Entertainers 3D Render, Digital Artwork by emarukk

! REPORT

Entertainers

3D Render by emarukk

Near the frozen world of Naruska, Lezzara Shuttle 2 had just emerged at the agreed interplanetary jump point. Now, the shuttle drifted in the dark like an unmarked ghost against the void. It was waiting for Naruska's escort fighters to arrive and guide them in. Naruska station, named after its frozen home world, was an illusion of opulence and beauty, adrift in the middle of a slowly rusting Off-World. While the galaxy beyond crumbled under the weight of post-war time and neglect, Naruska remained pristine—a mirage of untouched luxury in orbit over a frozen wasteland.

Most Off-World stations, once marvels of human ambition, were now dying monuments to past glory. Rust crept through bulkheads like a parasite, air recyclers coughed out metallic dust, and the hum of malfunctioning gravity wells was the soundtrack of existence. The Off-World was not dying quickly but slowly—unraveling piece by piece, century by century, its decay masked only by cheap holo-ads and desperate maintenance crews. But Naruska was different. It still gleamed with the brilliance of a bygone age. Here, the powerful feasted on delicacies that no longer existed elsewhere drank liquors distilled in lost colonies, and reclined in chambers where soft music and artificial breezes mimicked a paradise that had long since vanished. While the rest of the galaxy settled for survival, Naruska remained a place of indulgence.
Its carefully selected attendants moved with eerie precision, anticipating desires before they were spoken. The air was thick with the scent of rare spices, and the glow of chandeliers cast a warm illusion of comfort. The elite of the crumbling universe gathered here, wrapped in silks and vanity, pretending that the rot beyond the station's hull would never touch them.

Naruska station's opulent luxury and endless vanity were fed by other stations selling their goods and services. Among the serving stations was the infamous Lezzara Station from the same bygone golden age as Naruska station. This once thriving orbital garden had become something else entirely; a gilded farm where beauty, grace, and intellect were cultivated with the same precision once reserved for its long-lost botanical wonders. Its most valuable exports were not goods or resources but people; the Qiyan, an ancient name whispered in the corridors of power, signifying a class of elite entertainers trained in music, conversation, and the art of pleasure. To the ordinary people, the word Qiyan was a relic from another era—one of forgotten courts and vanished empires—but in the highest circles of the Off-World elite, it had never lost its meaning. To own the company of a Qiyan was to possess a piece of the past, a living embodiment of refinement in a universe sinking into crude survivalism. Lezzara's Qiyan were not mere servants; they were artifacts, symbols of status, and reminders of a time when rust and war had not yet swallowed culture and indulgence.

To serve the hungry elite, every now and then, a sleek courier ship—dark as deep space, unmarked save for the sigil of Lezzara—would dock in one of the station's hidden bays. It was not an ordinary vessel. It carried no cargo but people, no passengers but property. Lezzara's finest Qiyan did not "travel" as others did. Their movements were orchestrated, and they lived amid luxurious opulence beyond imagination. Qiyans presence was a gift that only the wealthiest could afford. No Qiyan walked through the public halls of Naruska upon arrival. Instead, they were escorted through hidden corridors, passing unseen through the underbelly of the orbital paradise until they emerged—flawless, radiant—at grand feasts, private salons, or whispered meetings where power was brokered over silken whispers and slow, deliberate movements. They were conversation partners to officials, dancers for the gala halls, and silent witnesses to negotiations where no record was permitted. Some were artists reciting lost poetry and forgotten songs, their voices carefully tuned like instruments from a bygone age. Others were companions, their presence a luxury afforded only by the highest bidders.

Two Qiyan stood in silence, momentarily more nervous, while stretching their limps after being seated for a long time during the interplanetary jump. Their movements were graceful, but their mask failed, making their fearful expressions readable. Despite the luxurious ride, these women were not passengers; they were cargo. And cargo did not question its fate, although it bothered their minds. Four handlers, cybernetically enhanced for strength and precision, flanked them, ensuring their delivery remained secure. They were trained to protect their charges at any cost, not out of loyalty but duty. The wealthiest of Naruska or Masters of Lezzara would accept nothing less, and they rewarded the best handlers with a comfortable life in these stations.

Yet, despite the passing time, no escort fighters had arrived. A faint hum from the ship's systems filled the cabin, broken only by the rhythmic tapping of Captain Hulishvili's fingers against the armrest. His orders had been clear. The Naruska escorts should have been here already. A muscle twitched in his jaw. Something was wrong.

"Strap in. Now." His voice cut through the silence, laced with quiet urgency.

The handlers moved first, locking the Qiyan into their seats before strapping themselves in. The ship's inertial dampeners were state-of-the-art, but in deep space, nothing was certain. Hulishvili's grip tightened around the invisible controls. His eyes flicked toward the radar reflected directly to his mind. Still nothing. Naruska had promised safety. But promises, like everything else in the Off-World, had a way of breaking.

The silence was heavier than the reinforced plating beneath their feet. There was no escort, no signals, nothing. Captain Hulishvili's gut twisted. This was not how Naruska operated. Their clients paid fortunes to keep these transactions smooth, precise, and untouched by the chaos of the Off-World. Delays meant uncertainty and uncertainty in deep space meant danger. A new-rich oligarch, maybe? Some bloated warlord looking to remind Lezzara's Master that wealth alone wasn't enough to control the tides of power? Or worse, pirates seeking for ransom. Not the desperate kind that haunted trade lanes, picking apart drifting wrecks, but something far more professional. The kind who already knew their target before the shuttle even left Lezzara.

But then, why was there nothing? No transmissions, no stray pings, no sensor ghosts on the radar. Hulishvili clenched his teeth. An ambush didn't stay quiet. Even pirates had to coordinate, and even the arrogant wanted to be seen. This was something else. His fingers danced across the imaginary controls, running another scan. No unusual energy signatures. No disruptions in subspace. Just the vast, indifferent dark pressing in on them. The handlers sat rigid, their neural augments linked to the ship's security grid, monitoring for threats even the ship's systems might not detect. Across from them, the two Qiyan remained still and in silence, as if the outcome had already been decided for them. Because, in a way, it had.

"Captain?" One of the handlers spoke at last, voice clipped, precise.
"We're not waiting. Bring engines to full; prepare for a hard burn toward Naruska."

Hulishvili's mind went through parameters. "If someone wants to stop us, they'll have to show themselves. Gogi, make it happen."

Helmsman hit the power to burners. The ship rumbled beneath them as the thrusters engaged. The deep void ahead remained empty. But Hulishvili knew better. Something was watching. And whatever it was, it had already decided when it would make its move.