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[B.K.]

Told you.
Four of a kind - chapters 32, 33, 34, and 35. They are of a kind because they are all filler. All filler, no killer. Charles Dickens would be so proud of me. But I have to confess writing in this periodic style does give me room for some experimentation. These chapters don't necessarily serve to advance the narrative much, but they give some character insight. Ol' Dicky did much of the same since he wrote monthly or weekly. It's almost like writing a TV series, except it's ***. Now I don't know if I will keep up the pace, since I might have to put my attention elsewhere, but one can dream. I really love writing the story. Well, you never know. But since I am, after all, a lazy ***, we might never know.
Thank you all for reading!

Chapter 32: SWEET AND SOUR

Spoiler

DEMIR HAS TO CONFESS that the suite isn’t even half-bad. In actuality it would have ranked among the better ones Demir had visited in his years roaming the Galaxy. That one suite on Venus, however, will always remain the pinnacle experience. I was luckier back then. Demir reminisces. He got the job from a powerful law connection of his, and it had to be done quickly. Hard job, easy pay, like most of the ones that fell in Demir’s lap back then. Unnamed big cheese got wind that his illicitly-acquired money shipment was going to get jacked by a competitor. Big cheese set a trap but the money needed to stay on board for the competition to bite. Demir was tasked with retrieving the money before the Authority arrived. Big cheese would call it in as stolen and cash the insurance, on top of his own money he would bank. As a bonus Demir got an all expenses paid stay at the Royal Falls premium suite for a whole month. A suite molded in gold and all shades of red. And by all expenses paid they really meant it too. Demir was given the choice of any meal on the menu, at any time of the day. Drinks on tap, any time of the day. Girls, any time of the day. Only thing he had to dish out the credits for himself were the drugs. But on Venus that’s about as easy as taking a *** in the morning. Venus is all about entertainment, and money. If there’s a place in the Galaxy where they go hand in hand more than Venus you can *** me dead.
The suite on Trafalgar had that gruff, minimalistic, and utilitarian feeling to it. Fully decked out in sharp angles, black-and-white future-perfect designs against white backdrops. Lounge area indented into the floor, a good series of five steps down, walled off on three sides with real-feel temperature plates. Good L-shaped sofa, black faux-leather, with a circular white table in the middle. Other small chairs interspersed throughout the entire living room area. Sleeping area with a king-sized bed hidden behind insulated faux-wood plating. Kitchenette and food dispenser alcoved next to the lounge area, next to it a table, chrome and glass. Quick-and-easy integrated washing system in the all-white bathroom. It was sterile in all the ways it needed to be in order for the person inside to forget that they were on Trafalgar, the pirate capital of the Known Galaxy.
   Another luxury that is clearly missing is the one that allows Demir his preferred amount of alcoholic beverage intake. He isn’t here for luxury, but having Leto cut his alcohol consumption to a minimum during their time together makes the sensation of being apart all the more palpable, and the possibility of getting drunk all the more enticing. To Demir drinking or drugs aren’t so much of a bodily high, but a mental stimulus that runs deep into the very core of his mind. The hatred core as Demir calls it. He hates his father first, his family second, and himself third. His DNA makes doubly sure he can withstand anything he throws at himself with almost no damage whatsoever, and that syphons much of the charm away from his addictions, if he can even call them that. Took Demir all about two days to kick the zazz, and all but one to kick the booze. Only thing that remains is a tingle in the back of his mind, the little ardwreck that whispers to him - why not try to kill yourself today? To him everything is about freedom. Freedom from his past, from his today, from his tomorrow, and from himself. Even Leto monitoring him closely, keeping him sober, keeping him in top condition, can’t squelch that tingling voice. Demir’s body can take the booze and drugs, but Demir’s mind is all that matters. And Leto trusts that least of all.
   For the week Demir had been trapped in the room the only comings and goings were by the room service. Luxury meals delivered at the allotted time. Same person doing the delivery, to the point where Demir was certain they were not so much a bellhop as someone who had to make sure Demir wasn’t up to no good. A beautiful trans person that basked in their androgyny. Flaunted it around like a service paycheck at a bar after a month-long haul from the Rim to the Core. Deadly quick, so much so that even Demir couldn’t see as their hands moved, and he was getting used to seeing quick combat movements even outside his Baby. The angles of their face were all so symmetrical, their hair so immaculate, and their posture so sure, that Demir even felt a tingle where he most liked whenever they came to bring him his meal.
   No word from Farideh during the week either. Comm silence with little updates coming in the form of messages Demir received via his neural link. Farideh was waiting for the Cardinal’s troops to get antsy and careless. It made sense, perfect sense even, and Demir would have done the same. It also made sense to keep him and Leto separated, perfect sense even. Keeping them locked in until Farideh needed them, also made perfect sense.
   None of that sense, that perfect sense, made things any better for Demir, who was slowly having to admit to himself that he had cabin fever. Being in his Baby for months on end, if need be, was one thing. He was flying, moving through space and time. On ground, in a room, he was just moving in a pile of sludge, his feet trudging through his waning sanity. There was no return IP for Farideh, so the coms were one-sided. He asked the bellhop to deliver a message to Farideh many times, and they would decline with a courteous smile. No word from Leto either, since their comm links were cut off.
   On the eighth day Demir ate less and slept more. On the ninth he ate more and slept less. And on the tenth day he ate nothing and slept all day. His mind had gone blank after revisiting the plan every second of every day, weighing the options and possibilities against each other, working the minutiae of every detail of every second that was about to come one day when he would finally be let free. The days were worse than prison, and he spent his fair share in those. In prison you know what to expect. It’s not one-third as nice as his room, and it’s the luxury that becomes a problem over time. Beat Demir Sunderland and he will rise. Stick Demir Sunderland in a room and feed him and he will become soft. And being a soft MOS is what gets you killed first.
   On the eleventh day the bellhop came with the meals at their allotted time and Demir rejected them. In the evening the door of his room opens again, and a new figure enters.
   A woman of striking beauty sways her way to the lounge area where Demir is splayed over the sofa, languid in his suffering.
   “Mr. Sunderland,” she wakes him. Her plump, firm lips parting like red waves.
   “One and only, I hope.”
   “Ms. Farideh sent me.” Her voice is sultry in that professional manner Demir knows all too well. She is either a hostess that will milk him for the evening, get him wasted and then drop him back into his cage where he can nurse the morning hangover a day later and jack off to the thought of her. Or she is a pro, a real pro, who will milk him for real after a couple of drinks. She isn’t armed unless a part of her perfect body is weaponized. There is no hiding anything in the black dress that clings to her skin like wet fabric. Her curves call to him, the soft touch of her legs, the parting of her thighs, and the warm moan from her lips. Her soft face, edged with plump cheeks and reddish hues, is all he can feel in his ***, and his *** is all he can feel in his head.
   “To do what, exactly?” Demir musters the question, in his mind sifting through the fantasies of her answer.
   “I am to escort you on a night out. Ms. Farideh will spare no expenses,” the woman says with a pep in her voice, and a jiggle in her breasts.
   “I can’t drink without anything to eat.”
   “Dinner will be served in the hotel restaurant. We can attend as soon as you are ready, sir.”
   Demir pulls himself out and off the sofa, brushing the hunger from his eyes. He’s alert, much more than he would like to be. The words Ms. Farideh will spare no expenses bringing him back from the brink. Farideh must have either seen Demir on the hotel feed, which he highly doubts she would waste her precious time on. Or she received word from the bellhop. Those are the two most likely explanations. Farideh just wants one of the puzzle pieces to not break apart before the final step. It makes sense, perfect even. But just like that lingering little voice at the back of Demir’s mind, he has another one telling him that the Queen of Pirates might be up to something more devious. Demir pulls his brain out of his *** and his *** out of his brain, and goes to shower and dress.
   In the bathroom Demir gets ready, but also takes a shaving strip, one of those small ones meant for mustaches, along in his pocket. The exquisite beauty is waiting for him in the kitchen, helping herself to a coffee. “May I ask your name? Since we will be dining and drinking together, I think it is only appropriate.” Demir acts cordial.
   “Misha,” she answers after a sip of coffee so warm it makes her lips look even redder and plump.
   “Very well Misha, let us dine.” Demir offers her his arm and she coils hers around so they can make their way to the elevator.
   The corridor to the elevator is narrow and pristine just like the rooms. Only six doors to choose from, and Demir has to choose since he has no idea which one is bespoke to Leto. They didn’t arrive in tandem. Another security measure Farideh insisted on. Demir slowls his step and takes in the doors, straining to find a hint of which could have Leto behind it. His mind races, and Demir remembers that dinner time had come and gone before Misha came to his room. Demir focuses on the doorknobs, the silver sheen of each glinting under the sharp light. One of them, in the middle of the corridor, has the sheen tainted by sweat and fat.
   Demir steps on his shoelace. “Excuse me.” He lets Misha’s arm fall and tends to his untied shoelace. “I still must be somewhat woozy.” Demir leans against the wall close to the door he believes to be Leto’s. All the while keeping out of sight of the cameras and under the cover of his own back Demir glues the see-through strip to the door and jamb. If the door is opened the strip will flop.
   Demir ties his shoelace and they make their way down to the restaurant.
   The rest of the hotel mimics Demir’s room in aesthetic and detail both. Utilitarian comfort for the brazen and the bold, for pirates and misfits of all walks of life. Demir and Misha are ushered to their secluded table at the far end of the restaurant, near the windows overlooking the cityscape, with its dark foreboding lines and jaunty holodeck lights.
   Demir orders the faux-lamb steak and grilled potatoes with seasonal vegetable salad, coarse mustard dressing, faux-olive oil, and a side of pickled radish. A tour de force of hangover food, and not on the cheap either. Along with that Demir has white wine, Misha has red. She orders a small fish platter with a seasonal salad, no dressing.
   Once the food is there they eat slowly and speak softly about all things not related to the task at hand. Misha inquires with a degree of professionally-feigned interest about Demir’s life, his family, and generally all the things he hates the most. He indulges her with his professionally-feigned love of his previous life, and digs into his food with all the gusto he has in him. While not answering her stupid basic questions about the things he hates the most, Demir probed Misha for any info on the proceedings.
   “My Leto will not be joining us during the evening?”
   “I am not a liberty to say, honestly. I wasn’t given that information.”
   “You could send a message through your neural link, could you not? It’s just that I always feel better with a bodyguard by my side. Sadly I must be growing old considering I used to wander alone. His company soothes my frazzled nerves.”
   They both continue eating under the umbrella of the festering silence.
   “It seems your Leto is content with his meditation, while Ms. Farideh suggested you might need a break,” Misha lets Demir know through a coy smile.
   The unnerving correctness of Misha’s answer lets Demir know all he needs. She is in contact with Farideh, or at least she forwarded his question. Farideh wants Demir out of the picture for the evening. That much is certain, but not for his mental wellbeing. That snide remark about the break came directly from Farideh, and it was just that right amount of snide to keep Demir in his place. Just let the night ride and be back in the cage by morning. The Demir from maybe a year or two ago might have fallen for that. The Demir sitting across from Misha begs to differ.
   “That is indeed true. I need a break. Thank Ms. Farideh for that.” Demir suggests he is bowing down and accepting the pity parade. “Before we continue I have to visit the restroom. My stomach is a bit fussy. Excuse me.”
   Demir ducks out of sight to the bathroom, jettisons that plan and rushes to the elevator in complete disregard of all the cameras following him. He takes the elevator to the suites and checks the strip. It’s dangling from the door. Demir takes a good look at the camera in the corridor, gives it his most stern look of anger, the type of look that vows for revenge. Just to let them know that he’s onto whatever little scheme the Queen has in mind. Demir makes his way back to the restaurant.
   “Will we be leaving soon?” Misha asks him in complete disregard of the fact that he knows she’s been informed about his little trip to the top floor.
   “I would prefer we stay at the hotel bar. I find myself not feeling up for a stroll around town.”

[close]

Chapter 33: FACADE

Spoiler

FARIDEH MADE SURE the Leto was picked up after Demir had already left, but that sly little gorghast was onto them after he feasted on her tab. Some little grifter trick he pulled off under the nose of her cameras. Not even too shabby. She admits. By that time the Leto was already deep into a conversation. Farideh didn’t want to skip any of the pleasantries. It is always of the utmost importance to make interrogations feel like they aren’t. Farideh started by presenting her city. Beaming and booming about the terraforming, the oxygen dome, the living quarters, pleasure district, banking center, the opulent dark streets that gave way to a flourishing community. She basked in the lights of her city, while Leto regarded it with the empty vastness of his analytical stare.
   Receiving no response from the Leto, Farideh continues her story about Trafalgar. Loosening the tension visibly rising and swelling like fog.
   “So, considering I haven’t found you in our files, how do you find Trafalgar your first time around?” Farideh asks after she is done propagating her own empire.
   “I mean no disrespect, Ms. Farideh.” Something always said when you mean exactly that. “I have only seen Trafalgar from the safety of this vehicle, and only your words can account for the actuality. I haven’t experienced anything, or seen much. There are planets and cities like this all across the Galaxy. The only difference is that Trafalgar is run by pirates, and fueled by criminal enterprise.”
   Farideh senses that pang of contempt in the Leto’s highbrow army-infused Common. “You disagree?”
   “I have no stakes in this matter. It is not my place to agree or disagree.”
   “Yet you work for one of the most known MOS pilots in the entire Galaxy. A criminal, in more ways than one. Now on a warpath to running his own criminal empire. The obvious contempt you have for criminal enterprise is nothing if not hypocritical. I would have thought better of someone wearing the facade of Leto III.” Farideh pokes and prods, waiting for the reaction.
   “I wear no facade, I am Leto III.”
   The magnitude of the delusion hits Farideh at first, but then she focuses on the fact that he dodged the answer quite nimbly. “I have to say, out of the many Letos I have met over the years you must be one of, if not the most, dedicated.”
   “My dedication is solely to mankind.”
   The Leto flaunts his delusions not like a facade, but like a wall. He mingles through the questions and provides answers that will put Farideh solely back to square one. A veritable castle she has to break down first in order to get to the meat of things. “How did you come to meet Demir Sunderland?”
   “By chance.”
   “Please, spare me the *** at least.” Cut through. “A man with your considerable skills, mods, and obvious experience does nothing by chance. It seems to me like you have just as much an agenda here as Sunderland.”
   “What concern is that of yours?”
   “I hate receiving questions as answers.”
   “That is none of my concern.”
   The Leto obviously knows how to push buttons, in general, not just Farideh’s. She’s aware of her control issues, and to her own dismay so is the Leto. Disobedience, insubordination, coy banter, even spite towards her, are not things Farideh takes lightly. And the Leto is abusing that fact to its fullest potential. “Why is it that you were the one to talk to me about Sunderland’s plan? If it even is Sundeland’s plan.”
   “Mr. Sunderland is acutely aware of his image across the Galaxy. A thrill seeker, a miscreant, drunk, addict, a person living day-to-day. Plans, schemes and grandiose takeovers are not known to be part of his repertoire. Hearing such things from me shelters him from the possible mockery such proclamations might entail.” The Leto’s matter-of-fact tone betrays little to nothing. His focus on the facts shields him just as much as his delusion.
   “So you are his mouthpiece?”
   “When need be.”
   “Now that is something I believe even less than you being Leto III.”
   “What you believe is also none of my concern.”
   The stone walls keep rising instead of falling. Farideh is getting nowhere by being polite. “You know I can have you killed at any point. Considering you’re not vital to the plan Sunderland can just get another Leto to be his mouthpiece.”
   The Leto doesn’t even grace her with an answer, instead just blankly staring out the car window. His massive shoulders leaned against the vehicle frame, his dark eyes in the distance, blank as if he isn’t even thinking at all. “Do these questions lead you anywhere, Ms. Farideh?”
   “They lead me where I want them to lead me.” Two walls, two castles, just bashing against each other until one cracks.
   “And where is that?”
   “I see you’re asking the questions now.”
   The Leto turns to her, gazes into her eyes with his black pearls, not a miniscule trace of any kind of emotion, just blank and staring at her like an abyss. “I am,” he tells her.
   “What if I decline to answer?”
   “I will continue to sit in silence and look at this city and try to match it with the marvelous words you told me about it, all the while experiencing nothing, and you will be led nowhere.”
   “Were you in the army?” Farideh doesn’t let up.
   “That is also none of your concern.”
   “Well, you see, it is.” Farideh leans in, removes some of the distance between her and the Leto. “You don’t see me as your superior, which is why you either act insubordinate, or dodge my questions with facts that are so obvious that we end up back at square nothing. You purposefully lead me nowhere, which is something that is integrated into standard army training even before the C. I did my homework, I’ve been doing my homework, Leto, since before you took that face. You’re running me around in circles in hopes that my anger will overtake me and the conversation ends there. But I can tell you right now, that’s not going to work. Now, I know, I feel, that you have a much larger stake in this than you lead on. We are both here because I want to know who exactly I’m getting into bed with. But what concerns me above all else is that I know you are way in over your head here. So, one last time, lest we make this a formal interrogation, what is your role here?”
   The Leto leans in heavily, weighing himself against his knees, his massive shoulders bulking like a tide, washing over Farideh. “I am a bodyguard, a mouthpiece, a tool, a paid hand. My agenda is getting paid, leaving, and forging ahead. I have no ties to Sunderland or his plan, I am just honorable enough to fulfill my contract.”
   “And I don’t believe that for one second.”
        “What you believe is none of my concern.”
        “Who are you exactly?”
        “I am Leto III, the Grand-Master of War.”
        Farideh scoffs at that answer. She knows well enough she won’t get anything more out of the man at the moment, but she knows a bit more now than she did before. A confirmation that he is more than just a pawn. His resilience, his facade, his unwillingness to even contemplate answering her questions in of itself speaks volumes about his intent in the long run. He’s just as much a player as Sunderland himself, or me for that matter. He’s dangerous, deadly, and I’ll have to keep an eye out. Over the years Farideh has come to know people to their core. Since she worked in the brothels, since she was but a child, she had to know people in order to survive. To move them around like pieces on a chess board, the most ancient game in the Known Galaxy. Eons may have passed, but the game stays the same, and she stays on top by always being one step ahead. By telling her nothing, the Leto told her just enough. Confirmed just enough.
        Farideh puts the message through to her driver to go back to the hotel. On the way there she and the Leto sit in silence. Farideh escorts the Leto to the foyer of the hotel.
In the foyer a senselessly drunk Demir Sunderland lays thrown over a settee like a sack of ***. Dishevelled, strewn about, wild hair dangling from all angles, crusted spit in his ten-day beard, looking more emaciated than when he first came to Trafalgar. Misha at his side.
        As soon as Sunderland sees the Leto he jolts up like he’s being electrocuted, shot with adrenaline. He runs up to the Leto, three steps forward and one back, swaying like a sea in the wind, a ship lost. With a degree of comedy he jumps up high enough to clock the massive man in the chin with a punch that surprisingly resonates meatily across the foyer. “We’ll trawlk tomorrer,” he slurs out.
        The Leto bows like he’s in the pre-C army, and retreats to the elevator. The only thing staring down Farideh now is Sunderland with his bloodshot eyes. He moves in close, the stink of booze on him. The waft of his body shedding toxins slick and sour with the punch of alcohol. “That was just for the people to see. For the image to stay intact. Just so you know, your little escort can’t get me drunk for ***. Leto is mine, and I’m in charge here. As of tomorrow we are free to roam, no more lockdown, no more meals served in our rooms, no more surveillance. What I say to my Leto stays between me and him. I’m not here as a prisoner, I’m here as a partner. You speak to me, and me only. If the Leto speaks it’s because I told him to. Now, I gave you the courtesy of revealing my position and my plan, and I expect you to respond in kind. Your deviant need to control everything may work for Trafalgar, but it doesn't work for me. Cross me again and I will be off-planet so you can handle this shitshow on your own. I know full well who you are, I never forget that, but you don’t seem to be aware that I’m Demir-***-Sunderland. You’ll say it’s impossible for me to get off-planet, but you know full well I’ll at least find a way to make it *** hard for you to stop me. We may not be equals here, but I demand some respect. If you have any questions you can put them through with Misha,” Sunderland snarls, “and next time pay her to *** me at least.”
        Sunderland does his mock-drunken stagger away and to the elevator, leaving Misha behind aghast and Farideh riveted to the floor. Farideh knows she’s done for the night. She has all she needs.

