Trouble on Trebo

A Rynn Koro detective story

 

Rynn Koro never liked tourist planets. Too many smiling faces hiding sharp knives. Trebo was no different—just a brighter coat of paint over the same rot.

The city of Faryne gleamed at night, neon strobes bouncing off the canals, holo-signs flashing in a dozen languages: EXPERIENCE THE REAL TREBO, WONDERS OF THE WATER JUNGLE, TOUR PACKAGES AVAILABLE NOW. It smelled like salt, cheap liquor, and desperation.

I’d been hired by the local authorities, which already told me how bad things had gotten. Tourists don’t just vanish on a Federation world, not unless somebody powerful is covering tracks. A family of six had taken a jungle glide tour two weeks back. Only one had come staggering out, half-dead, babbling about monsters and ghosts. Next morning, they found his body washed up against a restricted zone fence, throat slashed open like a fish.

The governor’s office was chewing nails over the scandal. Tourist money was Trebo’s bloodline, and bodies in the water meant trade ships went somewhere safer. That’s where I came in. Rynn Koro. Private investigations. No badge, no uniform. Just a reputation for finding things people didn’t want found.

I lit a stick of trellium leaf, bitter smoke curling into the air as I stood by the chainlink fence where the dead man had been found. The barrier hummed with a low electric current, keeping the curious out of the forbidden wetlands beyond. On the other side, the swamp was a tangle of black reeds and slick trees that looked half-alive, their roots twitching when the tide rolled in. The locals whispered about spirits in there. Me? I didn’t believe in spirits. But I knew the smell of a cover-up when it hit my nose.

Behind me, a voice like sandpaper cleared its throat. “You Koro?”

I turned. A uniform, starched and nervous, sweating under his cap. Lieutenant Varis, local security. His eyes darted around like the shadows might bite.

“That’s me,” I said. “You the welcoming committee?”

He didn’t smile. “The governor says this case needs to be buried fast. But she also says if we don’t solve it, the Federation might step in. And none of us want that.”

“Federation oversight makes politicians itch,” I said, flicking ash. “So what aren’t you telling me, Lieutenant?”

He swallowed. Looked away. “Tourists weren’t supposed to be anywhere near this sector. Too dangerous. Restricted for a reason. But… someone let them through. Someone local.”

That tracked. On planets like this, backwater folks made extra credits sneaking thrill-seekers where they didn’t belong. Forbidden zones had a way of selling tickets.

“Give me names,” I said.

Varis shook his head. “Won’t help. These people don’t talk. They’d rather sink you in the canals than spill their secrets.”

“Good thing I’m a strong swimmer,” I said.

His jaw tightened. “Just… watch yourself, Koro. Trebo smiles in the daylight. But at night?” He glanced at the swamp. “At night, the real face shows.”

I ground out the trellium stick and watched the reeds sway like they were listening. Whatever the tourists had stumbled into, it wasn’t ghosts. It was worse.

And I was going to find it.

****

Faryne’s nightlife was where truth liked to hide. A hundred bars, each promising the “authentic Trebo experience,” which translated to overpriced drinks, tired dancers, and locals willing to bleed tourists for every credit in their wallets. If the missing family had slipped into the restricted zone, someone here sold them the map.

I started with the Blue Current, a hole-in-the-wall joint along Canal 9. The air was thick with brine and sweat, the kind of place that never shut its doors but should’ve. Locals hunched over tables, playing card-games with slick plastic decks. No tourists here. Just the people who lived in Trebo’s gutters and liked it that way.

The barkeep, a broad man with hands like anchors, wiped a glass that would never get clean. He looked me up and down.

“You ain’t from here.”

“No,” I said, sliding a credstick across the bar. “Which makes me thirsty.”

He checked the stick, nodded, and poured me a glass of something brown that smelled like it had been strained through seaweed. I let it sit.

“I’m looking for a family,” I said. “Tourists. They wandered into places they shouldn’t.”

His jaw tightened, just a twitch, but I saw it.

“You cops never learn.”

“I’m not a cop,” I said, and let him see the weapon holstered at my hip. “Which means I don’t need a warrant to ask questions.”

He leaned in. “Then here’s your answer: people go missing on Trebo all the time. Ocean takes them. Jungle eats them. That’s the end of it.”

I sipped the drink. It burned like acid. “Except this time, one of them came back. Just long enough to die on the wrong side of a restricted fence. That makes it more than just the ocean.”

The bar went quiet. Too quiet. A couple of men at the corner table were suddenly interested in their cards. A woman with sea-tattooed arms slid out the door like a shadow.

That told me everything. Someone here had sold them passage. Someone here was afraid of me asking too many questions.

