

  The tavern’s patrons represented a cross-section of the colony’s working class—miners with dirt ground into the creases of their hands, farmers with weather-beaten faces, technicians whose clothes bore the stains of mechanical fluids. They clustered in small groups, conversations kept low, occasional glances directed toward the windows as if expecting trouble to walk in at any moment.

  Bergen delivered a mug of something that smelled potently alcoholic, along with a bowl of stew that steamed in the tavern’s cool air. “Jarl whiskey and snow hare stew,” he explained gruffly. “Don’t expect anything fancier.”

  “Looks fine,” I replied. “Thanks.”

  He lingered, studying me. “Jern says you’re a trader.”

  “That’s right.”

  “From the eastern settlements?”

  I nodded, taking a careful sip of the whiskey. It burned pleasantly, warming my chest.

  “Funny thing,” Bergen continued, “I know most of the traders who work this region. Never heard of a Malcolm.”

  I met his gaze steadily. “I’m new to the route.”

  “New to Jarl, more like.” Bergen leaned closer. “You’ve got a different look. Too much sun has hit your skin. Who are you, really?”

  I didn’t respond to his probe, just took another sip. “Good whiskey.”

  Bergen straightened. “Just some advice, stranger. Whatever brought you to Northaven, be careful who you trust. He has eyes and ears everywhere these days.” He pointed upward, toward the ship that hovered ominously over the city, then moved away to serve other customers.

  Throughout the evening, I made casual attempts at conversation with nearby patrons. Some responded with monosyllabic answers before returning to their drinks. Others ignored me entirely. One group actually moved to a different table when I asked about conditions in the colony.

  A pair of enforcers entered around what I estimated was local midnight. The tavern fell completely silent as they surveyed the room, their gaze eventually landing on me.

  “That’s the new arrival,” one said to the other, loud enough to be heard throughout the space. “Brought in Walker 47.”

  The second enforcer studied me openly. “Convenient timing. Just after Patrol 12 goes missing.”

  I raised my mug slightly in acknowledgment but said nothing. Engaging would only escalate the situation.

  The enforcers remained for twenty minutes, accepting drinks that Bergen provided without requesting payment. Before leaving, the taller one approached my table.

  “The Halverson brothers came in earlier,” he said casually. “Seems someone attacked them on the north road yesterday. Stole their possessions. One of them was missing boots.” His gaze dropped pointedly to my feet. “Nice boots you’ve got there.”

  “Thanks,” I replied. “Got them in trade.”

  “Did you now?” The enforcer smiled without humor. “Interesting coincidence.”

  After they departed, the tavern remained subdued. Several patrons left shortly after—avoiding eye contact as they passed my table.

  Bergen approached again, wiping down nearby tables with a rag that had seen better days. “Made an impression already, I see.”

  “Not intentionally.”

  He snorted. “Intentions don’t matter much on Jarl. Only results.” He nodded toward a man sitting alone in the opposite corner. “See him? Mikkel Sorens. Colony’s best mechanic. Works on the walkers. Might be worth talking to, if you’re interested in that machine you brought in.”

  I thanked Bergen with a nod, finishing my meal before approaching Sorens’ table. The mechanic was a thin man with oil-stained hands and a perpetual squint, as if constantly evaluating the efficiency of everything he observed.

  “Mind if I join you?” I asked.

  Sorens glanced up, his expression guarded. “Free colony,” he grumbled, though his tone suggested it was anything but. “Sit if you want.”

  I settled across from him. “I hear you’re working on the walker I brought in.”

  “You…? Where’d you really get it?” he asked bluntly. “Because it wasn’t ‘found abandoned’ like you told Jern.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  Sorens took a sip of his drink. “Because that walker belonged to Enforcer Toric. And Toric would die before abandoning his mount. Those machines bond with their riders.” He studied me over the rim of his mug. “So either you killed him, or you found him dead. Either way, you’re not a trader from the east.”

  I considered my options. Sorens seemed like a potential ally, or at least someone not fully aligned with the Tyrant’s regime. But trust had to be earned.

  “Are you always this direct with strangers?” I asked.

  “Life’s too short for games,” he replied. “Especially on Jarl.” He set his mug down. “The walker’s CPU shows combat damage from last night. Same time Patrol 12 went missing. Same patrol that was sent to investigate an incident with the Halverson brothers.” His eyes dropped to my borrowed boots. “Coincidence?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think you’re either with the resistance, or you’re a new enforcer sent by the Tyrant to test our loyalty.” Sorens stood, tossing payment onto the table. “Either way, I’ve got work to do. That walker needs repairs before morning inspection.”

  As he turned to leave, I spoke quietly. “What if I’m neither?”

  Sorens paused, not looking back. “Then you’re dead already. You just don’t know it yet. You might avoid notice a little longer if you get clothes that fit.”

  With that, he departed, leaving me alone at the table. Across the room, Bergen watched the exchange with interest, his expression unreadable.

  Over the next few hours, the tavern gradually emptied. No one else approached my table or initiated conversation. The message was clear—outsiders weren’t welcome, weren’t trusted. In a colony under the Tyrant’s heel, strangers represented potential threats.

  From my window upstairs, I could see the colony ship hanging in the night sky, now clear of clouds. Lights twinkled along its massive hull, a constellation of human technology orbiting this harsh world. Somewhere on that vessel was the Tyrant, controlling the fate of every person in Northaven and beyond.

  Somewhere in this settlement was Ingrid Dahl, the psionic agent who had requested backup. Finding her would be my next task. But first, I needed to establish some credibility, some foothold in this closed community.