[close]

Chapter 34: GHOST OF THE LIVING

Spoiler

“MS. FARIDEH, MR. MUTEMBA is on his way up. You requested notification,” her secretary lets Farideh know, like the good employee she is. Farideh’s word is canon on Trafalgar. Mutemba, formerly known as Mutemba Ginzego before he cut ties with his family due to internal political strife, is her main investigator and Drakkweb surfer. While still Mutemba Ginzego he was his father’s head of secret service, and as Mutemba he puts that knowledge to good use. Farideh requested a quick sweep on the Leto. Under the radar, quick and easy, as to raise no red flags and get no eyes on them before the operation unfolds.
   The door to her office opens with a bare sound, and Mutemba enters. The man is striking by being exquisitely unremarkable, uncannily so. Average height, average build, slight belly, plain marble face almost to the point where he might be the archetype for the populace of New Johannesburg, and the desert planet Kurrekesh in general. Short cropped hair, three-day-shadow, simple business garb, and a soothing voice. If Mutemba came into a bar, murdered the barkeep and walked out, no one would remember him. Mutemba first came into her service when he needed shielding from his father, who was approaching the last leg of his life. Mutemba supported his younger brother taking over the throne since his older brother had more tyrannical aspirations than Mutemba was comfortable endorsing. When Mutemba’s vote went sideways he jumped to Trafalgar. Now that his older brother runs Kurrekesh, Mutemba is free to go about his own business, as long as it doesn’t interfere with his brother’s. Bad blood is bad for business. Farideh and Mutemba had grown quite fond of each other over the years, and the investigator decided to stay on Trafalgar and work for Farideh exclusively.
   “What have you got for me?” Farideh cuts to the chase before Mutemba is even in his seat.
   “This Leto is making you ansty.” There’s a hint of that New-JoBurg accent in Mutemba’s Common. He sits down with the grace and precision of an ancient EN *** court magister.
   “Then you know not to keep me waiting.”
   “I cannot keep you waiting for something that will never come.”
   “Do you really think now is the time for riddles?” It feels to Farideh like she’s being pulled around, clamped by her limbs and then pulled in all directions by MOS skiffs. Her mind feels even worse. Hundreds of strings tied to one part of one thought, tied together to larger thoughts, each pulling in their own direction.
   “It’s not a riddle, Ms. Farideh. I found nothing.”
   Farideh’s heart is in her throat, and her mind in her ass along with all the *** she’s been keeping in both. First a basic sweep finds nothing, then the Leto gives her nothing, and now her best investigator finds nothing. “There’s no such thing as nothing in the Known Galaxy. We have his DNA on file. I want to know where he went, where he was carded, where he was seen, where he drank, where and who he ***, how he started doing protection work, who he affiliated with before, where does he come from, and most of all - where the *** is he going. We have his DNA, so *** nothing does not *** exist!” she booms and the office rattles.
   “I must admit myself that I haven’t seen something like this in ages. There are skilled assassins and information traders across the Galaxy that have no profile, but they aren’t nomads. Stay in one place and you can secure your anonymity. During his time with Sunderland, at least, the Leto had moved about the Galaxy. We presume he moved before. I can be sure of one thing, and that’s that the Leto was never carded,” Mutemba offers his candid explanation to Farideh’s own fury, his lovely voice not helping it subside one bit.
   Whenever you land on a planet the local Authority will card your entrance, and get your DNA into their system. Faking the test or even slipping in with fake papers or invitations is possible, but expensive. There are other ways to get on-planet without anyone noticing, and those ways are undoubtedly familiar to someone like Sunderland. But the Leto isn’t new, he’s not some pup fresh out the kennel. Everyone leaves a *** trail. This just shows her that the Leto is good, exceptional even.
   “Was he incarcerated during that time? Didn’t get carded because he was dormant?”
   “Possible, but highly unlikely. I checked with my contacts in the main prison directory, and there were no signs of his DNA signature. That means he could have been in a dark-site, political asylum, or level 9.” Those were the types of prisons only reserved for the most dangerous individuals across the Known Galaxy. All traces of their incarceration are wiped, and they never see the outside of their cells.
   “The Leto is certainly army stock. That much is clear. Could he be a swap? Or an operative?”
   “I have to work the swap angle. From what I can tell no major army figures have disappeared or been discharged in recent years. The army lets the Authority do the heavy lifting. It’s peaceful for those ***. The Leto is most certainly not an operative.”
   Farideh first had the swap idea when she discerned the Leto’s army background. Maybe he was a bigshot from a corporate, private, or government army. Disgraced and discharged he took the Leto facade and is now working his way back in, or even working up a revenge plan. Men and their revenge plans. *** me and I’ll *** you back mentality, animal instincts, all bad for business. The Leto would work through the Syndicate and Authority to earn his stripes, or *** over his former employers. A long shot, just as long as him being an operative going deep undercover. A long shot, but nonetheless plausible. Which is why having nothing on him hurts even more than knowing the truth. “What about any previous employers? Pending contracts?” Mutemba shakes his head, that worried and apologetic look on his face.
   Farideh leans into her chair, becoming almost one with it. Like seeping into a safe haven where the entire Galaxy can go *** off. “I see him Mutemba. Can’t really explain it, but I see him. The Leto coming back like a nightmare, one day in the future. It’s like he’s haunting me right now, in living flesh. I see him. We won’t see the last of him, and I want to know why. Why the *** is Leto III, the Grand-Master of *** War, dead for ages now, haunting my *** life.”
   “The contacts Sunderland and the Leto have given us have all panned out. I have my men on them and the operation is progressing at a steady pace.” Mutemba is trying to pull Farideh out of her dark corner. “I don’t see Sunderland or the Leto hindering the operation in any way. Quite to the contrary, I believe they would be the first to mourn its failure. While I cannot neglect the enigma that is the Leto, I know the only way you’ll ever find out more about him is if he tells you that himself. I would wager that hasn’t worked out so far.”
Farideh shakes her head. “How do I get this out of my head, Mutemba?”
   “You don’t. Just live with it.”
   “And if I can’t?”
   “People come and go, Ms. Farideh. Plans come to fruition or fail miserably. But there will always be more people and more plans around the corner. Don’t forget this feeling, but live with it.”
   “I would wager you have someone living haunting you too?”
   Mutemba chuckles. “The most obvious one. My brother. Every day I think, will this be the one where he decides I am a threat rather than a willing non-participant in his reign on Kurrekesh?” He shrugs. “I ask myself that every morning, and then I go to work.”
“That’s the difference. You know who he is, where he is, and what he can do. I know nothing. Even *** worse than having a ghost at my heels. Ghosts have stories left behind.”
“Do you want me to continue the line of inquiry, Ms. Farideh? We will risk alerting some parties, but it can be done.” Mutemba said his piece, and it’s back to business.
“No. I’ll live with it, and keep a blaster under my pillow.”
Mutemba nods and heads out the office, leaving Farideh to her haunted existence. Just her and Leto III, Grand-Master of War, all alone again.

[close]

Chapter 35: GHOSTS OF THE DEAD

Spoiler

“I DON’T BELIEVE WE ever sat down for a meal like this before?” Demir observes in between bites of his now-usual faux-steak. He didn’t want to mess around with anything they would call traditional cuisine on Trafalgar. “It’s good to be out and about again. Can’t say I miss that room all too much.” Leto grumbles to himself and Demir recognizes that as his usual disgruntled acquiescence to the same notion. Unlike Demir, Leto is made to withstand anything, and they could have left him in that room for years; he would come out just the same as he entered.
   “Can we trust Mutemba?” Leto asks, cautious as always.
   “If you mean can we trust him to have our backs - no. If you mean can we trust him to do the job well - of course. He’s a top operative, skilled investigator, and one hell of a secret service agent.” Demir knows Mutemba from way back when, while the man was still in the employ of his father. Even then he was a formidable operative, considering the political constraints shackling him. Now, as a free agent in the employ of the most ruthless pirate in the Known Galaxy, Demir has no concerns he will do the job more than aptly.
   Leto scoffs. “It’s those kinds of people that will thrust a knife in your back first opportunity they get,” and Leto proceeds to eat his abundant faux-fish meal without even looking at Demir.
   “I can’t help but figure that little jibe comes from experience. I also can’t help but notice that the more time we spend together the more I find out which people you dislike, and no one so far even entertains the notion of having your limited affection.”
   “This is not the Galaxy I know. This is a shadow of what it once was.”
   “And you expected everything to stay so peachy and preachy like it did before the C? You didn’t even expect to be alive and now you’re *** on everything and everyone around you just because it’s not better than it was before.” Demir’s turn to sigh, only he does it loud enough which he knows will annoy Leto enough to look him in the eyes. “You’re fighting it, and you’re doing a *** job too.” Demir also lets out a sly smile.
        Leto doesn’t give him the time of day and just goes back to his meal.
        “Demir, what do you mean by fighting it?” Demir does his best, and also at the same time worst, impression of Leto’s booming voice. “Do you mean the fact that I am holding on to the past to such an extent that it clouds my judgement to the point where you have to set me straight every time? Is my hate which permeates my every choice, my disdain for the underbelly of society, or is it just my coddled *** upbringing during a time which I believe to be much better than your own that colors my mood? Tell me Demir, what do you think?”
        “I think you are being childish, as usual.”
        “And I think I’m *** right. Ever since you met with Farideh you’ve been hiding behind that army facade, veneer of professionalism, and it’s all crumbling. Did she get to you?” A much more friendly tone in Demir’s voice. “Or is it that you didn’t get to her that’s the problem? The fact that you’re nothing weighing on you, suffocating you. The fact that the truth buries you more than lying. The fact that you have to dwell down here instead of in your ivory tower.”
        “If there’s anyone who knows about ivory towers it must be you, Demir Sunderland.” And there it is, that little spite nugget I manage to bring out. The more he writhes the more I corrupt him. “The decadence of your early years must have been the envy of the entire Galaxy. What was it that made you decide to take up the mantle of a MOS? From what I could gather it was in direct spite of your father. A spoiled child then, and a spoiled child now. So don’t you dare presume to know what drives me, what brought me here, and how my life unfolded before I was ordained. This line of questioning is over,” Leto booms and returns his attention back to his meal.
        Not by a long shot. “True enough, the records of your life before you became Grand-Master of War had been wiped to preserve your image as an Immortal. If I was a gambling man, which I am, I would put my money on the fact that you grew up dead poor, or at least not nearly as rich as me. Mommy or daddy or both made you enter the army in order to pay for the bills they couldn’t afford themselves. You lived in either a slum, project housing, or middle-class instant pods they had back in the day. That would be the height of luxury I could see you in. That superior DNA got you far, and sure as the skies flow, no one knew how the *** you got that. So you decided to prove yourself over and over again, just to show everyone that it’s not your DNA that drives you, but you who drives your DNA. People think it’s that easy, like we’re being pulled around by the biological strings of our bodies, but you set out to prove them wrong.” Leto just keeps eating his meal, undeterred, until it’s finished. “Skies know you did, trying to prove all of them wrong. Now it’s one of the few things that you hold dear to your heart, that you proved them all wrong, and the more you show that to people the less they believe you. Must be grating, mustn’t it?”
        “Does all this psychological insight come from your years of study, or just that famous gut of yours which has landed you in more trouble over the years than even your *** ***?”
        Demir chuckles. Hearing Leto III utter the words *** *** in his massive voice that fills a room more than his body does is something to behold. The fact that Demir brought it out makes it all the more fun for him. “Not even my gut’s good enough for this. It’s my silver spoon upbringing that gives me all this psychological insight. Because, Leto, your cold demeanor, stoic facade, and even that little hint of malice behind your eyes, is nothing if not a reflection of my father. I know people like you, which is one more thing that doesn’t make you special. The reason why I know you want to show people that you’re more than just your DNA is because I’m doing the same. Now, given your years of life and insight, you must have deduced that yourself. Just as I’ve deduced that about you. That makes you even less special. You’re just like me, Leto. A hint of my father there, of course. Are you sure we’re not somehow related? The Reign didn’t splice your DNA around just to see what sticks.” Demir feigns open-mouthed realization. “Am I your son? Please tell me I am, so I can ditch my old man.”
        “Demir, is there a point to all this?” The eyes of Leto III wash over Demir like a cold shower after a night of hard drinking.
        “And there we are. You reverting the point back to the person throwing said point across the table at you. Instead of you recognizing the point you invalidate it by having the person in front of you reaffirm it, thereby putting it forward as their point and not yours to realize yourself.” Leto’s frown, stark and stern like a disappointed father, tells Demir more than words. Demir takes a deep breath. “The point to all this, Leto, is that we cannot work together if we don’t know the person we’re working with. We have a lot to do, and it won’t be easy. You know that full well.”
        “Ms. Farideh said much the same.”
        “But you’re not working with her, you’re working with me. We’re at a point now where we can’t turn back even if we wanted to. Like you’d ever want that, but still.” Leto, still somewhat begrudgingly, acknowledges the point. “We’re also at the point where we can fake being a complete unit, but faking won’t get us farther than this. That’s why I need to know who you are.”
A poignant pause breathes a steadfast stupor between them.
        “I was raised on Earth, actually. My parents were middle-class workers at an armament factory on Mars. They came home during the weekends, and I spent the rest of the time alone. We weren’t well-off by any stretch of the imagination, but we weren’t starving either. When my father suffered mod sickness we could no longer pay living expenses and I entered the academy on the fast track in order to earn money quickly. As I advanced up the ranks my parents and I grew apart steadily, since I have,” and Leto pauses, “had no siblings. When I became Grand-Mster of War the ties that bound me and my family were severed completely. During my years in the academy I scoured the database for any information as to how I came to have such advanced DNA. The only conclusion I ever came to was that it was absolute dumb luck of cosmic proportions. Dumb luck didn’t get me where I am, hard work and good use of it did. The reason I’m here is because I don’t want to see everything we built as a species crumble under the ambition of fools.”
        “You believe in the pre-C centralized government. So, after we finally put an end to the AIs you would install a new government with yourself in charge. Is that it?” With the conversation finally getting somewhere Demir actually feels delighted to talk shop.
        “I am not leadership material. I am war potential. There’s no place for me on a throne or in government. All I want is for humanity to realize its potential once more. No more petty squabbling, trivial skirmishes, and the pursuit of personal gain. If we align all mankind against the AIs, in a different way than we did the first time around, we can actually make a difference. We can finally win.” The enthusiasm in Leto’s voice comes as a welcome surprise. The boom therein warmer, the husk lighter, and a tang of hope shining through the cracks.
        “I must admit that makes me all warm and fuzzy inside. But let me tell you exactly what’s going to happen after the AIs are gone.” The shine now gone, Leto listens from behind his stark walls. “Everyone and their dead grandmother is going to take credit for getting rid of them. Any and all alliances forged until then will be shattered, and every party will start fighting for both the glory and the scraps. First thing they’ll fight over will be your cloning station. Imagine, immortality right in front of their noses. Even if we trash the thing they’ll still fight over the scraps, the mere potential of cloning will be a siren song for any would-be ruler of the newly-freed Known Galaxy.” Leto’s frown turns even more sour. Maybe because of Demir’s interpretation of the future, or because he just shat on Leto’s affectionate confession. “The problem with that whole idea of being better and doing better is that there is no better. Pre-C everything was kept tightly under control. The Reign barely let the people breathe. Everything was done in the name of mankind’s perseverance and persistence through the Galaxy, and even beyond. But this, this Known Galaxy, now and in the future - this is the truth. This is who we are, Leto. You suffer from a savior complex, probably because you did it once before. But there's no saving us, because we’re right where we’re supposed to be. Save us all you want, but don’t expect anything better from mankind.”
        “Is this truly what you believe?” Leto cuts in immediately, even though Demir thought he would take a pause and let the tension fester.
        “It’s what I know.”
        “Then why even fight for mankind? Why are you even here?”
        Something about tables and the turning thereof which always drives me insane. “Why don’t you just make me tell you coordinates to the cloaked sector and be done with me? Maybe even kill me yourself, and go your own way. Fashion your own revolution. Work towards the betterment of mankind. Instead you sift through the dregs of mankind you so obviously despise. Heading headlong into a criminal enterprise that will span entire planets and sectors. Against your own nature, better judgement, and even moral code.”
        “I don’t know what the AIs are syphoning from me when I die. If they punch through to my memories, despite my trained memory retention and deletion protocols, they might find something about you and my knowledge of the sector. They might come at mankind harder, decide to push forward earlier. It’s my wager that they are syphoning psychological data to counteract our maneuvers on a conscious and subconscious level. To literally build themselves up to be more human than humans, and to crush us on every turn. But if they dig deeper and they become aware of our enterprise, then we might just be doomed before we even started.”
        “And there it is again.”
        “Please, Demir, no more.”
        “No, there’s always more. There’s your problem. You’re trying to defeat the most logical entities in the Known Galaxy through logic. You know what’s the downfall for a perfect, pristine, glass table? A rock. It was mankind that beat the AIs in the first place. Making yourself more like them, Leto, is setting us all up for failure. Embrace the chaos, embrace the now, and embrace mankind as it is. That is the only way we will succeed. Wild and free. Uncompromising and stupid beyond belief. Savage in our greed, malicious in our perseverance, and above all else, dangerous when we’re pushed into a corner.” Demir takes the opportunity or a theatrical pause, and enjoys it thoroughly. Tables and the turning thereof. Tables and turning. “Don’t expect better from us. Use what we have, and we will win.”

[close]

[B.K.]

And here we are.
A seven chapter drop. From 36 to 42. Just a bit over 30 pages in writing. I sat down, channeled my inner Eiichiro Oda, and pulled a full One Piece. This is the end of the first part of the series. I can put a great turning point here and call this saga closed.
Keeping with the Oda style a time skip comes next. In these chapters I managed to pull off a lore dump with some transverse jumping, and a cheeky little Sun Tzu quote at the very end. After the time skip we'll have some new stories for all the main characters, along with some new and familiar faces. I have parts of the story all laid out in my head, so I'll see where it takes me. Maybe it will happen soon, and I put something to paper. However, always remember that I am, after all, a lazy ***.
Cheers and thanks for reading!