I dropped the rest of the credstick on the counter and stood. “Thanks for the drink.”

Outside, the air was thick with fog rolling off the canals. I lit another trellium stick and caught the reflection of eyes watching me from across the water. They disappeared the second I looked straight at them.

That’s when I knew—this wasn’t just about a tourist family in the wrong place. This was business. Dirty, ugly business the locals would kill to protect.

And somewhere in the swamp, I was going to find the truth, even if it drowned me.

As the fog thickened as I cut down one of the side canals, boots splashing on the warped planks. Trebo was quiet at night, but not the kind of quiet you liked. Too many corners, too many shadows that didn’t feel empty.

The sound came first—steps behind me. Light, careful. Someone trying too hard. 

I stopped.

The footsteps stopped too.

“Cute,” I muttered. My hand hovered near the pistol. “You want to talk, or you want to keep practicing your dance steps back there?”

No answer. Just the groan of wood and the soft lap of water.

I spun, weapon out, and there he was—skinny, jittery, reeking of fish oil and cheap booze. His eyes darted everywhere but at me.

“You the one asking about the tourists?” he stammered.

“That depends,” I said, stepping closer. “You the one with answers?”

He nodded, then shook his head. Sweat poured off him like rain. “You shouldn’t be here. They’ll gut you if they know you’re sniffing around.”

“Who’s they?”

That was as far as he got. Something whistled through the fog, and suddenly he was clutching his throat. A dart, black-fletched, buried deep. He gurgled, dropped to his knees, and rolled off the dock into the canal before I could grab him. The water swallowed him whole.

I swore and drew tighter into the shadows. The fog shifted just enough to show me another figure at the far end of the planks. Hooded. Watching. Then gone, melted into the night.

I should’ve chased. Instead, I stayed put. Whoever they were, they wanted me to run after them. That was bait, and I’d bitten enough hooks in my time.

By the time I made it back toward the main square, the city was stirring again. Locals with hunched shoulders and hard stares moved through the alleys. I caught snippets of whispers. My name carried, even if it wasn’t spoken. The detective. The outsider. The fool.

A knot of dockhands blocked my path near a warehouse. Big men, arms like mooring cables, stinking of brine and salt.

“Word is you’ve been asking questions,” the biggest one said, cracking his knuckles. His teeth looked filed. “Bad questions.”

“Funny,” I said. “I was just about to say the same to you.”

They moved in. Four of them. Too close for comfort.

The first swung. I ducked, drove my fist into his ribs, heard something crack. He folded like wet canvas. The second came at me with a knife. I grabbed his wrist, twisted, and he howled as the blade clattered onto the planks. A boot to his knee dropped him screaming.

The last two circled, but something in my eyes told them to think twice. They dragged their buddies back into the shadows, muttering curses in a language I didn’t care to learn.

I straightened my jacket, lit another trellium stick, and kept walking.

The locals weren’t just nervous. They were organized. And they weren’t worried about me—they were worried about what I might find.

That meant I was getting close.

****

The summons came before dawn. A kid in a neat uniform delivered it, eyes wide like he’d been told to hand a note to the devil. I flicked him a coin, read the slip, and didn’t like what I saw.

Governor Alvek requests your presence. Immediately.

Requests. Right. That was one way to spell orders.

The governor’s office sat like a parasite above Trebo’s main square—high windows, carved stone, the kind of place meant to look respectable while the rot underneath kept spreading. The guards at the door frisked me slow, made sure I knew they didn’t like me. I didn’t like them either, so we were even.

Inside, the air stank of perfumed oils and too many lies. Alvek sat behind a desk the size of a fishing boat. Broad man, slick smile, dressed in silks that didn’t belong on a world that smelled of dead fish. His hands were soft. Too soft for someone supposed to represent Trebo.

“Detective Koro,” he said, voice smooth as oil. “Sit.”

I didn’t.

“Word is you’ve been… energetic in your inquiries.” He steepled his fingers, watching me like a cat watches a crippled bird. “Tourists vanish, one turns up dead in a restricted zone. It looks very bad. For business. For me.”

“Funny,” I said. “Looks even worse for the dead guy.”

His smile thinned. “You misunderstand. Trebo lives on reputation. Trade, tourism, investment. Outsiders come here for pleasure, not… scandal. Your investigation threatens that.”

I leaned on the desk, close enough to smell the wine on his breath. “What really threatens your precious reputation is the fact that somebody out there is killing witnesses. Maybe tourists. Maybe more. That ring any bells for you, Governor?”

