The air shimmered slightly as the inner docking doors opened, and the first of the honoured guests stepped into the main hall.

  Baroness Callindra Voss gasped—and not the polite, expected gasp of a woman of class, but a genuine, wide-eyed breath of awe. She clasped her velvet-gloved hands together and whispered, “Oh, darling… it’s divine.”

  The hall glittered like the inside of a starship-themed fever dream. Towering crystalline pillars caught the soft glow of floating lights overhead, each one shimmering in gold and violet. Holographic constellations twirled lazily across the domed ceiling, cycling through views from various galactic quadrants.

  Long dining tables gleamed with polished alloys and iridescent cloth runners. Place settings subtly rearranged themselves based on the anatomy of the arriving guests. RG’s flair was everywhere—from ice sculptures shaped like mythical stellar beasts to floating trays of hors d’oeuvres that hovered politely at arm’s reach.

  Baron Voss followed a step behind, arms folded, his face a study in dignified suffering.

  “Too much gold,” he muttered. “Overcompensating. Probably insecure.”

  “Darling, do shut up,” Callindra cooed, sweeping forward. “It’s exactly how a celebration should look—elegant, refined, and just the right amount of gaudy.”

  She plucked a glowing morsel from a passing tray, steam curling delicately around her wrist.

  “Oooh! What’s this?”

  “Seared sunroot with truffle plasma,” the server bot replied in three languages.

  She popped it into her mouth and closed her eyes. “Mmm. Glorious.”

  The Baron eyed a quiet alcove with padded chairs. “Do you think anyone would notice if I hid behind those curtains with a book and some whiskey?”

  “They’d notice,” Callindra said sweetly, not missing a beat. “And that would ruin the point of me dragging you here.”

  Before he could argue, a silver tray glided into view.

  Reginald appeared beside them with the elegance of a practised saboteur of peace and quiet.

  “Sir,” he said with a bow so deep it seemed to defy gravity, “might I tempt you with a glass of single-cask NGC 4622 Reserve? Bottled at orbital altitude. Aged in compressed titanium-alloy barrels. Unavailable anywhere outside three royal courts and, naturally, the Duj.”

  The Baron blinked.

  Reginald poured precisely two fingers' worth and offered it like a relic.

  “And how are things proceeding on Charon these days? Still frigid, fractious, and fantastically underwhelming, I presume?”

  Callindra gasped with delight. “You know Charon?”

  Reginald offered another graceful nod. “I’ve had the misfortune of serving two of your planetary ministers. Very punctual. Absolutely no sense of seasoning.”

  The Baron took a sip, considered it, and gave a grudging nod. “You’re alright.”

  From behind a nearby pillar, Zog muttered, “Stop stealing my lines.”

  As Callindra swept deeper into the glittering room, her gown trailing like a personal nebula, the Baron trailed behind with a long, weary sigh.

  “I hate this job,” he muttered.

  Zog poked his head out from behind the pillar. “Hey!”

  The Baron turned.

  Zog narrowed his eyes. “I was literally about to say that.”

  A pause. Two tired men, two over-decorated halls, one shared moment of understanding.

  Zog nodded. “…You’re alright.”

  The room pulsed with celebration: music in the air, laughter from every direction, light catching the walls in glimmering sweeps.

  Zog adjusted the collar of his formal coat—it was just like his regular one, only with more buttons and significantly more regret.

  Clorita strolled past, black chrome accents gleaming, moving through the crowd like she owned the ship.

  Half-hidden behind her, Tuk was already trying to sneak extra snacks from passing trays.

  Zog sighed and braced himself.

  The celebration had begun.

  Then the doors opened again.

  No fanfare. No spotlight.

  Just HALAT.

  No luxe overlays, no adaptive tech—just her usual matte-black plating, the subtle iridescent shift along her joints catching stray light as she walked. And yet, heads turned.

  Not because she demanded attention.

  Because attention simply followed.

  There was a precision to her presence—calculated, poised, just restrained enough not to be threatening. But she didn’t move like a guest. She moved as the Duj itself had sent her.