Chapter 36: IN MOTION

Spoiler

IF THERE’S ANYTHING Siona hates more than people groveling, it’s meetings. One could not be farther removed from the other, but both leave a distinct cadaver taste in her mouth. The boredom and tedium of both are nothing to chuckle at either. And Siona knows how both of them end - with a bullet to the head. A real bullet in the former, and fictional one for herself in the latter case. But a final meeting is the least she has to attend if the operation is about to be set in motion. Farideh wants her here, and it gives her enough delight that Sunderland doesn’t, so that will make it more bearable.
   Siona zones out during the introduction part where Farideh, Sunderland, Mutemba, and Salvatore - the head of Farideh’s armed forces - exchange operational banter and wave their dicks and clits around to show who’s doing more, who knows more, and who gets more. All the while the Leto stands unmoving like a mountain behind Sunderland, seemingly lost in thought just like her. Siona knows that he’s all eyes and ears. It’s a strange sensation to Siona, seeing the Leto like that, or in general. Unlike other washouts who wear the face and frame, this one has an aura to him. That veneer of confidence, that quick twitch of his muscles and languid precision of his movements. She doesn’t feel the same when she sees Sunderland, but when she sees the Leto she wants to fly against him. Face him in the Pits. Skiff versus skiff, MOS versus MOS, because Sunderland might be her confirmed adversary in the Known Galaxy, but the Leto feels more like a MOS than the rich washed-up flyboy.
   Once they’re all finally finished doling out the menial tasks and coordinating minute details the major part of the operation, the *** operation itself, can be planned out. And not a skies-damned moment too soon.
   “Let’s go over the meeting with the Authority first,” Farideh kicks it off. “I will initiate contact with Superior Auburn. Mutemba has confirmed that he is the main contact for the Cardinal. With me initiating the contact the legitimacy of the meeting will be established. Any objections?” A collective nod from the whole crew, Siona included. “Any questions?”
   “One thing came to mind,” Sunderland moves in quick and deadly. “I want to be present during that conversation.”
   “And why is that?” Siona can guess from Farideh’s tone that she’s snarling on the inside. The boss is good at keeping her professional demeanor, but her outbursts have gone up quite a bit since Melkior and all this *** started flying about.
   “Because of your incessant fuckery, and my own safety. You’ve been poking your nose in my business to the point where I can’t be so sure you’re not going to *** me over. Just hand me to the Authority and offer to take down the Syndicate yourself. Sure, it will take you longer, and it will be messier, but Trafalgar would reap all the spoils. Who’s to say that in the end you won’t just end up a double-crossing ***. All I want is some reassurance. I’ll listen in, that’s all.”
   “You think offending me at this stage is going to do you any favors?” A real snarl from Farideh now. Even Siona’s caught a bit off guard. Sunderland was keeping low and nice, close to the ground for the entirety of his stay on Trafalgar. Siona even saw him once, docile and compliant. She’s just about sure now that it was all a show. Just about sure.
   “We’ve offended and berated each other since the day we set foot on the Galaxy stage. You, me, Siona, Trafalgar, the Authority, the Syndicate, and every other *** out there. The time for pleasantries is over, Farideh. I will take every precaution so you don’t *** me over. Is that clear?”
   “As will I, Sunderland. You can listen in. But in return your Leto won’t be present at the meeting with the Authority.”
   “That’s a big ask with little return value for me.”
   “Siona will also not be present at the meeting.” And that bucks Siona out of her chair. She wants to object, and do so loudly, but she isn’t one to not learn from her previous mistakes. “The request will be to meet with Superior Auburn himself. That’s a tall order in of itself. It is paramount that we appear genuine, and conduct ourselves as such during the meeting. The only parties present will be the Superior, Sunderland and myself, as well as the Cardinal and the nukes. Siona will be flying her skiff for protection, and if your Leto is competent enough he can be on call from your,” and Farideh scoffs, “Baby. Both armed forces, Authority and ours, will be within shooting range, but respectfully so. We need to play this right. So while you, Sunderland, are busy thinking of ways I might *** you over, I’m actually taking this seriously.” That has to sting. To Siona’s delight.
   Sunderland takes a moment to himself, nods at nothing in particular, and then gives that slight apologetic nod. “Indeed. A change in tone is in order. I accept.”
“Good. We will conduct the meeting in the Daffodil system.”
   Perfect move. Siona thinks to herself. The Daffodil system was a thriving jungle biome system with two green planets. A wildlife resort for hunters. After the C the sun blew and took both the planets with it. Now it’s nothing but a pile of asteroids moved about by residual gravity wells and swelling. The movement of the asteroids provides perfect cover and minimizes the ambush potential. Plus, Daffodil is nicely balanced in terms of arrival time between Trafalgar and Saturn, where the Authority has their headquarters. Neither can enter the system before the meeting if it’s planned right, and jacking up ambush spots isn’t as easy either. Daffodil also has one hyperspace point so both parties can keep an eye out for invasions. So far this thing looks damn solid. The other members of the meeting agree with collective nods.
   “Security on our side will be handled by Siona and her crew. Leto as backup.”
   “Baby has to be primed for flying. We’ll be going straight to Nazareth to handle the takeover there.”
   “Of course. Mutemba has inserted some of his subordinates within the more stable planets and systems in the Cardinal’s operation. Meanwhile, Salvatore will coordinate with Sunderland to take over the crumbling parts of the Cardinal’s operation. We will focus on the Paladins first. Destroy them from within just like they planned with the Syndicate. We will balance our offensive strikes with internal strife caused by Mutemba and his people. This transition needs to be seamless, so we can’t go in guns blazing. If the Syndicate catches a whiff of this, they will burrow and wall themselves off from anything that even has the slightest stink of the Cardinal on it. Nazareth is their head of operations. When the others have crumbled, Sunderland can insert himself as the new head of the Cardinal’s operation, and no one within the Syndicate will be the wiser.”
   “Question.” Sunderland even raises his hand like he’s at school. Farideh lets out a deep sigh. “Do I have to wear the robe?” That one actually garners him a chuckle or two. Even Siona’s tempted.
   “Now this all sounds simple and clean, but we won’t know *** until we have boots on the ground. The main thing is that we keep our deal. The Authority will wait to convict the Cardinal after we have taken over his operation. Sunderland will then step in as the legitimate head. So,” Farideh addresses Sunderland directly, mean-mugging him all the way, “you’ll have to work on your angle alone. The Syndicate needs to embrace you, or this is all over. You gave your word that this will not blow back on Trafalgar. So you better do it right, because, Sunderland, I don’t want to be *** over either. Once Sunderland is in, we can retreat. The deal is done, and all parties have fulfilled their end of the agreement. However, the Galaxy wasn’t built on trust. It wasn’t built on mutual respect either, but on contingency plans, safeguards, and assurances that *** over one another isn’t beneficial. That’s why we’re lucky to have both of you here.” Farideh gestures towards Sunderland, and then Siona, leaving her with a prickling chill down her spine. “Before I even start, let me make it abundantly clear that if anyone interrupts me you’re going to the Tombs, and I’ll just vent the Carindal and let this all go to ***.” An even colder chill down Siona’s spine festers. “You two will exchange override codes for your skiffs.” And now Siona’s completely cold, from the inside out. “If any party bails on the deal, the override codes get sent to the ones *** over.”
   “Like hell we will,” Sunderland vents through gritted teeth.
   “I agree,” Siona concurs, to her own amazement.
   “Fight it all you want, but there is nothing else to wager, nothing else to give. I sure as the *** skies won’t wager my most precious possession. So we will compromise. We put both of your skiffs on the table.”
   “Never going to happen,” Sunderland snarls out and Siona silently agrees.
   “Fine then. We go to war, and both of you can spend all that time in the Tombs. When someone comes to get you after it’s over, you better hope it’s Trafalgar forces and not the Authority.”
Siona’s *** boiling. With override codes a person can initiate a full control transfer. While she doubts Farideh would ever let Sunderland have her Cain, the mere fact that the codes are out there would gnaw on her every day. That feeling that at some point she wouldn’t be in control of her skiff. That Siona would lose all she has built.
   “Who would be in charge of the codes?” Siona’s actually glad Sunderland is taking point.
   “The Leto.”
   All hell breaks loose like a hyperspace storm. Siona is out of her chair before she knows it, and Sunderland is almost off the wall. Farideh motions to Mutemba and Salvatore who hold each of them down. The Leto still unmoving, just looking at them both, silent and still, taunting them even harder than if talked at all. Both Siona and Sunderland are back in their places, fuming from the ears.
   “Now that we’re all back to being sane on the matter. Leto, I believe you to be more than just a hired hand. You’re also a man of principle. That I’m certain of. Even though you fly with Sunderland, I believe you will be impartial in this decision. If either of us breaks the deal, you will hand the override codes to the wounded party. Do I have your word?”
   “As the Grand-Master of War, I swear on my name.”
   “***,” Siona flares up.
   “Good enough for me,” Farideh gives her the cold shoulder with a flare.
   “Not good enough for me. What’s to stop him from just handing the codes over to Sunderland once this is over?”
   “After we have each done our parts the codes will be returned. Leto, you assure me of that?”
   “I do,” the Leto assures everyone, as stoic as ever.
   “***,” Siona can’t help it, putting her Cain on the line is too much.
   “Your objections are noted, as are yours, Sunderland. I can tell you right now they don’t mean ***. We go on. We do this, and we do this well. While we’re by no means allies, all of you know full well that this can’t work if any one link cracks. So get your heads out of your asses and let’s go *** up someone else so we don’t end up getting ***. Shall we?”
The talks go on deep into the night. Defense positions, attack patterns, information pathways, subterfuge lines, offensive takeovers, number of troops deployed, assault routes, trade embargoes, false information leaks, personnel changes; all that in the name of the bigger picture. That bigger picture that lets them all get out of this unscathed, and better than they were before. Farideh always tells Siona that there’s a fine line between insanity and genius, and Siona can’t tell which is which the longer the talks go on.
   The only thing she can think about, and the only thing she sees Sunderland has in the back of his head too, is that their skiffs might end up in the hands of the person they hate. That part is genius. Siona admits to herself. The rest sounds like *** insanity.
   Isn’t that what it means being a MOS. Taking insanity and making it *** work.
   Siona knows that this plan better work, insanity or not, or it’s all their asses on the line.

[close]

Chapter 37: INSANITY

Spoiler

“WE COULD JUST TAKE both the skiffs and bolt it. Be off-planet and leave this entire mess behind,” Sunderland blurts out while pacing about the room. His incessant rambling has become somewhat of a staple for the past couple of days, while the details of the operation came to the final stages. The meeting is set for tomorrow, and everything is going according to plan. Which is why Leto has trouble fathoming Sunderland’s apprehension. “You have the override codes. I take my Baby, and you can have that ***’s Cain.”
   “I do hope you are aware of the multitude of reasons why that would not work.”
   “No, no, you see.” Sunderland starts gesticulating even more, pointing fingers, waving about like a man on fire. “Ninety percent of the time there isn’t a thing in the Galaxy that would stop that *** from getting her Cain back. She’d be on us like grav sickness. But if we bail now, Trafalgar will have more dicks up their ass than a Malakhaar hooker on the day the miners come in. Farideh won’t be able to spare her most valuable asset, and the *** would stay hardlocked in the sector. All we have to do is make it to the hangars. By now the troops all know us, so I’m sure we could sweet talk our way in.”
   “That would necessitate that I use the override codes for my own gain, which I will not,” Leto makes sure Sunderland recognizes his earnest standpoint.
   “Why? Because you gave your word. *** me dead, will you get over yourself.”
   “For a person I heard uttering the phrase and what is a man without his word, you do expect others to go back on theirs often enough.”
   “Don’t lecture me on hypocrisy. I mastered that a long time ago. No word in the entire *** Galaxy means anything. A word is only as good as the bounty it brings in. Do you even have the slightest idea how many credits we could rake in by selling the Cain? Not only an original MOS design, but one from Siona of the Skies. We could finance our own enterprise, and do this our way. While the Authority is busy with Trafalgar, and while the Syndicate is busy dealing with the Cardinal fallout, we use that capital to finance our own information pipeline. Cut the Syndicate straight out the business, clean, quick, and we don’t owe anyone ***.”
   “What is it that frightens you so?” Leto has to get to the bottom of this before Sunderland is left alone with Farideh and the Superior. He did extremely well before the plan had finally come to fruition, and Leto noticed he even reveled in it. Leto remembers a time when he felt the pang of dismay before an operation. The lingering doubt festering until it was like a black mist coiling around his thoughts. The possibility of defeat far outweighing that of success. His mind a blank canvas for all the murky potential of loss.
   “My gut,” Sunderland blurts out like that is supposed to mean something. Leto gives him the look which requests elaboration, since he has no interest in indulging the man for too long. “I get this gut feeling before a run. It’s telling me this *** is going to fly skyward faster than a fried flux capacitor. My gut’s never been wrong.”
   “That’s not the only thing, is it?”
Sunderland takes a deep breath, calms down, and finally takes a seat before Leto has to make him. His scuttling about can be tiring. “Do you understand that when this is done we, well I, will be running the Syndicate. Sure enough I’ll have you, but this is the Syndicate we’re talking about. One of the biggest crime organizations in the Known Galaxy. We did well with Warhorse’s little band of *** misfits. But this is a whole other level. Even this plan, this *** plan has too many moving parts. We’re balancing plates on our dicks here, Leto.”
   “Demir, it was you who concocted this *** plan in the first place.”
   “That’s how I know it’s ***. Do you really think I’m capable of pulling this off? I fly, Leto. That’s what I do. I don’t *** run criminal enterprises that span the *** Galaxy.”
Leto knows this frustration all too well. The day the Tarsians were annihilated, and the AIs were barreling down. All his careful planning, all his effort and all his will, just out the hatch. Since Leto knows this feeling all too well, he also knows exactly what to do.
   “Demir, if there is anything I believe you are capable of, it is adapting. I don’t know anyone better at it than you. So, let me just say this - shut up and do your *** part.”

***

   “You know I don’t like being on the sidelines,” Siona’s been nagging her for days now. Farideh can barely get her thoughts straight with all her whining.
   “Tell me, are you better with a gun or with your skiff?”
   “That’s a stupid question.”
   “Stupid *** begets stupid ***. Now, I want you to *** realize that the future of Trafalgar rests on this deal. If I thought I needed you next to me with a gun, you would be next to me with a gun. But the Cain on standby is a show of force. And the Cain needs its *** pilot. So, for the love of the skies, will you stop whining? I’m starting to miss Sunderland.” Farideh massages her temples.
   “That’s low. What if he *** us over?”
   “And how exactly will he do that, alone in that room with me and the Superior? Unarmed and without backup. Is he going to order his Leto to cut through our defense and the Authority’s. Alone. Swipe the Superior from under our noses and hold him for ransom. His Leto’s a delusional *** who’s in it for the long run, but he’s not that good. Sunderland will do his part, and we will do ours. We all fry if this goes bad.”
   “That’s exactly what I’m worried about - it going bad.” The undertone of genuine concern puts Farideh off guard. Siona isn’t used to dealing with too many moving parts. You point her in the right direction and she will decimate her way through. But this, all this scheming and planning, Farideh knows she’s out of her element.
   “The meeting’s tomorrow. We went over all the specifics to the point where my brain is devoid of anything else. I know the *** coordinates of every ship we’ll have out there, and all the numbers of every force we have stationed on each planet. My head is just numbers and names, Siona. I got this. Now, please, do whatever you need to in order to calm down. Give your gut a rest, and trust me.”
   “I always do, Farideh. I don’t trust anyone else, that’s the problem.”
   Siona sighs, gives a weary smile, and makes her way out of Farideh’s office. She finally has time to mull through all the numbers, the names, and all the moving parts over and over again until she falls asleep in her chair.

***

   Leto connects his comms to the rest of the Trafalgar fleet. The agreement is that all parties enter the meeting flying light. Baby and Cain make up the spearhead, and the rest fly backup. Six to a MOS skiff, dispersed formation. They all have their grav plates set to accommodate the shifting asteroid field. Transponders are on just to make sure the count is accurate, but the Trafalgar skiffs keep out of sight. Fourteen skiffs to a party. On one side are fourteen Authority skiffs, pristine and well-kept, armed and ready. On the other side the ragtag band of miscellaneous parts grafted together by people who live and breathe for their craft. Leto knows which side would win, he can see it all in his mind. And he is glad to be on the winning one.
   Farideh, Sunderland, the Cardinal, and the nukes are all loaded onto the mothballed freighter that is using minimal power just for shields against the asteroids. That is the meeting location. Everyone inside will have their comms cut off as soon as the meeting starts. That is also part of the deal. No outside intrusions. When everything is over, Farideh will turn off the frequency jammer.
   The Authority has their skiffs in circle formation around the perimeter of the hyperspace jump point, making sure no reinforcements can ambush them. All the while Farideh has her people patrolling hyperspace and nearby sectors to make sure no reinforcements can ambush them. It is all a game of being where you think the enemy is going to be, and making sure the enemy does not know where you are. The mistrust is as palpable as the sweat bubbling between Leto’s palms and the control wheel. It has been so long since he piloted a skiff like this. Sunderland knows his craft, that much is beyond a doubt. Leto could cut through all of them in this skiff, and if it comes to that he will not let Sunderland die. His life is paramount, and the rest can go to hell.
   Leto recognizes the potential for betrayal more and more with every passing day. The singular goals of people across the Galaxy savagely pulling fate in their own direction, with complete abandon and disregard. He wishes he could hear the meeting. He wishes he could alleviate the sweat making his hands slick and the grip of the wheel wet.
   Leto wishes this could all just be easier.
   But most of all he wishes someone would just *** believe him.