For a flicker of a second, his eyes twitched. Then the smile came back, too smooth to be real. He reached into a drawer, pulled out a small chest, and slid it across the desk. The sound of credits clinked like broken glass.

“Perhaps you should… shorten your stay. Enjoy our hospitality. Forget this case. Trebo will be grateful. You will be rich.”

I didn’t touch the chest. Just stared him down until the grin cracked, sweat beading on his forehead.

“Keep your bribe,” I said. “But here’s the deal: if I find out you’re tied to these disappearances, I’ll drag you down myself, reputation be damned.”

He laughed—forced, brittle. “You won’t last a week here, detective. Trebo eats outsiders alive.”

I leaned closer. “Then it better chew fast. Because I bite back.”

When I left, his guards eyed me like they were measuring for a coffin. The governor had just painted a target on my back the size of Trebo itself.

Good. Now I knew I was in the right gutter.

****

The tip came wrapped in whispers. A dockhand with nervous eyes swore he saw the missing tourists hauled toward an old fish-processing plant, long abandoned on the marsh flats. Too convenient. Too neat. But I took it. Sometimes you have to follow the stink, even if it’s bait.

The air out there was thick, a swampy cocktail of rot and brine. The building crouched against the horizon, half-sunk into muck, windows busted out like eyes gouged from a corpse.

I slipped inside, blaster ready. The shadows swallowed me whole. Rust dripped from the rafters, every creak of metal sounding like a gun cocking. Then I saw it—footprints in the grime. Fresh. Leading deeper.

I followed.

A door creaked open ahead. Light spilled out, silhouettes moving. I thought I had them. Thought maybe this was the break. Then the first shot screamed past my head and the whole room lit up like hell’s carnival.

I dove behind a stack of rotted crates as bolts tore splinters into the air. Voices shouted, rough, local—“Get him!” “Don’t let him out alive!”

Yeah. Ambush. Should’ve smelled it.

I returned fire, quick and dirty. One of them screamed, dropped. The others kept coming, heavy boots pounding closer. They weren’t professionals—too noisy, too eager. But there were too many of them, and the place was a death trap.

I crawled along the shadows, ducked through a rusted hatch, and found myself on a metal catwalk. Below me, more of them swarmed in, guns ready, cutting off every exit.

They wanted me boxed in.

So I gave them a surprise. I kicked the rail loose, sent the whole thing crashing down into their lap. The racket was thunder, metal and men tangled up in the wreckage. I didn’t wait to admire my handiwork—I ran, bolting through a shattered window and out into the night swamp.

Shots chased me, red streaks lighting up the dark, but I kept moving until the marsh swallowed the sound.

Breathing hard, mud up to my knees, I knew two things.

One: somebody wanted me very dead.
Two: the governor’s hands were dirtier than he let on, because nobodies don’t hire that many guns.

And now they knew I was getting close.

Which meant I was.

I didn’t get far before the swamp spat me out onto a gravel road. A transport was waiting—one of those squat Trebo haulers, paint chipped, engine whining like it was about to die. I figured it for luck. But the second I climbed inside, I knew better.

The driver was grinning too wide. His hand rested a little too close to the dash compartment where you’d keep a gun.

“Governor sends his regards,” he said.

I didn’t wait for the punchline. My elbow found his jaw and the cab filled with the sound of teeth breaking. He went sideways, but not before yanking the wheel. The hauler skidded, flipped into the mud with a scream of tearing metal.

We tumbled out into the muck, both of us bleeding. He scrambled for his blaster. I stomped it out of his reach. My own gun was already at his head.

“Talk.”

He spat blood. “You think you’re tough, offworlder? You don’t know Trebo. You don’t know what you’re stepping in.”

I pressed the barrel harder. “Then enlighten me.”

He laughed, bitter and raw. “Tourists found something they weren’t supposed to. That’s all you need to know.”

I pistol-whipped him before he could say more. Not because I was angry. Because his eyes gave him away—he’d already said too much, and somebody nearby was listening.

The bushes cracked open. Two more locals, rifles up, faces hard with that swamp-born hatred. I had seconds.

One shouted, “Drop it, Koro! You’re done.”

I didn’t. Instead, I dragged their bleeding friend up like a shield and shoved him forward. They hesitated. That was enough. I put two rounds in the dirt near their boots and ran like hell.

The night swallowed me again, but the message was carved in neon across my brain.

The governor’s people weren’t just protecting some backwater racket. They were protecting something big. Big enough to kill tourists, big enough to risk killing me, big enough to risk the Federation pulling the plug on Trebo’s entire tourist industry.

And I wasn’t backing off now.