  One alien guest blinked all six of his eyes.

  Another spilled a drink on their own foot.

  HALAT scanned the room in a single sweep, tracking exits, analysing fire protocols, and categorising threat levels before coming to rest beside Zog with practised calm.

  “Security sweep complete,” she said. “No threats currently active. Weapons detection grid is online.”

  Clorita gave her a sidelong look. “Are you the grid?”

  HALAT blinked once. “Yes.”

  Zog groaned. “At least pretend you’re having fun.”

  “I am. I am also tracking forty-two potential weapon concealments.”

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  Tuk tilted his head. “That’s... more than last year, right?”

  “Seventeen per cent increase,” HALAT confirmed. “Mostly among individuals wearing capes.”

  Clorita smirked. “Never trust a cape crowd.”

  Zog exhaled. “We’re not even through the welcome drinks.”

  As if to underline the point, the doors opened again—this time to a swirl of orange fur, chatter, and tail-flinging chaos.

  The Smeghead noodle merchants had arrived.

  Already arguing. Already swinging elbows. Already shedding glitter.

  The night was just beginning.

  Tuk leaned over the guest console at the welcome desk, using one lower hand to flick through names while his upper hand loaded tiny pastry puffs into his mouth like ammunition.

  Most of the guest list was standard stuff—nobility, sponsors, eccentric billionaires with too many arms.

  Then he snorted so hard he sprayed chocolate crème onto the screen.

  “Baron Von Glittlesnarf of Slugaria?” he choked. “That can’t be real.”

  Clorita wandered over, wiping her hands on a napkin. “It’s real. He tried to marry BOB once.”

  Tuk blinked. “What?”

  Clorita shrugged. “BOB declined.”

  But then Tuk paused. His fingers froze mid-swipe.

  “Hey. Clorita.” He pointed at the screen. “This one’s weird. Look.”

  She leaned over.

  Gavrax Sylo – +4 guests

  Affiliation: Private Contractor

  She frowned. “Private contractor? That’s universal code for ‘mind your own damn business.’”

  Tuk tapped the timestamp. “This booking came in three hours ago. Everyone else scheduled weeks if not months in advance.”

  Clorita’s eyes narrowed. “And they’re already docked.”

  Then, she saw the digital seal at the end of the entry.

  “Look at that origin marker,” she muttered.

  Most were verified—governmental clearances, corporate backers, and trade federations. This one? It pinged from an ancient relay station orbiting a dead moon. A station that had been half-shut down for a century.

  Tuk whistled. “That’s forgeable.”

  “Exactly,” Clorita said. “And no one RSVPs with a ‘plus-four’ unless they’re bringing muscle.”

  Her hand drifted casually toward her sidearm.

  “Let’s find Zog.”

  Zog had already spotted them moving across the floor. He met them halfway, expression already grim.

  “What have we got?”

  Clorita handed him the console. “Guest called Gavrax Sylo. Four additional names, all fake. Booking came in three hours ago. Signature’s from a backwater relay that shouldn’t even be active.”

  Zog grunted. “BOB. Full trace on Gavrax Sylo. Alias checks. Criminal logs. Port records. Everything.”

  “Running search,” BOB replied, infuriatingly breezy. “Scanning for facial morph variants, genetic splices, and cross-linked shipping logs. Please hold.”

  Clorita scrolled down. “Look at these plus-fours. ‘Tirek Vorn.’ ‘Mela Zuu.’ These sound like names people make up when cornered in a bar fight.”

  BOB returned. “Search complete. No registered identity. No licenses. No immigration stamps. Gavrax Sylo does not officially exist. Cross-referencing with known forgers and merc groups now…”

  Zog’s jaw tightened. “Lock down the outer ring. Quiet seal. No alarms.”

  “Confirmed,” BOB said. “All secondary corridors restricted. Guests will remain in the main hall.”

  Tuk looked between them. “You think someone’s here to start trouble?”

  Zog didn’t answer.

  He was already moving toward the security station.