***

   The Superior stands before them, and probably despite his own better judgment, he is alone. Quite a short man, stocky even, with amazingly short arms and no neck to speak of. His bald head shimmers under the artificial light inside the freighter. His bushy mustache twitches with every suspicious move of his lips, as he walks about the central cargo space, eyeing everything with a degree of mistrust. Like at any moment armed forces are going to crawl out the vents, jump from hidden compartments underneath the floorboards. Knives in the dark, blasters on standby, and nothing inside the space but the last good deal gone wrong. The Superior’s eyes may be full of doubt, but behind their pale blue glaze lies the shimmer of a discerning man. Someone who knows how to judge a situation.
   “Satisfied with the premises, Superior?” Farideh asks to stop him from pacing about the place and making her skysick.
   “Oh, I know neither of you are stupid. The only reason I am here is because I know that you are not stupid,” the Superior has a languid tone in his impeccable Common fit for the pre-C royal courts. “Quite to the contrary, it is rare that such industrious and crafty people, each in their own craft, assemble like this. And I hate to be the last one invited to these kinds of gatherings. I quite like being the first in the room. So, to be completely honest, I’ve had worse company in bigger dumps than this. I’m just waiting for my men to confirm that all the scans are clean and we can proceed.” The Superior tends to his comms for a brief moment. “And there it is. You are free to cut the comms, Ms. Farideh.”
   Farideh nods, cuts all comms to the outside, and the meeting can officially start. It almost feels like parliament. Like they’re taking turns having the floor. All that’s missing is some token they carry to know who can talk ,and who can shut the *** up.
   “Since the cliffnotes brought you all the way out here, I believe the full deal will be worth your time. If I’m known for anything, it’s for not wasting a good meeting.”
   “Indeed. While I would relish the thought of hunting you down like the vermin you are, my innate pragmatism always gets the better of me. However, Trafalgar is much farther away than any Syndicate turf. And if there’s anything I hate more than miscreant pirates, it’s organized crime under my *** nose. That’s why I put up with the Cardinal for so long, but I have to say the shackles suit him much better than my patronage.” Farideh tries her best to notice any contempt in the Superior’s voice. Any sign of his expressed hate, but there is none. That makes him all the more dangerous. He doesn’t hate pirates or crime because of any emotion, but because they interfere with his pragmatic view of a perfect Galaxy. Crime must be eliminated not because he believes it to be wrong, but because it offsets the balance of his system. The savagery with which he would approach Trafalgar’s extermination would be devastating. Given any chance to eradicate any crime, and the Superior would cut through it like a viroblade. Politics, treaties, and public opinion keep him shackled, but Farideh has seen Superior Auburn in action when given the chance. That’s the main reason she’s even here.
   Sunderland stands pensive and riveted to the floor, next to the shackled and gagged Cardinal on his knees. The last thing they need is his prattle. Never let your bargaining chips speak. Farideh holds the briefcase with the most advanced model of nukes they could procure, no larger than water bottles. When linked to a detonation harness, the nuclear yield is the stuff of legend. Even to this day, thousands of years of advancement later, and nuclear power is still used. Only now, instead of providing power, it's only value lies within the capacity for mass atrocities.
   “I have here six nuclear warheads,” and Farideh shows the Superior the briefcase with a flourish. “That way you can pin Melkior on him. But not before we insert Demir Sunderland into the Syndicate fold and he takes over the Cardinal’s operation.”
   “I can get behind pinning Melkior on someone, Ms. Farideh. My first choice would be Trafalgar, but I’m aware you know that already. You wouldn’t be here otherwise. So, do tell me why I should pin such a heinous crime on one of my operatives, and let someone like Demir-***-Sunderland run the Syndicate? The Cardinal has proven to be valuable.” The Superior shrugs. “I don’t see any reason for changing operatives this late in the game. Do you?”
   “I do,” Sunderland steps in. “The Cardinal wants his own turf after he’s done with the Syndicate. His own little slice of the Galaxy to build his EN *** commune. How long do you think he’ll be satiated by that, and let alone what’s to stop him from harnessing the power he has once he takes over the Syndicate? Now, I believe you promised him Trafalgar. He gets rid of the Syndicate, and in the process when you get rid of Trafalgar he gets to keep it. Amazing play, but the fact that the Cardinal would still be here has to leave a sour taste in your mouth.”
   “It does, so tell me how you would propose to clean it.”
   “I already have my hooks in the Cardinal’s flock. Give the people a taste of luxury, and they’ll want to keep it. I can take over his Syndicate operation without them even noticing. I can work my way through the ranks and bring the entire operation down, and it wouldn’t even require your generous armament stipend. That would let the Authority keep its hands clean of the matter. I would make sure the Syndicate goes down. That’s first. Second, I don’t want any sector for myself, any haven, any part of the Galaxy. What I want is to be deleted from the Authority mainframe. I want my clean slate.”
   The Superior cocks his head at a weird angle, and bobs up and down, like he’s thinking, but not quite. Closed eyes and all. “And what do you want, Ms. Farideh?”
   “Trafalgar will aid in the takeover of the Syndicate operation. We will also provide you with an opportunity to go after the Church of Man. The Cardinal has contacts there, and once Sunderland takes over his operation those contacts will be ours. We will initiate arms trade with the COM to justify not only a blockade, but an all-out assault on their sector. The Authority will be rid of the Syndicate and the COM, and all I ask for in return is that you abstain from blockades or assaults on Trafalgar. We can still hunt each other out in the open. I don’t expect you to turn a blind eye to my business. But I don’t want a war. Trafalgar gets passed by when all this *** goes down.”
   Superior Auburn puts his chin in his hand, muses to himself with a little chuckle here and there. “I must say, in all my years as the Superior I have rarely had someone suck my *** and lick my *** to the extent that both of you are doing. I don’t know if this is because you sincerely hate the Cardinal and the COM, and want to ruin them, or you are really afraid of me. Both, maybe?” The Superior’s menacing grin finally betrays his bestial nature.
   “The Authority has lost a lot of cred in the Galaxy after Melkior. We know you need a win. You’re like a hungry whorbeast, Superior. It’s only smart not to get in your way when you’re ravenous. I’ll do anything for my people, and I believe Sunderland will do anything to save his ass.”
   “Oh, I love my ass.”
   “There is only one thing left.” There always is. Farideh thinks to herself while the Superior puts his hands behind his back and paces closer to them. “How do we ensure your compliance with the deal?”
   “It’s not our compliance I’m worried about, Superior, but yours. Considering you have the most to gain, I have taken precautions to make sure your end of the deal is held up. I’m recording all of this. The Superior of the Authority meeting with two of the Galaxy’s most known criminals. That will undoubtedly cause some problems for you down the line. No matter if the deal is made or not. Just you being here plants the seed of doubt. And I know how much you love your position.”
   “Almost as much as I love my ass,” Sunderland cuts in with a childish jibe, but at least it’s on point. The Superior takes more time to think.
   “True. I wouldn’t have expected less from the Pirate Queen. I was just trying to bake my cake and eat it too.” Superior Auburn looks them both in the eyes. “You have a deal. Just delete that recording as a show of good faith.” His outstretched hand beckons their own.
   A shake of hands and the deal is made. It’s all going according to *** plan.
   The ship rocks violently, sending everyone inside tumbling around like cargo. As soon as they’re on their feet it rocks again.
   “What the *** is going on?” Sunderland blares. “This isn’t an asteroid crash.”
   “Turn off the comms jammer,” Superior Auburn orders like Farideh’s one of his lackeys.
   “Everyone just keep calm,” she tells them all while going insane on the inside herself. The ship rocks again, even worse now. Emergency protocols are engaged. Everything turns dark and is awash with flaring red a moment later. “***,” Farideh curses at no one and everything in particular. She turns off the jammer. “Siona, what’s going on?”
   “Farideh, it’s a mess. We need to get out of here.” Farideh can hear the clatter and boom of combat noise in the background.
   “What happened? Siona, what’s going on?” On the other side the Superior is conversing with his own men.
   “They came out of nowhere. Farideh, they didn’t use the point. They came up right behind us, they blew through hyperspace. Farideh, this is ***. We need to get out.”
   Farideh tries desperately to wrap her head around everything, but it’s not working. She can see the Superior doused over with concern, and Sunderland on his private little chat with his Leto going crazy next to the Cardinal who just sits there, shackled and gagged. The Cardinal’s eyes are more telling than his open mouth would be. He’s telling her - you will pay.
   “There’s a *** cruiser in the system. Is this your *** doing, Farideh?” The Superior pulls her out of her own inner hell.
   “How the *** would I push a *** cruiser through? You have the point locked down!”
   “My men tell me they didn’t use the *** point. What the *** is going on here?”
   All of their comms break down at the same moment. Radio silence. Not a peep, except for the alarm inside the freighter.
   Then the message comes through the comms, distorted at first, wild a bit later, and then a spine-chilling cold demand.
   “We want the Cardinal.”

***

   Time and space distort at first, congeal into themselves, fall apart like a mirror, crack and hum as they bend around each other, and finally break open and implode. A blinding flash erupts, and a second later, when Leto squints his eyes open, a cruiser of unknown design is right there. Right there inside the sector they so meticulously fenced off, guarded and patrolled. The hyperspoince point far in the distance, and the cruiser close enough for Leto to smell the exhaust fumes. Authority patrol still at the jump point. No one the wiser.
   At least not until the cruiser starts firing.
   Pulse blasts shoot from the forward cannons and dissipate against the freighter’s shield. Leto recognizes a warning shot, and then the following consecutive warning shots while the comms are turned on and the chatter starts. Leto mutes the rest and focuses on Sunderland.
   “Tell me the Authority didn’t *** us?” Not so much a question as much as a premonition. But Leto can’t confirm it.
   “It is a cruiser of unknown design. Considering it is firing on the freighter with the Superior inside I highly doubt it is an Authority prototype.” The cruiser itself is slick, angular, with a sharp nose, clean lines, barely exposed upper deck, unmanned turrets that protrude from the hull, small and hard to hit, probably a proximity shield that’s hard to puncture and even harder to dissipate from the outside. With the firepower he has available it is unlikely he could break through the shield with any ease. Leto judges the only weak spot to be the rear thrusters, which are wide and tough. The entire cruiser looks like a spearhead. It is undoubtedly quick, agile even for its size, and Leto can’t help but wonder if it is carrying smaller crafts and manned skiffs. He has to take everything into consideration if he is to engage. Judging by the continued fire on the freighter, he might just have to, and soon.
   “How did it *** get past the patrols?”
   “It didn’t come in through the point. It burst through hyperspace and came up behind us. Demir, I have heard of this. This is pre-C technology, highly volatile and dangerous.” Leto swallows his own words, the images of his fellow Immortals assembled to hear the words of their peer Hephestus.
   The comms are then cut off, just like Leto’s recollections.
   “We want the Cardinal,” a half-human-half-mechanical voice beckons them all. “Usher him into the escape pod, and we will leave the freighter intact. Once he is on board you will be given access to the hyperspace jump point. Resist, and you will be slaughtered. We are the Sons of Hephestus, and such is our decree.”
   Leto feels a surge of anger like he hasn’t felt since the days he piloted his ship against the Khromnian uprising, since he flew to the Outer Reaches, since he quelled Magnolia-Tarsia dispute, and let alone since he faced the AIs.
   Leto III, Grand-Master of War, punches in the override codes for Baby, and engages the weapons system. He flies straight for the cruiser.

***

   Siona can’t really believe her eyes. Not just that the *** cruiser comes out of nowhere. Then the fact that she can’t explain *** to Farideh before the comms are cut off. Next thing is the voice - skies be damned, that mechanical voice - that tells them they want the *** Cardinal. And now, above all that ***, the *** that tops it all off, the Leto is hightailing it into the *** cruiser. All of her people are cut off. There’s no way to issue orders, to assume formations, or to formulate a plan. Farideh is alone, while Farideh and those *** bastards are inside that drifting coffin. The *** in the cruiser want the Cardinal, and Siona would bet her Cain on the fact that Farideh will not hand him over lightly. The entire situation is ***, and Siona is struck dumb, stuck in place like a statue. Neither she nor her Cain are moving, and she’s just watching the cruiser shoot at the mothballed freighter.
   But above all that, above everything else, she’s stuck watching the Leto bolt it into the *** cruiser like a maniac.
   Siona shakes it off, plunges the overdrive capacitor into the control panel, and engages all weapons systems. She starts the proximity comm protocol, and if she can pinpoint any frequency close by she can open a private channel. Choppy transmission, wavey voice reconstruction, and it hurts her ears worse than an ESP burst. But she has someone she wants to talk to.
   Siona bolts it into the *** cruiser.

***

   “We give them the Cardinal, and they’ll blow us to the Outer Reaches. You know that as well as I do,” Farideh tries to take control of the situation. Superior Auburn on one side wants to hand the Cardinal over as quickly as possible, and be out of this system and behind his cushy desk. On the other side is Demir-***-Sunderland who wants our forces to combine and form a protective barrier between the freighter and the cruiser; without comms no less. And then there’s Farideh, who just wants to *** wait for a second and start negotiations. “They won’t blow the freighter with the Cardinal here. We give that away and we lose our only bargaining chip.”
   “Didn’t you hear them?” The Superior states the obvious, clearly afraid since he’s not in control.
   “Everyone heard them, Superior. That’s not the issue. The issue is that I don’t believe them.”
   “Who even are these ***? Sons of Hephestus, what is it with the *** names already,” Sunderland asks a valid question, and murmurs the second part mostly to himself. Farideh takes a look at the Cardinal, his eyes still speaking of payment that will be made.
   “I have no *** clue. That’s the issue here. We can’t properly assess the danger, since we have no idea what the danger actually is.” And that’s where the Superior’s fear lies - the unknown. “They burst in here without using the point and with a full *** cruiser, no less. I say we give into their demands, and hope they honor their word.”
   “Give into their demands, and *** hope they honor their *** word!” Farideh is all but at the edge of her composure.
   “Let’s all take a step back and maybe we ask the person who obviously knows more than we do. How about we ungag the Cardinal?” Sunderland’s idea puts Farideh back on track, just like a cold shower.
   Farideh begrudgingly removes the Cardinal’s gag, half expecting him to curse her until the skies fall down, half hoping he would tell them everything because if there’s anything the Cardinal loves in this Universe, it’s himself. “Give me a good reason and this won’t go back in your mouth,” she lets the old man know just where he stands.
   “I believe you should listen to the Superior,” the Cardinal’s voice booms over the muffled sound of the alarm. It’s wasting what little power it has to function, and soon the only noise left will be that of the barrage from the cruiser, and the damned flickering red light.
   “Of course you would believe that. You would also promise us these Sons of Hephestus won’t shoot us down once we hand you over. What is man without his word, after all?” Farideh refrains from kicking the Cardinal in the teeth.
   “You played your hands, all of you. The cards are on the table, and my hand is better than yours. You see…” The Cardinal stands up, his hands still shackled in front of him, so he has to awkwardly push himself and grind up the wall he’s leaned on. “My flock have known I would be leaving them for a while now. Inserting yourself into my operation is only worth the credits you are ready to dish out, and not your armed forces. You will find all my bases empty, and me people all about, like a good flock, a free flock. Some will follow in my footsteps, and others won’t. I have given them free will. All the operatives you have at the ready will get you only as much as my people are ready to give. As soon as I disappear, the Syndicate will know, and my flock will be free to do as they see fit. Stay, leave, be beholden to the Church, beholden to Earth, or let yourself loose upon the Galaxy. Since the Authority has so kindly supplied the Sons of Hephestus with arms, they are finally ready to come out of the shadows.” Superior Auburn turns white as a rag. “Oh yes, I funneled all that nice gear you shelled out for my operation straight to them through the Syndicate, playing both sides. While I have to admit that your little double-cross and the putrid existence of Demir Sunderland have put a wrench in my original plan to nuke you all into oblivion once we made contact with the COM, I am still on track.” The Cardinal lifts his shackled hands. The cuffs light up red, and then green before they fall to the ground. “Do all you want with the Syndicate, but even after I’m gone they will still find a way to flourish. Such is the nature of roaches. The Authority will be blamed for all the carnage the Sons will wreak across the Galaxy, once the arms are traced back to their owners. Trafalgar will still be the number one suspect in the Melkior incident. And Demir Sunderland will still be without a single ally in all the *** Galaxy. So you can take my word for it - I won’t kill you. I have no reason to, or need for it. You have played your hand, and you have lost.”
   Farideh is choking, like she’s been vented. The Superior is dazed, his soul shattered from his complete lack of control over the situation. It’s all vacuum, more vast, lonely, and darker than space. Farideh wishes the skies would fall down.
   She also wishes Sunderland would *** stop looking out the port window and do his best to grasp the situation and maybe think of a way out. “I think we still have two cards to play, Cardinal. Better yet, they’re being played right now.” Sunderland smiles while gazing out the window with a glint in his eye, like he’s watching himself being saved. “While you were prattling on about how we lost, you didn’t take time to look out the window.”

***

   Leto throttles Baby up the curves of the port side of the cruiser. Turrets pup up one after the other while he rides the frequency of the shield all the way to the stern, engages the uranium-coated front turrets, and blasts at the massive thrusters. Shields hold up, and his assault is just an inconvenience. The slick cruiser engages side thrusters to outmaneuver him, and the stern slides away, the entire ship rolls starboard side and the turrets can engage him again. Leto punches the throttle, pumps up the grav and sucks Baby on top of the shield, almost clawing his way as close to the ship as possible. Grav waves and electricity arks spark in between the skiff and the cruiser. Turrets have to disengage before they hit each other.
   That’s when Leto has a chance to fight back. When a turret flips its cannons up and starts to disengage Leto douses them with shells. He rips through the turrets. But Baby is having trouble maintaining momentum this close to the shield. Leto’s losing thrust, and he has to disengage before he gets caught between the crossfire he can’t dodge at such a low speed.
   Bottom thrusters burst Baby away from the shield-slide and Leto is off careening up the port side and to the upper deck. Main cannons are already on him as soon as he’s in view. Unlike the turrets, which have to pop out the shields, cannons have independent shield units for their own defense.
   The main cannons lock on. Rockets come at Baby from all directions. Leto brushes off three and nosedives as close to the cruiser as possible to offset their targeting. He threads his way in between the cannons, linking his slides with twists and jukes, but there are still rockets on him. Leto bounces off a quick barrel-roll and careens upwards into a summersault. Baby can take the grav, and he can too, but the rockets can’t and he gets rid of two. Still more on him.
   Leto has to do a one-eighty, duck between them and hopefully lose them in the next set of rockets that are being loaded. Cause them all to burst into each other, get jammed, or just fly off into the nothingness of the skies without a target or motive.
   The alarm of the lock-on still blaring, Leto doubles the side-thrusters and prepares to slide into the one-eighty. Explosions behind Leto catch him off guard, but that welcome kind of being off guard.
   The Cain bursts in between the rocket barrage, douses the locked-on pursuit with shells, and then dips low to hammer and pelt the cannons with grenades. Leto’s comms flare up, static bustling and growing into a voice.
   “Come on, come on, skies be damned,” Leto can make out the gruff cursing of Siona.
   “Siona, I have you on proximity.”
   “Finally.”
   “We need to stall the cruiser while Farideh and Demir make it out of there.”
   “What if they let the Cardinal go and stay inside the freighter?”
   “We both know that is never going to happen.”
   “True enough. Are you ready for a real MOS run, Leto?” Siona of the Skies says that with a tone of challenge in her voice.
   Leto can almost feel the smirk on Siona’s Face. “Are you?”