****

The governor’s office smelled like expensive liquor and fear. Heavy drapes shut out the swamp light, and a desk the size of a landing pad sat between me and him. He was slick—tailored uniform, gold rings, smile sharpened to a knife-edge.

“Detective Koro,” he purred, as if we were old friends sharing a drink. “Your… diligence has been noted. But Trebo doesn’t need offworld eyes meddling where they don’t belong.”

I lit a smoke and let the silence stretch. His smile didn’t falter, but his fingers twitched near a crystal glass.

“The tourist case,” I said flatly. “One dead, three missing. You think covering it up will keep business running smooth?”

He chuckled low, the kind of laugh that tells you he’s already bought the jury. “This world thrives on mystery, detective. The tourists love it. What they don’t love is scandal. If I were you, I’d stop digging.”

He leaned back, steepling his hands. “Walk away, and there’s a generous fee in it for you. Keep poking, and… well, Trebo has a way of swallowing troublemakers whole.”

I blew smoke at his silk suit. “I’ve been swallowed before. Spat myself right back out. You want me gone, Governor, you’ll have to do better than bribes and bedtime stories.”

His smile thinned. “Then I hope you can swim, detective.”

Trouble on Trebo – Back Alley Lesson

I left his office with his threats dripping down my back like sweat. The sun was dropping fast, and the alleys between the neon bars were shadows stitched with whispers. That’s where they came at me—three locals, all teeth and knives, smelling of swamp gin.

“You’re pokin’ where you don’t belong, offworlder,” one hissed, pressing steel against my ribs. “Tourists die here all the time. Who cares?”

“I care,” I said. My voice was flat, steady. The kind of tone that makes men doubt their odds.

The knife dug deeper. “Not for long, you won’t.”

I drove my elbow into his throat before he could blink. He staggered back, gasping. The second lunged with a rusted pipe, but I sidestepped and let his own momentum slam him into the wall.

The third was smarter. He didn’t rush. He circled, knife flashing in the neon.

“You don’t get it,” he said, breathing heavy. “This isn’t just about missing tourists. They found something out there. Something worth killing for.”

That was all I needed. I put him down quick, then leaned close to his bleeding face.

“What did they find?”

He grinned through broken teeth. “Ask your governor. He knows.”

I left him in the gutter, my fists raw, my head full of questions. The governor had just gone from suspect to kingpin. And whatever the tourists stumbled on, it was tangled in Trebo’s veins.

****

The swamp night was thick enough to chew when I followed the trail out past the neon strip, through the sinking backroads and into the reeds. The locals had left me a clue without meaning to: a half-map scrawled in panic, a direction whispered with a broken jaw.

By dawn, I found it.

An old cargo dome, buried deep in the bog. Half-submerged, metal eaten by rust, but still alive with lights. I crouched low, watching shadows move inside. Too organized for squatters, too nervous for soldiers.

I crept closer. That’s when I saw the cages.

Row after row of them, lined up in the dome. Not animals. People. Some still alive, eyes wide with fear. Others slumped and still. And in the corner—stacked crates of contraband tech, black-market weapons, even bio-mods that were outlawed across three systems.

The tourists had wandered straight into Trebo’s dirty little secret: the locals weren’t just swamp-scum trying to scrape by—they were running a full-blown trafficking operation. And the governor? He wasn’t just covering it up. He was cashing in.

A familiar face stared back at me from one of the cages—the last missing tourist, barely breathing, skin pale as swamp fog.

“Help…” she croaked.

That one word lit the fuse.

I backed away, heart pounding, fists clenching tight. This wasn’t just about a dead tourist anymore. This was about an entire system rotting from the inside, with the governor sitting at the top like a king on a throne of corpses.

The locals wanted me gone because I’d seen too much. The governor wanted me gone because I’d tear his empire down brick by filthy brick.

Too late for both of them.

I didn’t wait for backup. On Trebo, backup means a knife in the spine.

I slid my blaster from its holster and kicked the dome door off its hinges. The swamp rats inside spun, eyes wide, hands scrambling for weapons. Too slow.

The first one dropped before he could shout. The second tried to run for cover—bad move. The dome lit up with the crack of plasma fire, my shots bouncing off rusted walls, their shots cutting holes in the dark.

I moved fast, low, mean. A blast singed past my cheek. I answered with one that cored a hole in the shooter’s chest big enough to see daylight through.

The cages rattled with screams and fists as the prisoners pressed against the bars. The surviving swamp-thugs regrouped near the stacked contraband, shouting in their gutter tongue. I tossed a shock-grenade right into the middle of them.

Flash. Crack. Bodies flew like rag dolls.

Silence.

