The Alabaster Ringmaster is a gaudy casino nestled between the desert sierras of Earth 446. One can imagine, emerging from the blistering necropolis of fallen civilizations, Blackjack and a Vodka Martini hit all the right spots.

Lee Minho watches the neon lights dawn below his feet as his ship nears landfall. Glass-sharp shrapnel and dust lash through the air, flaring and tangling his trench coat around his legs. His gas mask sounds like crushed cement every time he draws a breath.

His company stands behind him, waiting for his signal. He flicks his hand downward, raises two fingers and pops his thumb. Guns out. Drop now.

He grabs a bungee grip from the ceiling and jumps out of the bay; the cord lets him down easy on the hard, cracked ground. His ship — the Ender, a mass of metal and satellites — shrinks into the reddish-brown sky and its own ashy contrails.

Minho draws his gun and sets it to sonic strike with a flick of his thumb. Shiny silver-coated things, streamlined, the latest technology. He replaced the Ender's arsenal with the excess from their last raid. Waste of money, a companion told him. But he has a taste for the finer things.

"Start countdown," he says into the com in his collar. "Going in."

Commander and company pass under high arches and through gilded doors, into the lobby where they're greeted, as per usual, with screams and general chaos. Nobody move, get down, etcetera. Two of his own stay behind to watch the guests and reception, while Minho leads his band into the glitzy glossy kernel of the casino.

Minho announces his arrival with a sonic blast. A collective scream rings out as every hearing human in the room doubles over, holding their ears. His company fans out across the room while he strides forward, mounts the nearest Baccarat table and peels back his gas mask.

"This," he says, giving the room his warmest smile, "is a robbery. Who's in charge here?"

The tipsy, trembling gamblers stare up at him with that familiar fear in their eyes. Minho tends to elicit that response. He tends to enjoy it. Immensely. Power is well and good where it's useful, scoring a contract with a wealthy buyer or lording it over the duds in the Merchant's Guild, but power for the sake of power — power over the quaver in someone's voice — is nothing short of intoxicating.

No one answers him.

"One more time." He sets his gun to particle burn and fires at a chandelier. It blackens, shrivels and crashes to the floor in a fright of fake crystal. Screams rise again, though he made sure it wouldn't crush anyone. He has enough humanity to keep his raids bloodless, at least until he gets annoyed. "Who's in charge here?"

Finally a supervisor steps forward, a human with no discernible planetary markings. Minho jumps down from the table, holstering his weapon.

"You're who I'm looking for?"

"Yes, Commander Lee."

"Then you know what I'm after."

Just then a sound thunders through the room, another sonic blast. Minho clutches his head against the drum-splitting pain and rounds toward the entrance. An army — no — another merchant band are pouring into the room, weapons trained on the gamblers, on Minho's company — on Minho. They're suited and masked, communicating with hand signals.

First, Minho thinks, oh shit. Then he thinks, oh... shit...

The enemy commander pushes to the front, a gun in each hand. His suit is black as void, made of dense, scaled armour, a sheath to his slight body.

Minho knows it's him before he even has his mask off.

Han Jisung.

Their eyes lock. Minho feels a laugh buck in his chest; Jisung's jaw hardens.

"Commander," calls one of his crew.

Minho holds up one fist — wait on my signal — and hopes the surprise and delight isn't too clear in his voice. "Commander Han. Funny meeting you here. It's so odd seeing people you know out of context, isn't it?"

Jisung gives him a shut the fuck up look. "The Stingray was unaware this site had been claimed. No bad blood. Truce."

Minho cants his head. "All right. Truce. After you."

"After you."

"After you."

They keep their eyes locked. And slowly raise their hands, signalling to their crews. Guns down, stay vigilant. Jisung holsters his weapon, and Minho follows suit. The air in the room seems to lighten.

"Don't get too comfortable," says Jisung, eyes on the trembling supervisor. "You're still being robbed."

"Absolutely right," Minho chimes in, "by the Ender."

Jisung looks at him again. His piercings, greyish gemstones in his eyebrows and nose and the dimple above his lip, are catching the flashing light. "Truce?"

"Truce."

"The Stingray would be obliged if the Ender were to yield this target."

Ha! Jisung should know him better than that. He doesn't yield. He hasn't rolled over once in his life.

"I see," Minho says, admiring a token between his fingers. "The Ender would likewise be obliged if the Stingray were to kiss our giant gunmetal cock."

Every gun in the room tenses. Jisung rolls his eyes, bored.

"Truce?" he says.

"Truce."

"We'll split the bounty."

"Oh? Really?"

"I trust you won't try anything smart."

"I wouldn't think of it. You?"

"I plan to betray you, actually."

"How shall you do that?"

"I'll seduce and disarm you."

Minho actually laughs, once, loud. "And the truce?"

"The truce stands."

"I see." Minho snaps his fingers, splays his hands, and two of his crew come forward. He turns to the supervisor. "We were interrupted. Please, show me — us — to the vault."

Led by the supervisor, the two commanders walk side by side down the casino's main hallway. Minho pretends to bump into him; Jisung scratches his ear with his middle finger.

They're led to an industrial tele port, a platform glowing silvery blue; they step on as the supervisor punches in the coordinates. The feeling of nothingness blooms in Minho's chest, swallows him from the inside out, and his eyes open to a large metal safe behind a set of iron bars. The vault.

The supervisor already has the entrance unbolted, scuttling back to the port. Jisung flicks his hand around and his two crewers swiftly turn their backs. Minho barely has time to give the same order before Jisung has him pinned against the metal bars, those quick, clever eyes locked on Minho's.

"You're begging for a punch in the teeth, you know that? Fuck, you're annoying. You're like a pebble in my shoe."

Minho laughs, resting his arms over Jisung's shoulders. "How novel, you from this vantage."

He finds Minho's wrists, pushes them back against the bars. "Wanted to see whether you'd let me."

"I've let you do more."

"Will you let me take your prize?"

"I'll allow you half. Truce, remember? Honour among thieves?"

"Ah." He leans in so his lips brush Minho's ear. "You are such an idiot."

Jisung walks away. Minho's wrists are tied to the bars.

He jerks his arms, straining for the holster at his hip — it's empty. He shouts for his crew, but they've both been quietly incapacitated.

"Fuck!" he yells. "Jisung!"

He and his crew are blasting a hole through the vault; Minho watches them disappear through the large metal door. He strains against the wire till it burns his skin; he can't free himself. He settles for rattling the bars and loudly taking Jisung's name in vain.

The company files out of the vault with several sacks slung over their shoulders. Jisung comes out last, twirling Minho's gun on his finger.

"Thank you for playing along, Commander Lee. I had fun."

"The next time I see you—"

"You'll what? Exact revenge?"

"I'll fuck you senseless."

His smile is brief. Then he shakes his head, feigning disappointment.

"You're so sweet on me. It's kind of pathetic." He walks away, waving over his shoulder. "Goodbye and good luck, Commander."

Minho stares after him.

Yes. So very pathetic.