***

   “Why is it that everywhere you show up, everything turns to *** ***?” The Cardinal snarls, spittle cascading in front of him like rain.
   “You wouldn’t believe how often I’ve asked myself that.” Sunderland even chuckles.
   “No matter. This will be your grave either way.”
   First she sees the Cardinal. Then Farideh just sees the flaps of his robe. Then nothing. A sickly crack, wicked and lean, just like a vase breaking but less pompous, less drastic, punctures the silent space. Farideh then sees the Superior on the floor, and the place where his head used to be is now a mash of pulp, brain matter, and boney gore. The Cardinal is standing over him. Remnants of the Superior on his robe.
   “Run,” she tells Sunderland in a grim hush, and pulls him along. “To the bridge. Now!” The hush turns into an order.
   Both of them are out of the hangar with the Cardinal at their heels. Farideh closes the door and overrides the safety. They’ll find a *** way to crack it, just like the cuffs. But it should buy them enough time. Siona and Leto should buy them a way out. All they need to do is stay alive until then. Or face the problem head on. Farideh isn’t sure about much any more.
   Farideh and Demir make their way down the corridor through the crew quarters, then take the right through the mess, and finally to the elevator that leads to the bridge. Doors close and the safeties engage behind them. The way blocked all the way to the elevator that brings them up to the bridge. Farideh is on the console as soon as they’re up. There’s no way that will hold. She thinks to herself, deadly aware of the fact of what she has to do. “I can initiate the evac protocols and enable the escape pods. Siona and Leto are keeping the cruiser busy. The Authority is retreating. Even without comms they have a life beacon on the Superior. No use waiting around for a dead body.” Farideh fingers the underside of the main console, all the while keeping her eyes on the main deck window. What I have to do. In the distance it looks like two mosquitos wildly darting about a warthog that is desperately trying to squash them. Her fingers finally find what she is looking for. Farideh takes out the blaster. “Sunderland, you go ahead. I need to chat with the Cardinal.” She sets the blaster to shred, and cocks the first load.
   “Are you insane? You saw what he did to the Superior. He’s stimmed up on something, or he has enhancements up the ass. Modded to the teeth. How did your scanners not pick that up?” Sunderland’s twitching around, like a frightened gooblerat. All the while Siona and the Leto are taking on a full-blown cruiser outside. Seems like pilots are only brave in their ships.
   “We don’t even know how those Sons-of-whatever made it here without using the jump point. You think I know how the Cardinal’s mods didn’t get picked up by my scanners? Don’t be stupid, Sunderland. Just go.”
   “He’s going to kill you.” A pang of genuine concern in his voice.
   “He might, but I have the element of surprise. I need to see his face before I leave.”
   “Then pride is going to get you killed.”
   “Just go already. Take the emergency stairs. The Cardinal will be coming up the elevator.” Sunderland nods respectfully, what he thinks might be the last time, and then he’s out of sight and down the stairs.
   Farideh clips the blaster to the small of her back, turns away from the window, and waits for the Cardinal. Her heart starts pumping as hard as a rave in the Trafalgar entertainment district. She blinks sweat from her eyes, and traces her fingers over the hilt of the blaster one more time before the elevator comes up.
   “I didn’t expect to find you here, Ms. Farideh.” The Cardinal enters the bridge, cutting a more imposing figure than usual. His eyes wilder and wider, with a reddish hue that matches the blood splatter on his gown. His shoulders seem broader, and his pace is like the boom of a drum. Each step forward an announcement of violence. “Wouldn’t you consider that, shall we say, unwise?” His voice sounds like extruding gravel, like every word he says hurts. Farideh knows she doesn’t have the time or the means to act this out with any drama or pomp. She takes out the blaster, sets it to full charge, and points it at the Cardinal’s head. The older man stops in his tracks. “Are you certain I won’t dodge the shot?” he asks her through a vicious grin.
   “It’s a shrapnel-blaster set to full. Something will land, and I’m quick enough to reload for the rest to land too. I’m certain of that.” The nozzle of the blaster doesn’t even twitch, despite the burn in Farideh’s arm. She can keep this up all day, and she’s not lying when she says that something will land. The Cardinal wouldn’t be the first person she’s shot. He’s not the only one to walk his path over the bodies of the damned.
   “Well then, do it. What are you waiting for?” The Cardinal takes one step closer, outstretches his arms, and beckons the shot. “Are you afraid, Ms. Farideh? Oh yes, you are.” His snarl becomes feral, pointed and precise. Malice seeping in between his teeth. “You’re still that little girl in the brothel. Living every day in fear that they might look past your horse face and your manly body, and see you for what you are - meat. That your *** is still a ***, and *** can be sold. Put a sack over your head, put a dress over those broad shoulders, small hips and tiny legs. Cover everything up and just sell you because you’re nothing but meat. And so you live now as you did back then - in fear. Constant fear that one day what you are, who you are, will not be enough and you will get sold. *** by the world, *** by the men you so utterly despise. That is why you own, that is why you take, and that is why you’re afraid. Because you’re still that little girl just doing her best to protect the only thing that they still haven’t taken - your *** ***. So *** shoot me. Shoot another man who is here to take from you. You have the upper hand now. You said so much yourself. Now *** shoot me.”
   Farideh’s heart beats slower, her breath is steady, her arm still taut and her aim true. She puts down the gun, and places it on the control panel.
   Without a word Farideh passes the Cardinal and takes the elevator down.
   She makes her way to the escape pods, and finds all of them still docked. “What the ***?”
   Something smashes against her head and Farideh tumbles down in a daze, writhing on the floor, the world all in blacks and blues. “I’ll take that,” she hears. Once her vision comes to she sees Sunderland standing over her. He has the case with the nukes in his hand. All this time Farideh didn’t even notice that she was carrying them, never letting go, like a warmongrel with a prize. “I couldn’t very well ask you for this, but I do need it.”
   “Sunderland, what the *** are you doing?” Farideh can barely focus on the words from the ache in her head. She feels the ship jolt, but she’s not sure it’s not just her stifling legs.
   “Looks like the Cardinal turned off the shield. The freighter will be harpooned to the cruiser soon. I’ve been keeping an eye out on the battle outside, and I have to admit Leto and Siona are doing an amazing job.” The airlock of Farideh’s escape pod closes. “Better get out quick, before they harpoon you in too. Thanks for the nukes.”
   Sunderland disappears and Farideh is left alone in the escape pod. She can hear the neighboring pod initiating launch, and the MOS is off the ship. With the ache still in her head, and her vision slightly blurred, Farideh starts her own launch sequence.
   I’ve been *** enough for one day.

***

   “Siona, we need a front and follow,” Leto gives the command.
   “What’s the target?”
   “You be the front, and I will follow. I need you to blast open a rift in the shield and do a one-eighty from the tip of the ship to the thrusters. Stick close to me, and on my command open another rift. Got it?”
   “You’re a crazy man, Leto. But I like it. I got you. Bow to stern, full rip.”
   Leto takes the low path in between the cannons so Siona can get into a good position to aim her rockets. She does well by flying out of range of the lock-on, so the canons will focus on Leto. He has to dip and weave his way through both plasma turrets and the canons, since the cruiser engaged all defenses because both MOS skiffs were presumably driving the gunners insane. Leto cuts his way in between them, gets some shots off just to tickle the defenses, but saves most of his ammo for the final assault. He can see Siona on his radar, a blip in the radar sphere, and how she moves out and in quickly enough that he can cut his way to the bow.
   The Cain lets two rockets loose inside the gunner turrets’ blind spot, and Leto is on it like grav sickness. Baby ducks between the barrage and moves under the shield, Leto cranks the grav and sets it to mitigation. He’s like a scarab in between skin and flesh, tearing his way down the underbelly of the cruiser. Leto threads Baby in between the popping turrets that can’t aim for him under the shield, and the cruiser command won’t risk lowering the shield lest they open themselves up to the full force of the Trafalgar skiff fleet. Siona has trained her men well enough to know when not to interfere, and when to take their chance. Grav pressure and metal against shield creak and crack all around him while he keeps Baby tightly in between the two. A twitch or two and he’ll crash.
   Leto can see Siona taking on her role as the forward, and then he knows he can let loose. He turns Baby upside-down, opens the hatch, and lets loose the only clip of bombs and rockets Baby has on board. Explosions erupt in his wake, at point-blank range. Thrusters are on full blast, and only fire and debris cut a swath as Leto makes his way to the stern thrusters. He slides the skiff to a full halt, angles the nose upwards, and empties the rest of the uranium-coated shells straight into the thrusters.
   “Now,” he calls out to Siona, and she launches her rockets again. The shield breaks and Leto’s out. The cruiser loses air, and tumbles before emergency thrusters stabilize it.
   Leto’s proximity comms glitch out. He can hear a voice, almost like it’s a distant apparition in the static. “Leto, Leto,” he can make out. “Escape, es… cape… es…” Leto checks the radar but finds nothing. Siona is still running loops around the cruiser, but Leto can see it changing course, moving ever so slightly instead of keeping the position secure. “Le… Le… Escape…” He hears over the comms. Leto sets the radar to infra and there it is. A dot in the distance, blinking. One person.
   An escape pod.
   Leto turns Baby around, disengages from combat, and heads to pick up Demir in the escape pod. Behind him the cruiser shifts and lowers the offensive turrets, and engages full defensive maneuvers. Another blinking light on the radar shows another pod. In the rear-view monitor Leto can see the cruiser making way towards the freighter, cannons and turrets lowered, harpoons out. Siona and her men are cutting their own swath towards the other pod.
   Leto harpoons Demir’s pod and bolts it for the jump point. They are out and in hyperspace before the Trafalgar forces. Leto turns the transponder off, and opens his comms to a familiar frequency, saved in Baby’s memory.
   Once he gets a bead on her skiff Leto sends Siona her override codes.
   “Demir, where do we go from here?”
   “Just take us somewhere where I can get out of this *** pod. And Leto, one more thing,” a pause, “I *** told you so.”
   Leto sets course for the nearest uninhabited nebula. Farther than that, how and where, he has no idea. He only hopes Demir might have one or two, besides his gut this time.

[close]

Chapter 38: AROUND THE WAY

Spoiler

THEY LANDED ON THE SWAMP planet of Anudorah a day after the Sons of Hephestus put all their hard work to the pyre. Leto had been wracking his brain in the hold of Demir’s skiff. No matter how much he mulled over every angle, Leto always came back to the same main question - is Hephestus alive? Is there another Immortal out there in the Galaxy? Is she truly behind this insanity?
   Leto had time to think and reminisce while in the hold. The image of that first gathering of the Reign, when Hephestus proposed her wild machinations. Human-machine hybridity, instead of AI. Trans-humanism to the point where mods, grafts, enhancements and stims would become a matter of the past. Instead we would expand synchronicity, and achieve complete fusion with the machine. We could survive hyperspace jumps without the gates. We could work tirelessly. War would be a thing of the past. AI would never overshadow us, as Hephestus always claimed it would. To an artificial intelligence, when advanced enough, the chaos of mankind is a threat to existence itself, perfect as it envisions it. Those were her predictions, which wnet widely disregarded. What was most important about her proposal was that we would all be immortal, if her grad design was put forward. Leto expected the Reign to not just scoff at the idea, but to strip Hephestus of her title. They did the former, but she escaped the latter and went into exile. The Reign never went after her, despite her negligence to appear before the council at repeat instances. It was too much of a hassle for them to find her system and strip her of her title, than it was to just let her be insane somewhere far from them. The Reign had already become complacent then, and AI research was in full swing. If she is truly fostering the Sons, then the Galaxy is in much worse shape than Leto had originally feared.
   When Demir had docked his skiff and Leto was waking about again, following the MOS around a hovel-township deep in the swamp, he still had little to say and much to think about.
   “We need to go see Fromaroundtheway,” Demir tells him. “She’ll give us safe haven for some good info. But getting to her damned hovel is such a hassle.” The words pass through Leto. “I mean, she’s a high-ranking information dealer. She could make the trip easier. You know she also sits on a major Quyah deposit?” Leto grumbles something in return. “Yeah, the land has been in her family for eons, before they even discovered that Quyah can be used in metallurgy. She lets companies mine on her property and in return she also gets info from the miners. They come from all over the Galaxy to mine the stuff here. It’s amazingly toxic, and the pay’s legendary. When the miners leave they earn their keep, maybe get another contract sooner rather than later, if they pass on some info to Aroundtheway. Miners see some ***, I tell you. Aroundtheway expands on that info, trades it along, and her route stays grassroots. No miner would ever rat on her. But still, she could make the trip to that damned hovel a bit easier.” Demir turns around and does his best to grab Leto by the shoulders. “Are you even here?”
   “I apologize, Demir.”
   “Don’t apologize, just be here. It’s a setback, trust me. I have some ideas.”
   At first Leto hoped to hear the word idea coming from Demir. Then he remembers that it was his ideas that got them to this junction of culminating failure in the first place. “Pardon my lack of excitement for your ideas as of recently.”
   Demir whistles. “Good one. Granted, granted. But you want to know the upside to that colossal failure?” he asks through an almost childlike smile.
   “Pardon me, if I fail to see any silver lining in this situation.”
   “That’s because you’re used to winning.” Demir’s jubilar tone feels almost off-putting to Leto. It honestly makes him want to smack the MOS. A quick upside swing to get him back on track. “From failure sometimes the best new ideas come to fruition.” Demir turns around and continues his way through the messy thoroughfare, going someplace he didn’t tell Leto about. So all he can do is follow.
   “You won’t disclose this inspired idea?”
   “No,” Demir just brushes him off.
   They make their way in between huddled masses of miners getting up for a shift, or coming back from one, covered in grime to the bones. Demir leads them to a small harbor with hovecrafts. He approaches one of the pilots with a level of familiarity. “We got the skinny for Aroundtheway. Righteous dibs. Make it worth her timings.” The level of patois Demir can switch to in his Common sometimes astounds Leto.
   The pilot nods through a concentrated frown. “Well tidings you brought so far. Aroundtheway appreciate you. I ring in the call, see what she say.” The pilot turns away and tends to his call.
   “I’ve known Fromaroundtheway for years. We’re on good terms. Probably one of the few I have in the *** Galaxy. She’ll do me a solid. And the info we sell her will give us a chance to start from here.”
   “Aroundtheway will be seeing you.” The pilot motions to Demir. “But only you,” and he shows Leto to stop.
   “We both go, or skinny go too.”
   The pilot murmurs something into his chin. “She say you better make it worth her hearing.”
   “Solid as usual.”
   They are then ushered into the hovercraft. The cockpit glass comes down, and it is a full open view panel. The pilot takes his seat at the back of the craft, operating an ancient back-burner design. Once the grav kicks in they are above the swamp, and lightly cruising through the muck and tree marrow percolating in the waters. No one speaks a word during the trip. Demir still deep in his self-satisfied inner machinations. Leto tries to take in the scenery, but it is not one worth taking in. Everything in shades of brown and dead. The pilot sticks to piloting, thankfully not trying to be friendly when it is not required.
   In silence they arrive at a run-down hovel deep in the woods of the swamp, in a cul-de-sac of sorts. From the hovel extends a short pier. The pilot wishes them a fruitful meeting in his colorful patois, and is off into the swamp again. Demir shows Leto the way down the pier and through a moldy, ragged piece of cloth hanging over what should be a door.
   “Demir, my boy, let me look at you.” A woman of formidable size embraces Demir in her massive arms. “You haven’t been eating right. I can tell. I could snap you like a twig.” And she most assuredly could. “And who’s this?” The woman looks Leto over with a discerning look hidden behind her plump eyelids and gorged sacks under her eyes. “Top class Leto, I must say. Looks like you have taste in other things besides those dreadful MOS skiffs. Sit outside, and I’ll be right there with some stew. Go on.” The woman waves them out through another rag and they sit down at a small table on the terrace overlooking the vast stretches of cut-down swamp. In the distance machinery dots the horizon like insects. Cockpits mounted to long, stinger-like legs that move with spider-like precision over the carcass of the land. Driving their stingers into the soil, extracting the precious Quyah and siphoning it through tendrils that course all the way to the mining station in the farthest murky distance. In the silence of the terrace the scene is almost serene in its own way.
   “The stew is good. I can vouch for that.” Leto continues immersing himself in a view that entrances him unlike the rest of the swamp. Disregarding Demir in this time of tranquility. “You know why they call her Fromaroundtheway?” Demir continues. “Of course you don’t. Well, when she started peddling info, if anyone would ask her where she got it from, she’d say from around the way. The nickname stuck.”
   Leto gets pulled out of his scenic meditation. “And that is all? The entire story.”
   “Stories don’t have to be long, to be good. All that matters is the point.” Leto becomes more concerned with Demir the more this wild demeanor of his persists. He wouldn’t judge the MOS mad, but he also finds it quite difficult to discern his complete state of mind as of yet.
   Fromaroundtheway walks out of her hovel two large bowls or steaming stew. Luscious smells and vapors coil their way upwards. “Here you go. Dig in, boys.”
   Demir unabashedly starts wolfing his stew down. Leto takes his in carefully, seeing as Demir isn’t known for his culinary palette. To his astonishment the stew is spectacular, and Leto soon joins Demir in bestial devouring. Fromaroundtheway takes a chair and sits down at their table. Demir sighs delightfully once he’s done, and Leto sets his bowl aside with a bit more tact.
   “Now that you’re both fed, I’m going to be needing that skinny. What’s my trade for it?” Fromaroundtheway keeps her warm, motherly tone of voice even when conducting business.
   “We need safe haven here, and access to your comm-center.”
   Fromaroundtheway nods to herself. “Not too big of an ask. Sure, just make it worth my while.”
   “Superior Auburn is dead. You get it first. Authority won’t be announcing yet, and the only other people who know won’t be acting on it quick. Exclusive skinny.”
   “That confirmed?”
   “Saw him die myself.”
   Fromaroundtheway chuckles. “Who did him in? And who’s the other party that knows?”
   “Some new force. Can’t tell you a lot about them, but keep your ears and eyes out for the Sons of Hephestus. They ambushed a meeting between the Superior, Farideh the Free, and me. Won’t tell you anything about the meeting though. Lips sealed on the why.”
   “Anything on who leads these Sons of Hephestus? What’s their deal? Who or what do they hate?” Fromaroundtheway makes a chilling point that Leto finds hard to come to terms with. That seemingly everything, or at least too much, in the Galaxy now operates in spite of something, and not for something. Division, strife, hatred and evil-minded competition are the norm.
   “I don’t know if he leads them, but they seem to be running circles for the Cardinal now. He’s blown, switched from that EN *** to something far more dangerous. He did the Superior in. Still don’t know what they want, or who they hate. That’s why you and yours have to hop on that.”
   “So the Cardinal finally popped his lid.” Fromaroundtheway harrumphs almost like a hiccup.
   “I believe he’s more dangerous than ever,” Leto chimes in despite his initial intent to keep that silent. His contemplation seeps out of its own will.
   “He’s always been dangerous. That coming from you, I’ll be sure to keep an even closer eye on him now. Well,” and Fromaroundtheway smacks her thighs, stands up and stretches her back. “You got yourselves a place to stay. Demir, you know the way. Pick out your rooms and the comms are yours. I have some work to do.”
   Demir thanks her and ushers Leto into the hovel, shows him to a small trap door and opens it. They go down a ladder and make it to an underground facility that reminds Leto heavily of an army bunker. A large corridor stretches into the gray distance, and at the end is a large double-door. On either side of the corridor small open entranceways are interspersed with closed doors. Leto knows the open ones to be common areas, or kitchens, and the shut doors are private rooms.
   “Pick a room. Just put in a code and it’ll pop out a keycard for you. I’ll be in the comm-center if you need me.”
   Leto picks a random room, and lets Demir go about the business he seems so eager to start. He can have his ideas, and Leto can have his meditation. All he might need now is a bit of peace and quiet.