Smoke hung thick. My lungs burned. The last thug staggered toward me, blade in hand, eyes wide with something between fear and hate. I didn’t give him the chance to decide. One shot, clean. He fell face-first into the muck.

The prisoners were still yelling, banging. I tore at the locks with a cutter until the first cage burst open. The tourist—barely alive—collapsed into my arms, whispering thanks between coughs.

“Save it,” I growled, hoisting her up. “You’re not free yet.”

Because I knew the sound of incoming speeders when I heard them. Reinforcements. Heavy ones.

The swamp outside roared with engines. They were coming in hard, and I’d just lit up their operation like a bonfire.

This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

Engines screamed closer. Heavy swamp-speeders—half hovercraft, half gunboat. If they boxed me in here, I’d be cooked meat.

I dragged the tourist behind a stack of fuel drums, the acrid stink cutting through the smoke. My eyes hit the power cells stacked near the cages. Enough juice to light half the district—or blow it straight to hell.

Perfect.

I wired three cells together, my hands moving fast, hard, no hesitation. A man lives long enough in my line of work, he picks up dirty tricks. Rigging explosives? Just another Tuesday.

The sound outside grew louder—speeders hitting the mud, doors slamming, men shouting orders. Dozens of them.

I shoved the trembling tourist into the shadows. “Stay low. Don’t scream.”

The dome door creaked open. Figures poured in, rifles raised, eyes sharp. They saw the bodies on the floor, the cages, the smoke. They smelled blood.

And that’s when I tossed the makeshift detonator into the stack.

The world went white. The blast tore through the dome, ripping metal, hurling thugs like dolls, blowing the roof sky-high. Fire belched into the night swamp.

I hit the floor hard, ears ringing, teeth rattling. When I staggered up, half the raiding party was down. The rest stumbled in panic, blinded, deaf.

That was my cue.

I picked them off one by one in the confusion, every shot a punctuation mark in a sentence they’d never finish.

By the time the smoke cleared, the swamp rats were meat on the floor, the dome nothing but twisted steel and fire.

I wiped the soot from my face and grabbed the tourist by the arm. “Trap worked. But now the whole damned swamp knows we’re here.”

We ran into the night.

The swamp swallowed sound, but I could still hear the hunt. Shouts. Engines growling. Splashing boots in the muck.

They were coming.

The tourist stumbled behind me, lungs wheezing like rusted bellows. I dragged him along by the collar. “Keep up or you’re dead. Simple math.”

Branches snapped. A beam of light cut the dark, sweeping low. Figures moved fast through the reeds.

I dropped flat, yanking the kid down with me. A squad of locals thundered past, rifles glinting. I could smell their sweat mixed with swamp rot. They weren’t amateurs—they were hunters. And I was the prize.

I waited. Heart cold, gun steady.

When the last one passed, I rose like a shadow and struck. A blade across a throat, quick and quiet. A pistol round into the back of the next. The reeds swallowed their screams.

The others spun, firing blind into the dark. Sparks lit the swamp. Bullets chewed through trees.

I moved in the chaos, fast and mean. The swamp was mine now. I knew how to make it sing.

One thug went down in the water, his blood slick on the surface. Another took a slug in the gut, folded over like a broken chair.

The last one dropped his rifle and begged. I shot him anyway. This wasn’t a mercy game.

The tourist stared at me like I was some nightmare. He wasn’t wrong.

“Lesson one,” I growled, shoving another clip into my gun. “Out here, you don’t get second chances.”

But the swamp wasn’t finished. More lights flickered in the distance, engines roaring closer.

This was just the opening act.

****

The swamp boiled with noise now. Engines revving. Voices barking orders. The bastards had me penned in tight.

I dragged the tourist into a clearing, mud sucking at my boots. And that’s when the lights hit us—bright flood-beams stabbing out from skimmers hovering low over the reeds.

Dozens of rifles came up, all pointing straight at me.

Their leader stepped forward, a thick-necked brute with a scar across his jaw. He grinned like a man who thought he’d already won.

“Drop the gun, Koro. You’ve made enough noise. Time to end this.”

I raised the pistol halfway, just to see his men tense. A whole firing squad ready to chew me into meat.

“Funny thing,” I said, voice flat. “Every time someone tells me to drop my gun, it never ends well for me.”

He laughed, but it was cold. “You can’t shoot your way out of this one.”

“Wanna bet?”

I snapped the pistol up and squeezed. The leader’s grin exploded into red mist before his body even hit the muck.

The swamp erupted. Bullets screamed past my head. I dove sideways, dragging the tourist with me as the skimmers opened fire.

Mud flew. Reeds shredded. The night turned into a warzone.

