The airlock of the Argo-Vanguard cycled with a harsh, clockwork hiss as air pressure dropped to total zero.
Arthur Vance stepped out onto the outside hull plating. His magnetic boots clamped to the silver-steel alloy deck with heavy, rhythmic thuds. Outside, the deep silence of deep empty pocket crashed over him, vast and choking. The cosmos was an ink-black dome peppered with frozen diamond dust. But three hundred miles off the port bow, fourteen crimson heat plumes tore through the darkness like tracer fire.
Cell Alpha was deployed.
Grimm stood directly at Arthur’s left flank. The hound wore no empty pocket suit. His 92.4% Abyssal Fenrir bloodline had long since rendered his cellular matrix impervious to pressure differentials and sub-zero cold. A tight, skin-clinging mantle of gravity aether wrapped his fur, sealing his breathing pores and locking his body heat within his dense jet-black bone skeleton. His one notched ear lay flat against his skull. His golden eyes were locked onto the incoming interceptors. Beside him, Grimm’s tail gave one slow flick, leaving a faint static discharge against the hull metal. He tested the deck with his claws, digging the front talons into the non-slip coating to establish an unbending four-point stance.