[close]

Chapter 39: WINTER ***

Spoiler

THERE HAVE BEEN FAR TOO many meetings in the past months, let alone the week. And here they are again. Siona, Mutemba, Salvatore, and Farideh. Again in her office. Again looking at the sphincter of lady luck open wide and *** all over them.
   Mutemba has his own ideas about taking over the Syndicate for ourselves. With the operatives he has in place, and Salvatore’s forces, it’s an actual possibility. Although they would lose a lot of traction without Sunderland’s connections. Farideh has no idea what that thorn in her side is going to do with those nukes. So she’s not too keen on betting anything concrete on a play involving Demir-***-Sunderland. Siona, on the other hand, wants to kill them all. Send her and her pack out to start tearing through everything and everyone until they get a bead on the Sons. While her brutal ways may be an option Farideh avoids most often, in this case she has a straight fancy for the idea.
   Neither play is the best one, though.
   “We shut Trafalgar down tighter than a winter ***. And the suggestion box is closed on that. I want all our contracts cut, we take the financial loss. All our resources we pool into fleet production. Mutemba, you keep working on info. I want everything on the Sons, preferably in real-time. Their movements, targets, manifestos; I want to smell the Cardinal in this room twenty-four-seven. Salvatore, you secure the sector. Regular patrols throughout the sector, a total reach-around. Same as with the info, twenty-four-seven.”
   “Ms. Farideh,” Mutemba cuts her off cautiously, apologetically. “That will burn through our finances. Without our contracts or any trade, we have no way of reinforcing our capital, let alone the spending.”
   “You’re completely right. We will burn through our entire capital. Every last credit of it.” Mutemba sits quietly aghast, while Salvatore has his worry-face on, and Siona on the far side just waiting to hear her part in this. She’s the only one who doesn’t even get paid. “While we’re reinforcing our navy, and keeping an eye out for the Sons, Siona will be leading her pack to scavenge.” Siona’s face lights up. “The Sons won’t keep a low profile, that’s certain. They’ll probably take credit for icing the Superior. The way they just came into that pile of asteroids. Not through the jump point. Anything harvested off of them will be worth a hefty sum on the black market. We stockpile. The info gets us their routes and targets, and Siona will be there waiting with her pack. A scrap of sheet from their ships, and I want it. The cog in the mechanism of their turrets, and I want it. Anything and everything that flies off their ships, and I want it. We monopolize the entire trade on the Sons. Any competition, MOS or otherwise, we wipe it out. Better ships for the pack, better ships for the defenses. Better flyboys from the academy. The best train the new best. And when the Galaxy starts getting that itch for the Sons’ tech, we swoop in. Stock the capital with some investment potential, ally ourselves with the winning parties, and resume business with ramped up prices. High risk, high reward. Now, this is the one and only time I will take any suggestions.” Farideh looks around the room. Approving faces let her know. “Good. Now see yourselves out. I need time alone.”
   Mutemba and Salvatore make their way out, but Siona stays behind.
   “What is it, Siona?” Farideh immediately starts with the motherly tone, clearly irked and fresh out of capacity for any more banter.
   “Nothing, everything’s good. But there is one thing I think you should know.” Siona pauses.
   “Fine, fine, I can take it.”
   “That Leto,” and another pause. “No other way to say it. He’s either some kind of experiment or something. Some kind of tech *** I don’t understand. A way to try and replicate the original Leto. Or he’s the real *** Leto.” Another pause.
   “Spill it out, woman. Use your words and stop grumbling. It doesn’t suit you. We’ve seen enough crazy *** in the past week to justify any batshit idea you might have. Spill it out.” Farideh has had enough of everything up to her eyeballs. Hearing Siona out in all honesty is surprisingly exactly what she needs. A good dose of something insane, just like how she feels right now.
   “I’ve never seen someone fly like that. It’s not even his skiff. He worked that Sunderland rig like it was custom. I could barely keep up with him. Now, I haven’t lost my edge.” She has to save face. “But either I have to start training, and bring my numbers up, or that Leto is somehow the genuine *** article. He’s no protege, we would’ve heard about that. They don’t just fall out the sky without a MOS hearing about some stiff new competition. I’m telling you Farideh, there’s something up with that Leto.”
   Farideh takes a deep breath and exhales as loudly as she can. It feels like a soothing exercise. Like she just blew out her demons. “I know. Or at least I suspect the same thing. I’ve had my eye on him since he first strolled in here. He was way too confident. Even when we talked in the Tombs. Or in the car. I could never quite place it, why he worried me so much. He’s just too much Leto. He’s too perfect for the role. I thought it was grand delusion at first, or something similar. Probably some kind of military job. Maybe deep hypnosis. But now that you can vouch for his flight capabilities, I’m starting to think we might have a *** Galaxy-wide bomb on our hands.”
   “He sent me my override codes back as soon as he entered hyperspace. Didn’t keep them even a second longer than the contract lasted.”
   “We know he’s honorable. Can’t say that about a lot of people in the Galaxy. We’re on good terms with both Sunderland and the Leto. I can forgive the *** for clocking me over the head. Hell, I can even appreciate it as a move. Either the Cardinal disposes of me and he bolts. Or I come out and he takes the nukes. Keep an eye out for Sunderland doing MOS runs. Get in touch if he pops up. We might have an ally there.”
   Siona leans on her thighs, blows a hefty sigh, and stands up. “Glad to know I’m not the only one who’s insane. Have a good night, boss.” She leaves the office and Farideh is alone again.
   This is the time she keeps for herself. This is the time when she is one hundred percent in control. Of her own thoughts, of her empire, of her sanity. She also has time to think about what she’s going to do to the Cardinal once she gets a hold of him. Once she breaks him in open combat, on the battlefield, and not on some freighter in the middle of nowhere.

[close]

Chapter 40: MANIFEST

Spoiler

“THE SONS ARE ON A rampage. They have this full manifesto out. Something about the merging of man and machine.” Demir finally starts telling Leto what he knows after weeks of walling himself off in the comm-center. “Auburn’s been replaced by Svyla Torkk, the ***-Queen herself. She’s been gunning for that job for decades. And she’s tougher and meaner than Auburn. Torkk already declared the Sons terrorist organization number one. Even the COM are in the fight, calling them an act against god, or some ***.” Leto listens to how the Galaxy is going to ***, courtesy of Demir’s expressive delivery. “The Sons, meanwhile, have launched full-scale assaults on every major tech company. Xing-tech, Hanzo, Charkul, Drakk-web chains, and even the Syndicate and PROTECs. They’re jumping all over the Galaxy. Call their tech transverse jumping. No need for jump points, and from what I heard they can fight in hyperspace. A lot of big-tech is going to get screwed.”
   “I never thought I would say this, but can we move along to your plan?”
   “My plan is your plan.”
   “I’m tired, Demir. Tired. Just tell me.”
   “You can’t know what I’m doing, or else you’ll never leave. And you need to go.”
   “Don’t play games with me, I told you I’m not in the mood.”
   “I don’t give a *** about your mood, Leto. We went about this all wrong. We tried to shoehorn you into my world, and we got jack-*** for it. We don’t repeat mistakes. On the ground you’re just another man wearing a better man’s face. You’re not Leto down here, you’re a Leto. But out there, in the skies, you’re the Leto. You need to fly. And you need to take this.” Demir hands Leto the case with the nukes. “Six nukes will give you plenty of capital to build yourself a skiff. Any respectable chop-shops will be just enough for a decent start.”
   “We can’t risk that, Demir. You know that. What if something happens to you?” Leto has to admit he has also grown somewhat fond of Demir. He doesn’t want to see the man hurt. Leto did drag him into this, and continues to do so. Still the MOS is here, undeterred by failure.
   “Once we part ways I’ll set up a data dump. I’ll put it where we first met. Emergency signal connected to my heart. Also a regular daily update. Pulse from Beby. Hell, even an escape protocol for Baby if something happens to me. You don’t receive any of those, or well, you do receive any of those, and you’ll know where to find the coordinates to your sector. In the meantime, I have buyers for the nukes lined up, and a selection of chop-shops. Leto, you need to know that I’ve never been so clearheaded in my *** life. You need to get out there and start flying. Start the legend. But most importantly you need some backing. You need to contract your service, finance the initial push, and then the legend will tell itself. Tell me it’s not a good idea.” Demir outstretches his arms, and looks Lto square in the eyes.
   Leto then knows.
   “Who do you have in mind as a benefactor?” Leto gives in. He sees it in Demir’s eyes - he is certain this will work.
   “Just the right people,” Demir tells him.

[close]

Chapter 41: SYNDICATE

Spoiler

IT DOESN’T OCCUR THAT often that you get to see New Hiroshima from the penthouse of the Saotomi Headquarters. The entire place is decorated with an eastern EN twist, all in reds and golds and silvers. Sharp and deadly, minimalistic and precise. Deals being conducted in the dark tell tales from within the walls. The top floor to see the top man in the Syndicate - Hayao Fukusawa. The youngest leader of the Syndicate ever, and the most brazen. The main reason why he took on the Cardinal’s people in the first place. He’s been expanding for years now, and it’s not going as smoothly as he thought it would. And when things don’t go smoothly you’re more inclined to have a meeting with Demir Sunderland.
   Demir’s surrounded on four sides with a member of Fukusawa’s personal bodyguards. The peak of the Syndicate faithfull. Already seated in one of the most comfortable chairs Demir’s ass has ever graced, he doesn't find it hard to adjust to the sight of New Hiroshima stretching to the end of the horizon. Big guys with their huge windows overlooking what they feel is theirs. The entire far wall is just glass, adjusting to the natural sunlight coming from outside, always the perfect hue to keep the view of the city as bright as possible. The desk between Demir and Fukusawa is massive in scale, polished to perfection, and entirely as big and polished as the Syndicate leader’s ego.
   “I know you’re enjoying the view, but that’s not why you’re here, Mr. Sunderland.” Fukusawa has a silky tone of voice, hushed and grim.
   “Yeah, but it’s a good view. A man could easily get lost in it.”
   “I know, I see it every day. Now, on to the matter of the moles in my organization you so vehemently suggested I should know about.” Not one to mince words or waste time. That’s how you make it up the Syndicate ladder.
   “There’s a ton of them. I mean so many, it’s hard to even count. Now, a lot of them are former Cardinal people, obviously. Getting rid of those would be tricky for anyone. But the problem with those people who came into the organization already aligned with someone else,” and Demir pauses, “is that it spreads dissent among your men. Letting something like that happen right under your nose.” A whistle, long one too. “That’s not easy to wipe away.” Two of the bodyguards on Fukusawa’s side move in closer. “What I came here to tell you is that your men have decided to accept that times are changing. The reign of the family tradition is over. It’s time to branch out. And in order to do that, well,” and Demir shrugs, “some of the ballast needs to be vented.” The two bodyguards grab Fukusawa by the shoulders.
   “You wouldn’t dare,” he blurts out and looks from side to side, like a trapped animal. “You wouldn’t dare,” he says again to hammer the point home.
   “Oh, I dare,” then Demir hammers the point home.

[close]

Chapter 42: TECH

Spoiler

ANOTHER DAY, ANOTHER JAIL CELL. When having visited more than one, even if it is just the one, they all start looking the same. Blinding white or black, depending on the mood of the jailors, with a force-field in either blue, green, or red, covering the entrance. A space to sit and sleep, and a space to *** and ***. The only space with any walls between Leto and the surveillance is the shower. There is still so much as human rights in the Galaxy he finds himself trapped in.
Leto always finds solace in meditation. The blankness, the emptiness of the void he can conjure in his own mind soothes him. It is a balance in all things. Everything and nothing. There Leto can just fly, unencumbered and unhindered.
   It is also about the same feeling the first and second time around when a person with a higher position in this new Galaxy strolls down to the prison cells and decides to talk to you. Leto remembers Demir, and his mantra that becomes a lot more palatable in these types of situations. Something about the tables and the turning thereof. When the powerful come to see someone more powerful, despite the circumstances they find themselves in physically.
   “Before you have to admit anything, or state your surprise, or even make an observation, don’t even bother. Straight to the point, please Mr. Xing. I hope you appreciate that as much as I do.”
   The man so tall it is almost alien, lanky and swaying gracefully, languid yet quick, looks straight into Leto without a minimal shift in expression. His soft face a waxen mask, caught perpetually in thought almost, always thinking far ahead of everyone else. Every new CEO of Xing-Tech is Xing. Currently holding that throne is Xing XVI. It is a tradition of theirs to modify their physical being. Since the days before the C, they were at the top of tech. Pioneers in the field of AI. Responsible for the exile of Hephestus. A company that overshadowed an Immortal. Every Xing is bred and groomed for the position. They are made to recognize, adapt, and conquer.
   Xing approaches the force-field. “Your enhancements, mods, grafts, even the stims and nano-myte machinery. It is all so old. We have much never, and much more promising models of the same tech. Yet the brightest stars often fizzle the fastest,” and the lank Xing puts some pomp in his movements. It is a dance, a very subtle dance. “The biggest issue with better and faster tech is that the sync factor suffers. And you, sir, have a sync factor of a hundred percent. That is odd, and I want to know why. And if you cannot offer the why, I want to know what you can offer.”
   “I will offer you the Sons of Hephestus on a silver platter. Sponsor my skiff, my tech, my operation, and I will be wherever they are. I will destroy them until they regret ever coming out of the shadows. I will stalk them, report routes to you so you can manage your shipments safely. I will gather more men, more skiffs, a small but lethal squad. I will not stop until they are obliterated. What I offer you, Mr. Xing, is the Grand-Master of War. At your service.”
   “In the midst of chaos, there is also opportunity,” Xing says.

[close]

[B.K.]

Soon™

[B.K.]

Years later.
The Galaxy is on fire.
It is rising.
On the horizon... War.

Chapter 43: BACK THAT WAY

Spoiler

IT’S BEEN MORE THAN A WHILE since Demir had last been on Anudorah. The entire planet is stuck in time. Come back a year, two, three later and it’s still the same dump it was back then. Muddy, damp, congealed in poverty and perseverance. People against nature, people against people, in endless repetition. The only things that stand still in time are the planet Anudorah itself, and Fromaroundtheway’s cabin in the middle of nowhere. Aroundtheway, on the other hand, is about one-third through her battle with old age. Instead of her usual imposing figure she cuts a much leaner image, as well as having a sickly glow to her. There’s a tube running from her left nostril to something on her back which is kept hidden under her massive winter coat. Demir takes one gander and he knows it’s a lung vent-and-filtration system. Hundreds of years in the vicinity of residual Quyah fumes must have taken their toll. Modding or even replacing her lungs completely risks mod sickness, and Aroundtheway isn’t one to bow out to some sickness at the end of her rope. She’ll tough it out for another hundred easily if she takes better care of herself. Demir knows it.
   Demir can help her with that. That’s why he’s on this shithole in the first place. Some things you just have to handle personally. It’s a matter of respect. Truth is, Aroundtheway was, and probably even still is, one of the few people Demir hasn’t *** off to the point where she wants nothing to do with him. She’s always been solid, so Demir has to do her a solid and do this in person.
   Without her usual grace-despite-her-size, Aroundtheway pushes herself off her chair and greets Demir with her motherly swagger. “All this time and not even a message. I have to hear it in whispers around the Galaxy that you’re probably dead.” She embraces Demir in her arms that seem impervious to her physical ailments.
   When Demir first took to the shadows, the Galaxy declared him a fugitive from the Authority. True enough. Then when he didn’t return, he was jailed; somewhere no one will ever find him, the Galaxy said. Then he lost a fight to Siona, and got his Baby taken in the Pits. The *** has at least some grace to keep her mouth shut about that. But Demir knows, even though he hardly wants to admit it, Siona would never cop to a win she didn’t deserve. After he lost to Siona, and the Galaxy was tired of waiting for Demir Sunderland to make a return, he was just pronounced dead. And Demir Sunderland stays dead even now. At least dead to the Galaxy. Demir makes sure he stays dead by crushing every little hushed whisper in every little dark corner of every little wretched hive of scum and villainy across the entire *** Galaxy. Once dead, still dead.
   “I feel fine,” Demir lets her know, hoping to see a chuckle in response.
   “I can see that,” Aroundtheway says through a weak smile. “You’ve also improved your fashion sense, I have to say. Only thing left is that dirty old jacket.”
   To a MOS, the only thing that you keep outside of your skiff as a trophy of your craft, are the jackets. The MOS are just another elitist club of people who have to be better than each other. Represent everywhere they go. All of them hoard some kind of sentimental ***, knick-knacks, trophies, scars and viscous memories. Most of them keep that *** in their skiffs, to remind themselves of victories from long ago. Their history emblazoned within their hidey-holes in their skiffs where they feel mightiest. For the rest, so they see how mighty they are, they wear the leather. Demir has had his jacket for what feels like forever now, wearing it comfortably over a black business-shirt with hidden buttons. He has a cropped tie, black with a red pinstripe on the side. Suit pants and business shoes all in minimalist future-perfect fashion fit for the stock markets. Even Demir’s hair is nicely cropped into a pomp, and he’s clean shaven. He wears what he does with pride. A man all about business now, but he could still *** you up in the skies.
   “So, what’s your business with me? It’s been far too long, and you haven’t given me any down payment for the skinny. So, you’re here only out of my curiosity.” Sure, Demir didn’t give her any prior proposition, just a quick note that they had to talk, is all. You don’t just come to Fromaroundtheway with that meager ***. Demir being Demir, in her good graces and all, along with the whole being dead part, he gets a shot.
   “I’m here to buy you out, Aroundtheway. It’s time.”
   Aroundtheway gets back to her chair, wearily sits down, huffs a mean slimy one, and finally relaxes. “You're going to have to tell me more than that, Demir. You can start by telling me who that frightened little mouse is?” She points to Jolene who just stands meekly in a corner, riveted to her datapad. “No more Letos, I see.”
   “That’s Jolene, she’s my protege.” Jolene then greets Aroundtheway with a mousey little hi, and retreats back into the world of her datapad.
   And a protege is what he needed when Demir first started out. As with any new business, it started shaky. Demir’s inherent Sunderland genetics made him a *** natural at it too, but his unrelenting voice of hatred didn’t let him follow those bestial bussines senses to their full potential. Demir chose to hire someone as a consultant, and thought it best to simply get someone fresh, new, hungry, and build them up. He went scouting at the Academy of Economic Science on Pluto. A whole tiny planet devoted solely to the perfecting of economic science, doing so by pumping out one rich *** too confident in their own skills at a time. Always a good judge of potential and character, Demir took to the task uncharacteristically studiously. Rich *** after rich *** just didn’t fit the bill. He even went to classes to see the students in action. At one such class one the macroeconomics of the decentralized Galaxy-wide trade accords, he noticed Jolene Parton of the music industry’s biggest name - the Partons. Well, he noticed her for all the wrong reasons. She rarely spoke, if ever, visibly shaken when talking in front of multiple people. Her grades were *** too, just above passing. They’ll let her through because she’s a Parton, but they’ll never refer her anywhere. That’s how the Academy makes sure the undesirables can only work for their respective rich parents and not ruin the rest of the Galaxy. Demir was intrigued enough to go talk to her in person. A formal interview, if you will. Being alone with Jolene showed Demir exactly why she was failing. Jolene Parton had the business acumen that could rival that of any Sunderland, and the business strategies of a dragoon serpent - scorched earth. Her tactics were devastating, hostile, and burned bridges to make ceaseless amounts of cash. She had the moral compass of an AI and the human understanding of a nihilist poet. This meek girl was a bomb, and if let loose on the Galaxy anywhere outside her comfy music industry bubble, she would devastate. The Academy couldn’t let that happen, so they cut her possibilities. Demir gave her the opportunity to realize all her potential, and she took it without a second thought. He knew that he needed her as much as she needed him.
   So, it’s actually Demir and Jolene running the Syndicate Information Network. SIN might be Demir’s second Baby, but Jolene really makes it work. While he supplies the crazy ideas that she’s too pragmatic to think of, she fuels his innate Sunderland biology for him to reach new heights. When he’s off balance, she’s on point. When she’s proposing fire and mayhem, he shows her the human side of the coin. Balance in all things.
   “Jolene’s the reason I’m here to buy you out, and not push you out. She was going to slowly buy out your men, bleed you dry until you can’t make the cut for the Quyah mining. You’d have to outsource the work for less payout, fall behind the curve on the information pipeline as well, and when you’re far enough behind my men would take over somewhat hostile. I owed you a solid, so we’re talking good money for you, and safety for your men down the line. It’s a good deal, Aroundtheway. Have a listen.” The old woman gets somewhat lost in her contemplation, the once-sharp eyes a bit milky. There’s a spark there still, buried underneath the grime clotted over her eyes, and the age wilting her brain. Silent, but deadly.
   “You’re a little ***,” she scoffs at Jolene who pays her no mind. “If you’d come a year sooner I’d smack you for talking that trash.”
   “You would have still listened, out of curiosity.”
   Aroundtheway chuckles, then chokes and has to cough through the pain. “All right, give me the skinny. Stop trying to get me wet and do the deed. I haven’t got all day.”
   “Your end is, you step down, and drop from the scene. Now, I know your general sense of deviousness might tickle you from time to time. Maybe you just come back, do a little side-hustle on the sly. That’s why I’m saying this first.” Demir steps in closer, in case she fakes her hearing is askew too. “You’re gone. I make your men whole for anything they are owed, and I offer them new contracts under SIN. We integrate them into the network.”
   Aroundtheway’s eyes widen, born again. Her toothy grin, and sweaty jiggle of her double chin, are both back. “So you’re the *** bastard.”
   “I work for SIN, sure.”
   “No, no. You run it. You don’t wear a shirt and *** tie just to fly for someone else. You run SIN. That’s why you’re dead.”
   “The payout for you isn’t a one-time deal either,” Demir just continues. “I figured a better way to settle that for you. Instead of buying your land, I would lease it. Base value of the land, plus the Quyah mining contracts, plus your regular info revenue, and we cut that to a solid percentage for regular payouts, you sit comfortably in the seven digits. Regular paychecks for you from the lease, and a five percent cut from the earnings off the SIN pipeline your men haul in. You could upgrade your health plan, finally. Live out the *** hundreds of years you could still have on the clock any way you want. Your men would be safe, and under even more lucrative contracts, and you’d be well out that way.” Demir gestures to the door, the moldy rug still covering it flapping in the winter breeze.
   The old woman retreats back into her thoughts. “Ten percent.”
   “Six.”
   “I’ll think a day or two on six.”
   “Only way I’m out that door is with a yes or a no, Aroundtheway.”
   “Seven percent.”
   “Done.” Demir and Aroundtheway shake on that. “Jolene will let you know the final stages, since we’re making this a legit purchase through our shells. Contracts to sign and all that ***. I’ll want you out soon, sorry. We’re going to renovate a bit, secure the place from any Quyah residue. Let your men know, and my representatives will be here once you’re done.”
   A silence bubbles between them.
   “You’ve become efficient, deadly in business even, just like in your skiff out there in the skies.” Aroundtheway cuts the silence in half. “Did you cook this up when you were last here?” Aroundtheway grumbles and rasps, decides to take a drink to cool off her searing throat.
   “First stages, yeah.”
   “*** myself there, didn’t I?”
   “Kind of.”
   “Well, at least it’s you. Be off then now, I have some work to do.”
   “One more thing. If you ever tell anyone I was here, what I do, or any mention of me, any friendship we might have considered between us is null and void. Same goes for the ferryman, and any of your ilk. It’s one of the three rules. Any good business, especially our business, must still pride itself on our discretion. Are we understood?”
   “We are,” Aroundtheway lets him know, clear-eyed and in the moment. The most honest truth.