I rolled behind a half-submerged log, returning fire in brutal bursts. Every shot found a target. A rifleman toppled from a skimmer. Another clutched his chest and vanished under the black water.

The kid was screaming, but I couldn’t hear him over the roar of my own gun.

They tried to close in, and I made them pay. A grenade came sailing my way—bad throw. I kicked it back, and the explosion ripped one of their boats in half.

The survivors hesitated. That’s all I needed. I broke cover, charging forward like hell itself. My fists and steel did the talking. A knife to the ribs. An elbow to the jaw. A gunshot point-blank that painted the reeds red.

By the time the smoke cleared, the swamp was silent again. Bodies floated in the dark water.

And I was still standing.

Breathing hard, gun smoking, eyes cold.

The tourist stared at me, trembling. “You… you’re insane.”

“Maybe,” I said, holstering the pistol. “But I’m the only shot you’ve got at living through this.”

I spat into the mud. One thing was clear—whatever these bastards were hiding was worth a hell of a lot more than a few dead tourists.

And I was going to drag it into the light.

****

The swamp went dead quiet after the shooting. Too quiet. No crickets, no wind, just the faint slap of water against the skimmer wrecks. Like the whole place was holding its breath.

I dragged the tourist out of the muck and shoved him onto a dry patch of ground. He sat there, wide-eyed, shaking like a leaf in a storm.

“Start talking,” I said, reloading slow, every click echoing. “What did you see out here? What did your group stumble into?”

He swallowed hard. “I—I don’t know… not really. We followed a trail through the marsh. Thought it was just ruins. Old structures. But then…” His voice cracked. “We saw machines. Big ones. Drilling into the ground. And people moving crates into tunnels. Locals. Armed. Like some kind of operation.”

The words cut through the night like a blade.
Illegal operation. Hidden in the backwaters. That explained the bodies, the secrecy, the trigger-happy bastards trying to put me in the ground.

I leaned in close. “What kind of crates?”

The kid blinked. “Didn’t recognize them. They looked… sealed. Heavy. Marked with strange symbols.”

Symbols. Always the symbols. I’d seen enough jobs to know this smelled bigger than locals making a dirty credit on the side.

Before I could push him further, I heard it—movement. Soft, deliberate, coming from the tree line. Shadows flitting between the reeds. Watching. Counting my shots.

I raised my pistol. “We’ve got company.”

The kid froze. “Who—?”

“Quiet.”

The shadows didn’t attack. Not yet. They lingered, patient. Like they wanted me rattled. And it worked. My gut twisted in ways I didn’t like. This wasn’t some half-drunk gang anymore. This was organized. Smart. Waiting for the right move.

And when men like that wait, it’s because they’ve already set the board.

The tourist whispered, “What do we do?”

I kept my gun leveled at the darkness. “We dig deeper. But if I’m right… what you saw out here is about to blow this whole damn planet wide open.”

The swamp shivered again. A whisper of threat.

The game was changing. And I was caught right in the middle.

****

I ditched the kid back in town. Too green, too shaky. He’d just get me killed. I needed eyes sharp and ears open, not a bundle of nerves.

The swamp trail the tourists took was still fresh. I followed it under a moon that looked like it had been bruised purple, the reeds whispering against my coat as I pushed through. Every step sank deeper, like the muck itself was warning me to turn back.

I didn’t.

Hours later, I found it. A clearing, ringed with gutted trees and lit by harsh floodlamps. In the middle: machines, tall and ugly, gnawing into the planet’s bones. The kind of equipment that screamed off-world money.

And the crates.

Dozens of them, stacked neat as coffin rows. Big, reinforced, stamped with symbols I didn’t recognize but sure as hell didn’t like.

I crept closer, crouched low behind a busted generator. The locals unloading them weren’t just swamp rats with rifles — they had uniforms, slick gear, discipline. This was military precision, wrapped in the stink of something illegal.

One crate slipped, crashed open on the mud. That’s when I saw it.

Not weapons. Not drugs. Worse.

Inside, sealed in thick glass cylinders, were organisms. Things that pulsed faintly, like hearts torn from monsters. Biotech, alive and ugly, floating in viscous fluid that glowed faint blue.

I felt my throat tighten.

Tourists stumble on this? No wonder they turned up dead. This wasn’t just smuggling — it was breeding ground for something dangerous. Something that could spread like wildfire if it got loose.

A voice barked in the distance. A guard spotted the spill, shouted for cleanup. More men rushed in.

I backed away slow, pistol ready, every nerve burning. Now I knew what was hiding in Trebo’s shadows.

And the bastards running it weren’t about to let anyone walk away breathing.

