Brayden’s head throbbed. His ride back into the New Plesto train depot had been a long one. He spent most of it unconscious near the caboose of the hovering railcars.

Brayden grimaced as the long line of passenger cars slowed to a stop. “Coming back here’s a bad idea.”

A pair of police inspectors paced back and forth along the arrival platform. The one nearest to the thief had a disgruntled expression, like he’d been pulled off his vacation to take on this little pet project.

Brayden flipped the collar of his trench coat up over his cheek. “Trust me, Grumpy” he muttered, “if there were any other town that I could make this delivery in, I would.”

He needed an escape plan and fast. His blue gaze scanned the doorway to the caboose. Nope. They’ll already be expecting something there. The thought of heading for the roof vaporized from his thoughts as fast as it had entered. Nah, too old fashioned.

The sleek android conductor whirred toward him on its singular sphere. “Sir, it is time to debark the train.” Its emotionless voice was cool and deliberate.

Brayden smiled and rose from his bench. “Guess it’s time to go.”

The skeletal machine followed close behind. “Thank you for your patronage, sir. Please come again.”

He tucked his head under the upturned collar and filed in behind an obese old woman who was still fumbling through her oversized purse and mumbling about a tour map.

“Tourists.” Brayden shook his head and slid behind the old bag as she waddled from the bottom step and out into the bustling swarm of people.

As far as Grumpy was concerned, Brayden didn’t exist. His younger counterpart in the silver jacket was another story. The muscular inspector strode from the train’s engine, depressing a small chrome disc on his left temple as he muttered something into his palm. His narrow eyes never left Brayden’s face.

“Shit,” Brayden said, turning his back toward Silver Jacket.

“You!” Silver Jacket exclaimed. “You there.”

Brayden’s heart raced and his instincts took over.

“Stop!” Brayden heard the grumpy one shout from over his shoulder. The telltale whir of the cop’s sidearm sent a rush of adrenaline pulsing through his veins. “I said, halt!”

Shattered glass showered down on him as the cop’s round impacted the lamppost at the base of the central station’s steps. Several shrieks and gasps popped to life throughout the scattering crowd. Brayden pounced up the marble stairs, and darted for the main entrance.

“He’s on the move,” Silver Jacket said. “I repeat, the suspect is going into the station.”

Brayden threw out cursory apologies left and right as he pushed his way through the snaking lines in front of the ticket counters. Silver Jacket remained close on his trail, while his partner had disappeared. The thief scanned the tall windows to his right and saw Grumpy keeping his pace in even blurs.

This probably won’t end well. He leaped over a stack of expensive luggage, much to the discord of its sleek business-like owner, and covered the last twenty paces to the front door at a sprint. He flew through the revolving door and raced across the long, stone foyer to the station.

Grumpy skidded around the corner, bounded over the stair’s rail, and took aim at Brayden’s head. “There’s nowhere to run.”

“Maybe not to run,” Brayden said. He charged the inspector, not missing a step.

Grumpy’s pistol purred back up to power. “I’m warning y --”

A long, gray coat fluttered past the cop’s vision in a rotating ball. He spun on his heels to find the perp skating down the handrail on his boot heels. “Damn it!”

Brayden’s outstretched arms drifted just over the hats and heads of the awestruck eyewitnesses. “Whoo!”

The victory soon lost its allure. His eyes widened as a gap between flights sped toward his faltering leather boots. He lowered his center of gravity and lunged out over the gap of concrete. The next set of handrails grew, but Brayden couldn’t judge where his feet were in relation to them. His right heel landed square, while the other teetered to find a hold. His torso wobbled erratically from side to side until he slid to the bottom.

A burning sting radiated from his right shoulder as he hit the ground rolling. Brayden felt the cold iron of another lamppost crunch into his lower back, stalling his momentum.

“Don’t move!” Grumpy shouted.

Another shot from his pulse weapon turned the trashcan at Brayden’s left into a cloud of filth and stench. He took off across the busy street, rolling over the hood of a screeching car and sped around the corner out of sight.

The interior of the small café fit his bill: low lighting, lots of people, and a quiet corner booth to tuck away in for a spell. He hobbled over to the booth and flopped into its red leather seat. A petite blonde sauntered over and took his order as he kept lookout for two of New Plesto’s best. Not so much as a siren.

“I’ll be back with your coffee in a bit,” she said in a sing-song tone.

Brayden grumbled and rubbed his right thigh. He lowered his stare down, expecting to find a ground-up red mess. “Just a few scrapes.”

His sweaty hands found the cool metallic object in his coat pocket. Feeling its warmth radiate and surround his palm, Brayden drew the artifact out and cupped it beneath the table.

“It appears to have taken a liking to you,” a male voice said.

Brayden peered up from it to see a scruffy stranger swaggering over from the row of barstools on the far wall. The filthy degenerate looked to be in his early thirties and in need of a shower. His stringy black hair fell over the shoulders of his stained black heavy metal tee shirt. The man’s face looked like it hadn’t seen a razor – ever.

“Starscraper?”

The newcomer shrugged and slid in beside the thief on his bench. “Sure, they’ve been around for a while,” he had a foreign and aristocratic accent, “but they’re still the best metal band in every zone of Tylessi.” He snatched a shiny silver spoon from Brayden’s napkin and tucked in into the hip pocket of his dingy jeans. “I have, how shall I put it, an affinity for sparkly things.” He held out an unkempt hand. “The name’s Olander.”

He shook it with his right hand, keeping his left on the glowing orb. “Brayden.”

“That’s quite an artifact you’ve got there, Brayden.”

The thief lowered his treasure to the bench on his far side.

Olander chuckled and leaned back into the seat. “I may be a klepto, but I’m no thief, boy.”

He brought the sphere back around and studied Olander with interest. “Who are you?”

“I’m a sorcerer of sorts,” Olander said. He held up a finger to the waitress as she sat Brayden’s coffee on the tabletop. “I’ll have what he’s having, love. Just put it on his bill.” He patted Brayden’s shoulder. “You’re swell mate, you are.”

Brayden’s gaze fell to the laser pistol in a leather holster on Olander’s hip. “A sorcerer?”

He brushed his long hair back over his shoulders and crossed his slender arms over his chest. “You can’t expect me to win every battle with magic, can you?”

Olander’s gray stare fell to the ball once more. “Sorcerer of the Scales, to be more precise. Tell me, how did you come by such a rarity?”

Brayden shuddered and stuffed the object back into his coat. “I found it.”

“Mmm.” The wizard sipped his fresh cup of brew. “I’ll bet you did. Listen, Brayden. I’ve seen a great deal of magic in this world, but that one’s new for me.”

Brayden nursed his drink in silence.

Olander eased back into his booth. “You know,” was there a hint of sarcasm in his voice? “you could take that out to the Order.”

The blood drained from Brayden’s face.

“You know,” Olander continued, “get it appraised.”

The thief blew out a sigh of relief. “I just came from a temple.”

Olander’s brow perked up in interest. “Did they have anything to say about it?”

“Nope.”

The sorcerer brought out a tiny leather flask and dropped a stream of something into his coffee. As he replaced the flask, a cloud of body odor and filth wafted into Brayden’s nostrils.

“I happen to know a guy,” Olander said, “who specializes in those sorts of things.”

Brayden chuckled. “Sure. A little kickback for you--”

The degenerate pulled a crumpled cig from a pocket and lit it. “Look, I only said I knew the guy.” He puffed a cloud into the blue rings of light over their booth. “Artifacts like those, if they’re authentic, can be worth a pretty coin.”

A police cruiser rolled past the café’s front windows.

“Maybe we’ll go see this friend of yours after all.”