Director Thorne's Gambit

The sterile white of Director Thorne’s office did little to soothe the gnawing unease in Bodyguard’s gut. It was a stark contrast to the grimy, utilitarian corridors of the fleet’s command center, a place that smelled of recycled air and desperation. Here, the air was crisp, almost unnaturally so, and the only scent was the faint, metallic tang of some expensive, unseen air filtration system. Thorne himself sat behind a desk of polished obsidian, his face a mask of practiced concern. His eyes, the color of a winter sky, held a disconcerting stillness, as if they’d seen too much and felt too little.

"Bodyguard," Thorne began, his voice smooth as river stones, "I have another assignment for you. A priority one." He gestured to a holographic display that flickered to life above the desk. It showed a cluster of tiny, distant lights, specks of civilization clinging precariously to the edges of known space. "Outpost Gamma-7. A research station, primarily staffed by xenobotanists. They’ve gone dark. No transmissions for three cycles. Their last automated report was… concerning."

Bodyguard remained silent, his gaze fixed on the distant points of light. He’d learned long ago that Thorne’s ‘priorities’ often led him down paths best left untrodden. The ‘resources’ Thorne so readily provided usually came with a hidden cost, a price paid in blood or sanity.