I slid back into the dark, lungs burning, boots silent on the muck. The swamp wanted to hold me, but I tore free, mind racing.

Now I knew what they were hiding. Those things in the crates weren’t meant for tourists’ eyes. Hell, they weren’t meant for anyone’s. Biotech that breathed, pulsed, grew. Somebody was building nightmares, and Trebo was their nursery.

I couldn’t take the whole outfit head-on — not yet. But I could make them twitch. Twitch enough to slip.

I circled back through the swamp until I hit a bluff overlooking the clearing. From there I had the perfect vantage point. Pulled a pack from my coat — charges, rigged to cook hot. Just enough to rattle cages, not level the swamp. I wanted noise, panic, and eyes pointing the wrong way.

Worked fast, planting them in a half-circle around the clearing’s edge. My fingers were slick with swamp sweat, but steady. A man learns quick when every second feels like a countdown.

Then I left a trail. Footprints where they shouldn’t be. Snapped reeds pointing east. Little bread crumbs, but sharp ones. I wanted them chasing ghosts while I went fishing for the truth.

The last charge clicked into place. I eased back, sighted down on the camp. Men moved like ants, hauling crates, patrolling lazy. They didn’t know hell was sitting right under their boots.

I thumbed the detonator, waited until the patrols crossed close together, then pressed.

The swamp roared. White fire lit the night. Dirt and flame rolled through the camp, knocking guards on their asses, throwing crates wide. Sirens wailed, voices shouted. Just the kind of bedlam I needed.

I slipped down the far side, into the chaos.

Time to pull the lid off this cesspool, and see just who was dirty enough to be stirring it.

****

The blast did its job. Guards scattered like rats in a burning cellar, half-blind and deaf. Perfect.

I hit the ground running, coat snapping behind me, slug pistol heavy in my fist. The first man I saw was fumbling with a rifle, eyes wide and stupid. I drove a fist into his jaw, felt it crack, then shoved him into a firelit crate. He slid down, out cold.

More came. Two shadows with blades, lunging out of the smoke. I didn’t waste breath. I ducked, let the first swing split air over my head, and jammed an elbow into the gut of the second. He folded, wheezing. The first turned back fast—too fast. I planted a boot square in his knee. He screamed, hit the dirt.

No time to play. I moved deeper, cutting through the camp like a knife. The crates had split open from the blast. And there it was—the ugly truth oozing into the firelight.

Pods. Organic, wet, pulsing like hearts. Some half-open, spilling tendrils across the dirt. Not cargo. Not goods. Living weapons.

One guard saw me staring and made the mistake of shouting. I shut him up with a slug through the leg and kept moving. More men were coming now, trying to rally. The sirens hadn’t stopped screaming.

I ducked behind a broken hauler, reloaded fast, then came out hard. Slugs barked, dropping two before they had a chance to raise guns. Another rushed me head-on—I met him with steel, my knife flashing under the firelight. He went down clutching red.

The camp was awake, and I was the nightmare crawling through it. But I wasn’t here to win a war. I was here to rip out the rot and drag it screaming into the light.

And from the way they shouted orders, one name kept cutting through the smoke.

The Governor.

****

The camp burned behind me, smoke clawing at the sky. I followed the shouting, the trail of guards retreating like whipped dogs. They weren’t protecting the pods anymore—they were circling wagons around someone important.

I found him standing in the middle of it all, untouched by the fire, wrapped in silk robes like a king on a garbage heap. The Governor.

He looked at me with a politician’s smile, the kind that tried to buy you off before you even spoke. “Detective Koro,” he said, smooth as poison. “This doesn’t concern you.”

“Yeah?” I leveled the pistol at his chest. “I’ve got a camp full of corpses and bio-weapons spilling out of crates that say otherwise.”

He didn’t flinch. Men like him never did. “Trebo’s economy is fragile. Those… assets were insurance. The tourists stumbled where they shouldn’t. Collateral damage.”

Collateral. My jaw tightened. “You fed me false leads, sent your thugs to bury me, and tried to write it off as bad luck.”

His smile thinned. “And yet you’re still breathing. Impressive.”

Behind him, guards shifted, hands twitching toward triggers. I saw the calculation in his eyes—kill me here, dump me in the swamp, call it an accident. Clean. Easy.

I stepped closer, close enough to see the sweat on his brow despite the act. “Here’s the thing, Governor. I’ve got enough evidence to choke the Federation courts. You pull that trigger, and every dirty little secret you’ve been nursing blows wide open.”

For the first time, his mask cracked. Just a flicker. Enough.

The silence hung heavy, broken only by the crackle of burning crates and the distant moan of the swamp. Then he hissed, low, “You don’t understand what you’re dealing with, Koro.”