[close]

Chapter 44: THREE RULES

Spoiler

“I DON’T UNDERSTAND WHY you need to do this in person?” Jolene’s apprehensive about the whole thing. Her discerning eyes green like emeralds and a permanent worried frown upon her face. A bomb that can’t explode. She needs Demir to go through with her plans, and do the heavy lifting. But she also needs to see that there are other aspects to SIN. That there’s still some grime left to clean out, always. That there’s more to running an information network so vast its reach is about sixty percent of the *** drakkweb. Jolene needs to see that there’s some business you just have to do in person.
   While Demir disregards her for a bit she tidies up her auburn hair into a tighter knot. “You’ll see why. That’s homework for today,” he lets her know.
   “Don’t treat me like I’m a kid,” Jolene hisses at him.
   “You are a kid. This is part of growing up. So just follow me and be quiet like you always are when it’s more than just me in the room.”
   “You know I’m not good with crowds.” She almost squirms into herself.
   “I know. You’re getting better at it. Sure. But in this case I just need you to watch and take notes. Okay?”
   “Fine,” Jolene concedes, with a childlike undertone of ire in her voice.
   They make their way down the dimmed corridor to the hotel room. Two guards usher them into the spacious suite. The temporary home of Velimir Zapatinov. The two guards follow them in, and secure the door.
   Velimir is sitting on a faux-kashmir covered settee, and motions for Demir and Jolene to take a seat on the sofa across. A table between them is lined with treats and real-food that only people with a vast amount of cash, such as the Zapatinov clan, can indulge in. Jolene prefers to stand behind the sofa, so Demir lounges gracefully on the whole thing instead. He takes up the space like he owns it, the mere air someone breathes next to him is worth his time in credits. A lot of them.
   “It is an honor, Mr. Sunderland,” Velimir courts Demir in his Slav-jank Common.
   “What are the three rules, Velimir?” Demir puts the sturdy, hairy man off balance. His bear-like arms almost slipping from his meaty thighs. Locks of blond curly hair dancing about like in static, while Velimir grasps at straws.
   “Excuse me, Mr. Sunderland, what do you mean?”
   “Simple question - what are the three rules? Jolene will help you,” Demir looks at Jolene who’s pretending not to notice him. Stuck in her world of data, logistics, and numbers, far removed from human kind. Her safe place, where she crawls into like a slug. “Come on Jolene, tell us the three rules.” Still pretending not to notice him. “Jolene.” Demir takes a more sturdy tone. “The three rules.”
   “You never saw me. No r***. No kids,” Jolene finally answers in her soft, warm, meek little voice. But still strong enough so that everyone can hear her. Like a hush that travels on the wind.
   “That’s right. You never saw me. No r***. And no kids.” Demir puts some pomp on it. He doesn’t get to do this often, so why not do it right. “So imagine my surprise when I learned that you were pulling a side-hustle.” Velimir retreats gingerly into the settee, just to put himself on the defensive. He puffs his chest out, sits up straight, ready to fight back. “Fresh organs from the natives on your mining colonies. Even the miners are in on it. Those who can’t survive any other way, at least. The ones that can’t work are sold for scraps like cattle, so their families can eat. Miners and natives, pumping out minerals and ore, as well as human produce. Not only that, but you’re doing selective breeding and selling off the kids, or just the good parts when the situation dictates. Fresh as can be. Am I on the right track here, Velimir?” The man says nothing. Instead he just grimaces like an angry dog at Demir. “To top off that selection platter of human rights abuse, you also have a meat tax on the natives. The prettiest ones get shipped out to brothels. You pump enough info from all those pipelines to keep SIN happy, and cover up your earnings by washing it through the mining. Now that’s actually a *** good tactic. Jolene was the one who caught it.” Velimir’s seething facade of anger and venom leave Jolene undeterred in her world inside the datapad. “So, that’s two out of three broken. Better yet, those are the two ones I really like the most. You say you saw me and I just make you disappear. But the ***, and the kids, those I take personally.” Demir leans in a bit, closes some of that distance between him and Velimir. “Just tell me, are you smart enough to know you can’t escape this? You won’t try some Spearhead-type *** and go for one last round with the devil?”
   “I will not,” Velimir hisses out.
   “Good. Now, I gave your family two propositions, just so you know where you stand in all this. First one was - they stay behind you, cross me, and I buy them all out and burn the rest while I kill you here and now. Second one - they take a financial hit by restructuring the business you were running, all that on their own dime, and sell you out to me. Anything I do with you is at my discretion.” Demir lets Velimir feel the betrayal. Lets him seep through with anguish and desperation. “They took the second, of course.”
   “Are you going to kill me?” Velimir has that one last question in him.
   “Worse. I’ll ship you out to Tzekovia V. Let the natives and the miners know who you are, what you look like, and just air-package you to a random location on the planet. Either nature will get you, or the people will. You will try to survive, of course, simply because you’re incapable of letting go. Accepting defeat. If you fight, it’s up to the people to pass judgment. Or if you actually do register that it’s over, you succumb to the elements. It’s a good show, a good final act. For me to watch at least. And please be aware that I will be watching. I have high hopes for you. But either way, you get ***. So, the two gentlemen here will escort you out. They will also make sure nothing happens to you before you land on Tzekovia. I would wish you the best of luck, but I don’t like to lie.”
   Demir stands up, and heads out the door with Jolene at his heels.
   “What the *** was that?” she hisses at him once they’re out.
   “He had it coming.”
   “*** that. I don’t give a *** about that scum. Why did you put me on the spot like that?” Demir loves Jolene’s ruthless true side. The pinnacle of ego, and the twisted machinations in her mind to actually make so much revolve around her that she ends up being the only thing that matters. “You said I was supposed to keep quiet and just watch.”
   “I did that to show you that you can get out of that *** bubble you live in, and perform on the spot and under pressure. You did well. Now remember that feeling, that overcoming, and use it more often. We’re spiraling into the final phase here, Jolene. You need to be here now, and on the spot more often.” Demir stops for a second and looks Jolene in the eyes. The sea within looking back at him, clear as the day he first met her. “If there’s anything I believe you’re capable of, it’s adapting. I don’t know anyone better at it than you. So, let me just say this - shut up and do your *** part.”

[close]

Chapter 45: RESTRUCTURE

Spoiler

“WE NEED TO FOCUS ON MINER outreach. The Zapatinov name needs to come off, and we put SIN front and center. The Zapatinov’s shells can take the brunt of expansion to the Outer Reaches, and we form a one-to-one pipeline. From there we can expand to the Calligon Nebula, and Zapatinov can retake full control under our terms.” Jolene has it all under control. All of the *** Velimir left behind can be ironed out in less than a *** year.
   “How *** are we on the reputation side?” That’s Demir's main concern.
   “Not great, not terrible.”
   When Demir took over the Syndicate he had to weed out the families first. With promises of independence for minor factions, a completely decentralized open market, and an approach to contracts that valued loyalty and rewarded it handsomely, Demir greased enough palms to rise to the top. The first year was the toughest. Demir just couldn’t get SIN off the ground fast enough. The returns were low, and the investment potential was running out. Jolene wasn’t on board yet. But Demir had his moment of clarity when he went on a bender. He spent the nights with the dregs of three planets. Shithole planet, basic colony planet, and rich planet. The dregs were always the same, just in better clothing the better their surroundings became. But those people knew a lot of *** about a lot of ***. Demir started contracting info from prostitutes, beggars, peddlers, street cleaners, and even junkies at first. The open information market SIN he put out into the drakkweb was flourishing. Every little bit of info, even as little as where someone took a ***, was worth enough that if it pings in the database the credits get transferred to your open-WEB credits account. *** a big banker, earn more money. See a politician visiting his side-piece, and that’s bank right there. These small threads of info would expand into the database, combine with others, form a spider web of info that could be traced, repurposed, threaded together, exploited, or sold. Connect all those small threads, basic locations, sightings, who’s talking to who, where and maybe why, with all the info you get from your big player contracts, and you can formulate a chain of events that cascades all throughout SIN. Demir’s people all got repeat contracts if they wanted it, even earned a solid credit score, maybe even moved on. Dregs became people, and people always want more. The information kept flowing, and it hasn’t stopped. Then Demir expanded to students in academies all around the Galaxy. Whatever project you’re working on, whatever new is coming out of tech, economy, mining, inter-planetary politics, you name it, and SIN wants to know. Demir was pumping more money through SIN than he could effectively use by himself. When Jolene came on they started the second phase with corporate acquisition, and drakkweb takeover. SIN is now the most dominant information trade hub on the drakkweb. At sixty percent and rising. Demir needs it to be at least seventy before SIN can effectively shoulder the weight of the final phase. And he already has to make some major moves, as well as Jolene having to come out of her shell.
   “We need that fence with the miners mended ASAP. They’re the bread and butter for the final phase.” Demir thinks for a bit about Jolene’s plan. Mulls over the details, like stirring a good drink with ice. Just to smell it once more. 
   “I know, that’s why I’m on it.”
   “Good. I want you to select the internal investigation committee. We want it out there that Zapatinov is being held accountable. Let them take the brunt of the public outcry. Do the investigation right. Vent some dead weight. If Zapatinov want to keep any of them on payroll, or make them whole, that's up to them. SIN doesn’t dish out a dime.”
   “That’s going to eat time out of the proposed schedule. I would advise burning Zapatinov for settlement money, keeping the investigation on the down-low, and clearing things up with the miners through incentive-based contracts.” And that’s Jolene. Brutal, efficient, and clearly lacking in human understanding.
   “Sure. The miners will turn around and forget all the human rights abuse once they see the incentive-based contracts. However, when the mortality rate, drug abuse, suicide rate, and work accidents spike like a torn grav coating, we’ll all be eating ***.” Demir has to set her straight. That’s the harmony of their relationship. A balance in all things. They always push and pull, until they arrive at the best possible outcome.
   “That might coincide badly with the rest of the timeline.” Jolene puts her chin in her hand, and takes a gander at her datapad, then types in some projections. “Yes, if we eat the time it takes to finish the investigation, but relate that to projected employee satisfaction, we have a longer but more stable timeline.”
   “Don’t always look at the most efficient picture, Jolene. Always factor in the human element, even if it’s just a calculation, and not gut instinct.”
   “*** your gut instinct.”
That brings a smile to Demir’s face. When she talks back, quips and prods, like a normal human being. “That’s what you need to develop. An instinct, a gut feeling. For now, keep plugging in numbers for human factors. Yeah, SIN runs on those.”

[close]

Chapter 46: RESIN

Spoiler

FARIDEH TOOK TO THE COMBAT logistics like a miner to tar. First she started planning the patrol routes, the ambushes, the scouting routes, and the overall fleet production and cadet training. With a free hand to dip into the Trafalgar credits stockpile, at first it was a simple matter of dishing out the most cash for the best products. Put the elite of the Trafalgar forces on each side of the defensive and offensive lines. Smaller forces, but deadlier. Mighty expensive too. But they were enough to wedge themselves deep into the Sons’ operation, and start stockpiling their tech and debris. When the rest of the fleet caught up with the elites, Farideh had to stretch out the budget a lot more. New cadets were graduating and she had to put them into rotation and on retainer. Plus, the ship production was slowing down since there were effectively more ships than pilots back then. Farideh had to balance it out, and not waste money on retainers for no-fliers.
   That was when Farideh took a more hands-on approach to the whole effort. It was also the first time she had to make a choice that would inevitably cost more lives with each rotation. She put the new cadets directly into the major assault squads as backup. They were ordered to keep outside the main perimeter, and only engage if any of the main squad got canned. Many of them never made it into the main squad, and died on the sidelines. The ones that did make it were so high on the street cred, and their reputation in the skies, that they excelled. Farideh slowly, but regularly and measuredly, weeded out the weak, and put all her money behind the best. Top squads with top tech and the maddest MOS pilots in the Known Galaxy. That’s where all the major money goes, while the defensive infrastructure costs only a third of the MOS fleet to maintain.
   The hands-on approach also meant that Farideh was in on a lot of the raids. She had her people make her a control-center frigate. It’s hardwired, bolted, and shielded for hyperspace. She can maintain herself in hyperspace for weeks without needing to exit. It’s a lot easier on her body, since Farideh never took to enhancements too much. She’s contemplating installing a cortical stack, like Siona has for her Cain, but that’s a decision for another time. Farideh hasn’t given her craft a name yet, and Siona keeps bugging her about that. Every craft needs a name. It’s like with swords in those ancient stories. Your craft needs a name. But that’s also a decision for another time. She has gotten quite used to the frigate, and even to hyperspace. The sensation of time congealed around you, and the vastness of it all, the danger of storms looming in the distance. A flicker of light at first, then a gust that registers on your environmental sensors; it comes to life and warns of possible danger as the storms build and dissipate. Farideh bolted to her chair, eyes riveted to the screens and the live feed, all the crafts at her disposal, and a sector map holo-display, with touch-focus optics, so she can scribble orders, move her forces around the battlefield like a puppeteer. She just changed the way she thinks. Instead of focusing solely on the long-haul, years and even decades in advance, Farideh used that thread-weaving capability on a second-to-second, minute-to-minute basis. Now, she’s more out in the field than back on Trafalgar. Mutemba has been named chief operating officer while she’s gone. He’s the perfect pick, a natural at it, and it also lets him scratch that itch of running his own system he didn’t get when his brother took over Kurrekesh.
   Farideh still hasn’t thought of a name for her frigate, but she’s well on her way to a skirmish they have planned for a Sons drop in the Wasternais system. She had to spend a pretty *** penny on getting that info from SIN. The Sons are starting an ore mining operation on Armitage III, a *** gas giant. Back when humanity used AIs, gas giants could be harvested for all their deposits. Minerals from up top, and ore from down low. Now, however, only the Sons are able to withstand the torturous heat and oxigen deprivation, even through their high-grade mining tech. Sure, you can put a human in a high-grade, top-of-the-line, shielded ore-worm vehicle. Emissions from a gas giant make it almost impossible to remotely pilot anything down there. Then you put that human on a gas giant like Armitage III, and they come back after mining about three to five percent of the ore-worm’s total storage before they collapse. Heat, air pressure, gravity, time, all of those things we thought we could control, move the forces around us the way we wanted, shield ourselves from it, but it always finds a way inside our bodies. The Sons, however, and their illusive man-machine-hybrid tech, lets them dig for the full storage. They jump on gas giants like real worms on cadavers, excavate and drill for a solid couple of days, then disappear into their mining cruisers and off into the unknown vestiges of hyperspace.
   SIN gave Farideh the exclusive skinny on the Armitage dig. Farideh also got hold of some advanced-cloaking resin for Siona’s main force. A batch of older tech Xing had already tested out, and now they’re using newer models, like Xing always does. The old ones are good for a month or two before they are cracked, so Farideh can place Siona in the center of the action. Cain is fully cloaked and riveted to an asteroid in the belt not even six clicks from Armitage III. The rest of the force is dispersed out of transponder range, clocked for good measure, and awaiting Farideh’s call. Siona will pin down the mining defense force, while her main assault team swoops in to disperse the jump point guards. Once Farideh enters the system proper they can collapse on all of them, and hopefully leave any ore-worms for them to farm after the sector has been canvassed. Either way, anything they get from the defense force will do just fine. For now.
   Xing, Hanzo, Charkul, and even minor tech companies like Zen and Maggnuss, are trying to decipher the Sons’ tech. Well, what they can from the scraps they get at least. Anything Trafalgar leaves behind. Seems like the eons old expression, one man’s trash is another man’s treasure, well and truly alive in this day and age. Trafalgar is hogging the best Sons tech in the entire Galaxy. Just like Farideh planned. She has Siona on the biggest targets, and SIN on payroll with hundreds of contracts for her people. The only people getting in the way of Trafalgar’s dominance are the Strike Force, and Dominus. Being a MOS in the past couple of years meant a total shift from shouting your name across the entire Galaxy and pinning your score on every carcass floating in the skies, to harboring private contracts for major players under the guise of anonymous skiffs and cloaked transponders. Only Siona is still flying her Cain more ravenously than ever. Rest of the MOS don’t want to get jumped in the middle of a fuel run in deep hyperspace. Neither Fardieh nor SIN know who’s heading the Strike Force, but their tech screams Xing, although they deny it. They know even less about Dominus, a solo flier who shreds through everything, but has no rhyme or reason to his targets. Like he just wakes up in the morning, flies, kills until he’s satisfied, and then goes back home, wherever that may be. Siona, the leader of the Strike Force, and Dominus have the highest charting numbers in all the Galaxy. Farideh tried to get a bead on the two not under her employ to broker a collaboration, but Mutemba got nowhere even remotely close to smelling the leather of their jackets. The only thing Farideh is still content about as far as those two forces are concerned is the fact that they let her have the tech. They’re not scavenging. Strike Force shoots only to kill, and Dominus, well, she has no clue about Dominus.
   Farideh’s wondering if any of them will turn up. Dominus has a hand in getting their filthy fingers on skinny, even exclusive ones. And Strike Force might sniff out the Sons mining operation by themselves. Whoever designed their scouting routes is annoyingly *** good.
   But those are contingencies she’ll employ if the time comes. For now Farideh lets herself be enveloped by the crushing congealed mass of space and time, and gives herself to hyperspace.