  The axe leaned against the wall beside my bed. The enforcer’s sidearm lay hidden beneath the thin mattress. Limited resources for a complex mission, but I’d worked with less.

  Tomorrow would bring new problems, new opportunities to gather information. For now, I needed rest.

  Chapter 10

  I woke to the muted red glow of Jarl’s distant binary stars filtering through the crude window. A permanent dusk seemed to permeate the settlement, even during daylight hours. The timber walls of Bergen’s establishment creaked as they contracted in the morning cold. Frost patterns adorned the inner surface of the windowpane, delicate crystalline structures that resembled ferns.

  After dressing, I retrieved the concealed sidearm from beneath the mattress and tucked it into my waistband at the small of my back. The ironwood axe I carried openly—it seemed to be a common tool here that shouldn’t raise any eyebrows.

  The tavern below already bustled with morning activity. Bergen served what passed for breakfast—a porridge-like substance with a vaguely nutty flavor, accompanied by a mug of steaming tea that smelled of local herbs. I claimed the same corner table as the previous evening, observing the room while I ate.

  “Sleep well?” Bergen asked, pausing at my table to refill my mug.

  “Well enough.”

  He glanced toward the window, then quickly back. “Going to be a clear day. Good visibility.”

  The way he emphasized the last words caught my attention. I followed his gaze to the window, where a slice of sky was visible. In the distance, the colony ship taunted us from low orbit, more clearly defined than the previous evening. Its massive form dominated the view, even from that limited perspective.

  “Impressive vessel,” I remarked. “Strange to see it still in orbit.”

  Bergen’s expression tightened. “We don’t discuss the ship,” he said, quietly. “First rule.”

  “There are rules about looking at your own colony ship?”

  “Not looking. Discussing.” Bergen wiped down the table with unnecessary vigor. “The Tyrant monitors conversations. Questions about the ship attract attention.”

  “The Tyrant monitors every conversation in the settlement?”

  Bergen’s eyes darted toward the ceiling, then around the room. “There are ears everywhere,” he cautioned. “Best to keep your head down and your thoughts quiet.”

  With that cryptic warning, he moved to serve other customers, leaving me to consider the implications. The level of paranoia here seemed extreme, even for a dictatorial regime. Yet the behavior I’d observed suggested the fear was genuine.

  After breakfast, I ventured into the settlement proper. The morning air bit with arctic sharpness, my breath forming crystalline clouds with each exhalation.

  Northaven had awakened to its daily routine—people moving between buildings with purpose, heads down, conversations minimal. Enforcers patrolled regularly among the populace, policing the colony, both conspicuous and overbearing.

  My first destination was the central marketplace, a collection of stalls and small shops arranged around an open square. Despite the harsh conditions, commerce continued—colony survival necessitated trade, even under oppression. Vendors offered goods ranging from food to clothing to basic tools, all locally produced or salvaged from supply drops.

  I approached a stall selling winter gear, hoping to replace the ill-fitting clothes I’d acquired from the Halverson brothers. The merchant, a middle-aged woman with careworn features, eyed me cautiously.

  “I need proper clothing,” I explained, gesturing at my mismatched attire. “Something that fits.”

  She assessed me critically. “Outer jacket, two hundred credits. Thermal layer, eighty. Proper boots, three hundred.”

  “I’m new to Northaven,” I replied. “Don’t have local currency yet.”

  Her expression hardened. “No credit. Too many risks.”

  I produced a few frost-fang crystals from my pocket. I was already running low. “Deal?”

  The merchant’s eyes widened at the sight of the blue crystals. “Where did you get those?”

  “I got into an argument with a frost-fang on the mountain road. It lost.”

  She glanced around nervously, then quickly swept the crystals into her hand. “Wait here,” she instructed before disappearing into the back of her stall.

  When she returned, she carried a bundle of clothing and a pair of boots. “These should fit. Hurry.”

  I examined the offerings—a proper thermal undersuit, a heavy outer jacket lined with local fur, and boots designed for Jarl’s harsh conditions. All were well-made and appeared new.

  “This is worth more than those few crystals,” I noted.

  “Take the gear and go,” she insisted. “Quickly.”

  As I gathered the bundle, she leaned forward and whispered. “The administrator is watching you. He keeps a close eye on the newcomers.”

  Before I could ask for clarification, two enforcers approached the stall on their walkers. The merchant immediately busied herself with rearranging her merchandise, avoiding eye contact. I quickly slipped the stolen sidearm into the bundle and set it aside.

  “You,” one enforcer called, pointing at me. “Inspection.”

  I turned to face them, keeping my expression neutral. “Something wrong, officers?”

  “Random inspection,” the enforcer replied, dismounting from his walker. “Arms out, legs apart.”

  Although I complied, the enforcer gave me a shove to the wall and conducted a pat-down that was a degree or two beyond necessary or professional. I kept perfectly still, aware that the second enforcer maintained a ready position on his walker, weapon within easy reach.

  “What’s your business in Northaven?” the first enforcer demanded.

  “I’m looking for work. Heard the colony needed skilled labor.”

  “What skills?”

  “Security, hunting, tracking. Survival in harsh environments.”

  The enforcer completed his search without thinking to check my new bundle of clothing. “Documents?”

  “Lost them crossing the eastern range,” I lied smoothly. “Planning to apply for replacement identification.”

  The enforcers exchanged glances. “Report to Administration by midday for processing,” the first one instructed. “Failure to register is a category three violation.”

  “Understood. Where’s Administration located?”

  “Central complex. Northern edge of the marketplace.” The enforcer remounted his walker. “Don’t be late.”