Inside the Stormgate Inn, the hum of dusty machinery mingled with the murmur of travelers. Holographic signs flickered, advertising synth-whiskey and nutrient gel packs in the dim, smoky light.
Vera, clad in rugged leather and sleek fabric, pushed through the crowd, her eyes fixed on a rocking chair where a grizzled man nursed a drink. The chair—a creation of the famous singer, the late Elina—was a marvel of craftsmanship. Intricate circuitry glowed faintly around its wood-like frame.
“Canna’ help you?” the man growled.
“I need that chair,” Vera said, her eyes narrowing beneath a brimmed hat.
The man chuckled and stood. “No can do, ma’am.”
Tension thickened in the room. Vera laid a hand on her holstered pistol, mirrored by the man.
Creak… squeak…creak…squeak…
They stared at each other, the chair rocking. Vera’s finger twitched on the cold trigger.
A well-dressed man with a calculating gaze stepped in. “Now, now, there’s no need for this to turn ugly.”
Vera kept both eyes locked on her foe.
“I’ll buy the chair for the lady,” the merchant offered, “but I need an escort through the Ashlands.”
The inn gasped. Lawlessness reigned in those parts of the frontier.
“Agreed,” Vera replied without hesitation.
The merchant tossed a pouch of credits to the man, who stepped away. Vera loaded the chair onto the hovering caravan outside and sat in the passenger’s seat.
“You’re truly Elina’s most devoted follower,” said the merchant.
“Always was,” Vera replied. “As any mother would.”
Steven Corbin 