I pressed the pistol harder into his silk. “Then educate me.”

The first guard twitched, and that was all it took.

I dropped low, fired twice. Two men spun and crumpled, rifles clattering on the stone. The Governor stumbled backward, robes flaring as the rest of his dogs surged in.

They came at me hard—blades flashing, guns spitting fire. I dived behind a broken supply crate, splinters biting into my arm as rounds chewed the air. I came up shooting, three sharp cracks. One guard folded, another went down screaming, clutching his leg.

The Governor barked orders, his polished voice cracking under strain. “Kill him! Now!”

They rushed me in a wave, boots pounding, faces twisted with fear and hate. I caught one in the throat with the butt of my pistol, spun, drove my elbow into another’s jaw. He went down in a heap.

A blade kissed my ribs—shallow, but hot. I snarled, slammed the attacker against the burning crate, and felt the air leave his lungs as I smashed his head into the wood.

It was savage, close, no room for clean shots. Just fists, blood, and grit.

The Governor retreated toward a shuttle, panic showing now. His men were breaking, one by one. I fought like a man who’d been double-crossed one too many times, who had nothing left to lose but the truth.

When the smoke cleared, three were down dead, two more groaning on the ground. I staggered forward, blood dripping from my side, pistol still steady in my hand.

The Governor froze halfway up the ramp. His silk robes were torn, dirtied, no longer fitting the man who’d worn them like armor.

“End of the line,” I rasped, voice raw. “You don’t buy your way out of this one.”

I didn’t give him the chance. One squeeze, one shot. The blaster bolt cracked past his wrist and scorched the metal ramp. His weapon spun out of his hand, clattering down the steps.

He froze, eyes wide, chest heaving like a trapped animal. For the first time, the power-drunk mask slipped.

“Please,” he stammered. “We can make a deal. Credits. More than you’ve ever seen. Women, ships—anything.”

I limped closer, gun steady, blood running hot down my side. My boots echoed on the metal, each step heavier than the last.

“You think you can buy your way out?” I growled. “You sold this planet for scraps. You left tourists to die so your backwater buddies could keep their dirty little empire running.”

His lips trembled, eyes darting for an opening that wasn’t there. “It wasn’t me—it was the locals, the smugglers, I had no—”

I slammed the barrel under his chin, cut him off cold. “Save it. I’ve heard enough lies to fill a graveyard.”

The silence stretched. Just him and me. My finger tightening. His sweat dripping.

Then I pulled him down the ramp by the collar and slammed him onto the dirt in front of his broken men. They watched, half-dead, half-scared, knowing the game was over.

“You’re going to live, Governor,” I said, voice low, dangerous. “But you’re going to rot in a cell. And the Federation will make damn sure Trebo knows your name means nothing but betrayal.”

He whimpered, clutching his bruised jaw, too weak to fight back. Too scared to look me in the eye.

I holstered the blaster, turned away, and lit a cigarette with shaking hands. The taste was bitter, but it was the taste of an ending.

For now.

On Trebo, there was always another storm waiting.

****

The Governor was dragged off by his own men, broken and beaten, their loyalty snapped like a rotten beam. Word spread fast. By nightfall, the camps were burning—some from the fighting, some from locals torching their own tracks before the law closed in.

Trebo would lick its wounds, but the stink of corruption had been torn into daylight. No amount of credits could shove it back underground.

I took the long haul back to Faryne. The city lights cut through the fog like teeth, neon bleeding across rain-slick streets. My coat was heavy with blood and dust, my boots dragging, but I wasn’t going to crawl. Not tonight.

The Chief of Police was waiting at headquarters, a thick man with iron-gray hair and eyes that had seen too many body bags. He stepped forward, looked me over like I was another corpse that refused to stay down—then stuck out his hand.

“Rynn Koro,” he said, voice gruff but steady. “You did this city a service it won’t forget. You cut the rot out before it spread deeper. Trebo owes you.”

I shook his hand. Firm. Final. No words. Just the understanding that men like us don’t trade thank-yous—we trade scars.

When it was done, I stepped out into the night. The rain was still coming down, washing the filth off the streets but never the stench. I lit another cigarette, the glow cutting through the dark.

The tourists would come back. The trade would pick up. The locals would try to scrape together some dignity after the mess they’d built.

But me? I’d seen enough to know the truth. Trebo wasn’t saved. Not really. It was patched, bruised, limping forward until the next bastard with power decided to sell it cheap.

I dragged in smoke, felt it burn my lungs, and stared at the city lights.

One case closed. A hundred more waiting.

That’s the curse of men like me.

And the city never sleeps.