[close]

Chapter 47: INC.

Spoiler

TRAFALGAR HAS TO START selling the Sons tech stockpile, and do so soon. Not strictly just to maintain the assault efforts, but for Mutemba to have peace of mind going forward. Trafalgar’s two current major sources of income are SIN and contracts with mining companies operating in the Outer Reaches. Mutemba took to SIN like grav sickness. He has Trafalgar’s operatives under some of the most lucrative SIN contracts across the entire Galaxy, raking in credits day in, day out. With the Outer Reaches expanding their mining colonies and operations, Trafalgar provides even more security for passing fleets through their system. At a steep premium, no less, that the companies are more than willing to pay, considering the substantial threat from the Sons.
   However, that’s only loose change compared to the stockpile of Sons tech that Farideh insists they keep hoarding. Mere supplementary income when Mutemba considers the vast riches Trafalgar could attain if she would just step off her *** vindictive high horse and just sell the damn lot. Farideh may not be stupid, as she’s waiting for a piece of legit, unfried, useable Sons tech to enter their collection, but revenge is a sweet fruit. Bitter to everyone involved, but to the person holding the grudge it’s more than enough sustenance.
   Mutemba’s desk is piled high with holodecks for the dispatch and reclaiming of scouts, contracts to be fulfilled for SIN, and countless orders for protective details from for the Outer Reaches.
   Still, not enough.
   So much work, for so little pay.
Mutemba issues orders for the main protective detail to retreat closer to Trafalgar, and handle the bulk OR convoys. He doubles the Trafalgar base defensive detail by bolstering the ranks with fresh pilots. Cuts the cost of their home defense to make up for the spending on the OR contracts.
Back to zero.
   Then Mutemba issues orders for his own information scouts to expand to the Core World. They need to focus on the corporate warfare that’s waging between the main factions left from the old regime, instead of wasting time and money on scouring the Known Galaxy for smidgeons of info on the Sons. That cuts the transportation and maintenance cost of the SIN operation considerably. Mutemba then has to funnel that money into Siona’s skies-damned kill squad, and the offensive against the Sons.
   Back to zero.
   With nothing to spend again, Mutemba requests freelance mining contracts in the Outer Reaches at base value, no premiums, to get some traction with the Trafalgar workforce at least, and bolster the earning. He can then spend the excess on supply costs for general commodities across Trafalgar.
   And back to zero again.
   Mutemba is funneling money from empty spaces into vast voids and back again into nothingness. Every single credit moved, earned, and stolen, is a credit spent in order to move, earn, and steal more credits. A perpetual zero-sum game where in the end the only loser is Mutemba himself. He doesn’t give two *** about the entire Known Galaxy participating in the same zero-sum game of corporate warfare, power struggle, anarchy reign, and public disobedience. The game might have been going on for what feels like eons, but it’s gotten only louder and uglier with the emergence of the Sons. Like those bastards just pulled the covers off of the entire detritus-ridden corpse of the Galaxy’s own moral fibers and inner workings.
The only thing that Mutemba knows is that there has to be a loser in the end. Not a winner. No one ever won anything after the C, but many have lost. If there’s anything Mutemba Ginzego isn’t going to be, it’s a loser.
   He has something far too valuable at stake for him to just lose.
   Day in, day out, just like his operatives, he spends shuffling credits from nothing into nothing. Playing for the zero-sum win, while Farideh is out in the field, amassing riches beyond compare and just letting the potential rot away. The worth of the tech is still rising, but Mutemba knows all too well the inevitable downturn is around the corner. Farideh may be waiting for that elusive, and in all probability unlikely, day that Trafalgar will get their hands on some legit Sons tech. However, Mutemba isn’t.
He spends his days getting back to zero.
   Day in, day out.
   But he’s not stupid either.
   “Mutemba!” a direct link to his comms chimes in, pulls him out of the daily grind. Farideh on the end of the line, shouting. “I need all available protection details in the Westernais system ASAP. Cancel any OR runs, and put your people on SIN contracts double-time.” She sounds entranced, almost scared, but deviously ecstatic.
   “Are you certain?” he asks her.
   “We got it. Mutemba, we got it.” Then he realizes exactly why Farideh sounds out of her mind. “Siona’s on her way back through the stealth routes. Her Cain got pretty busted up, so prepare a docking bay and make sure she’s up and running ASAP too. I need her back here.”
   “I will make the arrangements.”
   Farideh cuts the line.
   There might be a winner after all. Mutemba thinks to himself, and goes about moving credits from nowhere into nothing so Farideh can secure the Westernais system. The protective detail should be out before Siona even arrives.
   Sadly, there have to be losers for someone to win.

[close]

Chapter 48: ARMITAGE III

Spoiler

FARIDEH CAN STILL HARDLY BELIEVE IT. A legit piece of Sons tech, right there for the taking. Only problem is that it’s hidden behind layers and layers of the glassed surface on Armitage III.
   The problem with Sons tech is that it fries. From what Farideh could gather when listening to all the tech-jumbo spewed on all sides, is that the Sons tech is intricately connected that if a piece falls out of the system it’s immediately fried to the point of being unusable. Hook a turret from one of their ships and it won’t fire. It’s just dead metal, same as with their thrusters, shields, main decks, hyperspace jump modules, all the way down to the Sons bodies themselves. Not a single Son of Hephestus has ever been caught alive. When in danger they can just call it quits and fry their tech, so no one can ever know how they do what they do. They’re so fanatical that they’re even hooked up to kill switches other members have access to. The entire Sons of Hephestus operation is interwoven to the point where nothing that comes off or out of them can be hooked up and used. Deciphering such tech takes ages, eons even. While buyers are lining up to even get a whiff of something smelling of the Sons, a legit piece of tech, usable and decipherable, has yet to come on the market.
   Good thing Farideh is looking directly at her lifeline.
   The *** underestimated the wrath of a gas giant. When Siona and her squad cut through the defense line around the mining cruisers the Sons had to retreat and scuttle the ore-worms. The one that hit the kill switch started the cascade that ended being a blessing in disguise. Hydrogen started fusing all over Armitage III, and when the ore-worm popped under the pressure and heat it started a chain reaction that mimicked that of a nuclear payload. They glassed the entire surface of the planet, and the rest of the ore-worms remain stuck underneath. Unable to initiate the self-destruct, the pilots have died from radiation. True death, bodily death, but no fried tech. Their scanners are still picking up the signals. All they have to do is dig through the dead planet, through the nuclear waste, best the fallout, and dig out the prize of all prizes. The chatter across SIN is going to spread like a chain-beam. Every force worth their weight in ships will be on them. First the Sons, then the rest. Farideh has one day, tops, to secure the sector, and then finish the dig before she gets piled on from all sides. The full force can retreat to Trafalgar through their stealth routes, but they can’t fight their way through an entire Sons fleet. She has to do this, and she has to do it quickly.
   The only thing she needs is Siona back before *** flies skywards. Her mere presence is more than enough as a deterrent for any would-be big player. Her people are already securing the perimeter. The main force is on its way. Siona too.
   From all the sweat beading across her body Farideh feels like she’s down there on Armitage III, under the pressure of the nuclear fallout. Her fingertips slide over the decks she’s issuing orders from, each stroke leaving a remnant behind, like the stroke of a pen. Farideh’s shaking, her body contorting, writhing into itself and then out, cold and hot.
   Armitage III has become the most important planet in the Known Galaxy within a matter of hours, and she’s right there, sitting on top of the biggest credit stockpile known to man.

[close]

Chapter 49: REPAIRS

Spoiler

“COME ON CAIN, DON’T FAIL ME NOW,” Siona tells her beloved skiff. The *** blast from the goddamn Sons’ nuclear payload hit her out of nowhere. She was piling on the remnants of the defensive fleet gearing up for their skies-be-damned transverse jump, and then it hit. Shockwave scrambling all of her controls, leaving her dead in the skies, tumbling into the debris field left behind by the carnage her pilots wrought on the enemy. Cain took a beating harder than any dogfight. Her thrusters barely got her into hyperspace, and the autopilot in conservation mode seems to have the hiccups. It’s like she’s in a chair, nudging herself forward one little thrust at a time.
   “Siona, come in,” the comms ring on her personal coded line. “We have a mobile repair dock at the ready in the Horsehead Nebula.” It’s Mutemba right on time to save the day. Halfway to Trafalgar, if she finishes the repairs on Cain there she can be back in Westernais in no time.
   “Mutemba, always on point. I’ll be docking in five. Have a bay ready. Won’t stay long.”
   “Roger.”
   Siona switches the autopilot off and manually nudges Cain along to the Horsehead Nebula jump point. Her skiff barely makes it through, the vortex of time and space pulls it apart almost. Siona’s used to cutting it close, but it never gets easier.
   The vast stretches of the Horsehead Nebula wash over Siona with an aura of calm. Star-clouds in the distance, a murk that seems like milk spilled over a black table paint the distant horizon, dotted in places with small planets. Asteroid belts dance their gravitational dance, and just a few clicks from the jump point Siona can see the repair dock. A hulking mass of metal limbs stretching and clawing from the carapace that reminds Siona of Trafalgar spyders, floating seamlessly against the darkness of space. Two main hangars for skiffs of light to medium size, connected together with bridges and grav docks. Sequences of rails, pulleys, cranes, welders, small insect-like manned repair crafts, all at the ready. All she has to do is dock her Cain without splattering against the hull. Sometimes Siona does regret not having an auto-docking protocol installed. But she manages to thread Cain through the bridges and into a grav dock.
   Then comes the hard part, the part Siona always dreads - removing the cortical link. Siona had a cortical stack installed when the Sons and any other would-be emperor of the skies started *** on her numbers. Raw talent, a lifetime of work, and even *** training - which she also begrudgingly had to go through - aren’t enough when tech just gives you an instant advantage. Siona had to overclock her capabilities way beyond mods and stims, and the cortical stack is the way to go. It’s something Xing-Tech developed to counter the Sons. A direct neural link between a pilot and their craft. It’s like being inside her Cain. Information flows faster, and you no longer face retinal lag, or even input lag. Actions that had once taken almost a second can now be halved. Siona is able to pull off maneuvers she only had envisioned in her head before. After a couple of months of adjustment, mental and physical, her numbers skyrocketed to the top of *** Galaxy. No one ever ***, or will ever *** with Siona of the Skies.
   But taking the thing out, pulling the cord from the stack, well, that never gets easier. It feels like removing spinal fluid without anesthesia. The physical sensation is akin to that of an ice bath, with the added flare of sitting on razors. First the chill runs through her spine, then her legs and ass fall asleep, prickling and pricking with the fury of a thousand needles, and it takes at least a second before she can move her arms. The sync between her arms and her mind has to kick in again. And that’s just half of it. The second part is the mental strain. Worse than being pulled violently out of a dream. A monstrous pull of information that is sucked out of her mind and consciousness, just pulled from her, and she’s transported from her Cain back to her Cain, like between worlds. First drowning, then being pulled out into a world that is all ablaze with reality. When her mind and body are aligned she can breathe, she can see clearly, and she can speak.
   Siona lets the docking protocols handle her Cain, and exits out the hatch when it’s hooked up to the main hangar. Artificial zero-grav lets her fly through the slim tube, and into the hangar where Mutemba is waiting for her with a continent of his men. Around them skiffs are being handled by the delicate man-operated machinery. The noise of the hangar calms her nerves, bringing her back into the fold of reality completely. “Now this is a stroke of genius, Mutemba. This little stunt of yours, while dangerous, which I appreciate, will halve my *** waiting time. I can be back in Westernais before the day is over.”
   “Sadly, that won’t be an option, Siona,” Mutemba tells her in his flaccid, matter-of-fact tone.
   “What the *** are you on about?”
   Mutemba’s men point their blasters at her. Two goons come in from the sides and clip her arms with disabling rods. Blasters come in closer, barely a finger span away from her *** face. “Siona, just do me one favor.” Mutemba stops for a second, lets her get an actual, real grasp on the situation. “Be a good *** prisoner, and shut the *** up.”

[close]

[B.K.]

Here we are. A year and 160 pages later, and I'm still a lazy ***.

***'s flying skywards, and I'm just here in the middle of the storm having a beer. I write where it takes me, consider the options, start, delete it, start over, and then at some point it's good enough for actual reading.
Thank you all for reading! If you have any questions, suggestions, comments, criticisms of style and substance, you want to tell me how much of a pretentious git I am, or maybe tell me where you see the narrative going, any issues, ideas, or general tomfoolery, feel free to post it here or send me a message if you're shy.
It feels like I'm talking to myself here, which I do in real life too. Join the fun. I don't bite.
Cheers!

Chapter 50: LEGIT TECH

Spoiler

EVERY-***-THING that could be late is late. The defense forces are not in yet, and her troops are laying the mining groundwork with their asses *** exposed to any scrappers wandering the skies. Remnants of Siona’s men are pushing the defense perimeter wide, stretching it out to bearable viability. At least Trafalgar’s mining division is in, with the added support of some freelancers that happened to be on-planet. But that’s all wamba-*** compared to the numbers they need to amass in order to defend the *** operation in the first place.
   And among all that *** flying skywards, among all the stress that’s building up inside of Farideh’s veins, pulsating with unadulterated fury, Siona’s not picking up her comms.
   This might be because her Cain suffered more damage than Siona had initially thought. But that doesn’t account for the fact that Siona’s own coded line should be working if she’s conscious. Which might mean that she’s unconscious, and her Cain is stealthed. So if she bit the grav, and is drifting about hyperspace or some derelict sector between Westernais and Trafalgar, there’s practically no way to find her until she comes to. Neither scenario is anything close to good.
   However, it’s the missing backup that’s actually grating at Farideh worse than a dentist graft. Farideh notices a habit she picked up during her time in the field - grating and scraping her teeth. Every time she notices it she is reminded of the dentist, and even worse, of the brothel. The monthly check-ups the lady would have her girls go through, and if there was any tooth decay because of drug use, or simple neglect, she would have the dentist operate on them without anesthesia. The only thing worse than the sounds of precision grinders and grafts weeding away at teeth was the screams.
   At this point Farideh might even wish she was back there, and not here. Watchful eyes pinned to the screens, watching every move of the mining division as they assemble the massive drills that will bore through the glassed shell of Armitage III, to enable their shielded worms to slip through and secure their precious bounty. Larger mining freighters send out drones to scout ahead, scan the planet thoroughly so they can plan their assault on its innards.
   Farideh switches one of her monitors to a drone POV. If it were up to her she’d be piloting that thing way faster than the professional miners. Since she isn’t a professional miner she squashes her complaint and immerses herself in the slow drone of the engine as the POV comes ever so closer to the planet. The glassed surface looks almost serene, silent and deadly, slick with congealed mass of soil and nuclear waste.
   Then the footage fizzes, shocks of static mutter the screen, and the feed cuts off. On her second monitor overlooking the entire operation Farideh can see all the drones malfunctioning and dying out, drifting away from the gas giant to become space debris.
   “Status report!” she blares out over the comms connected to the foreman.
   “Ms. Farideh, the planet is fusing more hydrogen. The nuclear emissions are staggering. It’s melting away our shields. I’ve never seen anything like it. It must be the discarded Sons tech. We can’t get close, it’ll melt away our drills and worms,” the foreman explains in a deceptively cool tone, with a hint of something that Farideh can only judge to be admiration. A sense of awe at the planet protecting itself, or even the Sons tech still foiling their plans.
   “Are the worms inside still intact? Is the tech legit?”
   “It is, but the emissions surrounding the entire planet are skyrocketing. We’ll need major shielding if we even want to get close to this thing, let alone mine it.”
   “Prepare the drills, and prepare the worms. I’ll find a way.” And Farideh has to do so fast, if she doesn’t want her forces to be annihilated when the inevitable invasion happens.
   Still no sign of backup, and still no *** peep from Siona.
   Farideh tries her comms one more time, to no avail. “***!” she curses at everyone and everything.
   Her coded line signals an incoming call. Jitters run across her spine, expecting it to be Siona. On the other side it’s only Mutemba. “I’m kind of busy. So if it’s not a sitrep on my backup or Siona, don’t bother, Mutemba,” she brushes him off.
   “It’s about both.” Mutemba’s matter-of-fact tone is nothing if not grating in these kinds of situations. Farideh has never seen him lose composure, and she wishes she did. If nothing else than to make her own current lack thereof feel acceptable.
   “Come on. Spill it.”
   “They won’t be coming, Farideh.”
   The inside of her frigate feels as cold as space, with about the same amount of oxygen. “What the *** do you mean?”
   Mutemba takes a deep breath and sighs. “I would say I’m sorry, Farideh, but I have my own people to support.” The shivers grow colder, and the air tighter inside her lungs. “I have taken Siona hostage, and have blockaded the rest of your troops from leaving Trafalgar. You’re on your own.”
   “Why?” It feels and sounds like a cry, and not so much a question. Farideh is growing tired, so tired from all this. The day feels like more than a year, like she’s aged through desperation.
   “In order to free Siona and lift the blockade I will need to be granted access to the Trafalgar stockpile. All the Sons tech in exchange for your precious right-hand woman, and the backup you need to complete your operation.” Farideh had the stockpile vault coded to her DNA. She’s the only one with access. Nothing goes in or out without her approval. Just like a MOS skiff. It can be overridden with the appropriate codes. Mutemba set foot in there only once, so he’s well aware of the riches that are guarded inside the vault.
   “Why? Why are you doing this? You’re one of us, Mutemba.” Farideh appeals to his sense of loyalty. Mutemba has that in spades. She’s seen it, she knows it. All of her is baffled by his betrayal.
   “Before I was one of you, I was a member of the royal family of Kurrekesh, and I still am. My people need me now, Farideh. I’m needed back home, and for that I need financial backing. Your incessant hoarding of the Sons tech has given me no alternative. Such is the price of war, Farideh. I will await your call.”
   Mutemba cuts the line and Farideh is left to sift through what's left of herself.
   I can’t hand it over. I just can’t. There’s no way Trafalgar would survive if they lose the stockpile. They would be crippled financially. The entire operation against the Sons would crumble, and the entire system would have to live off of scraps they could forage by going back to basic piracy. Let alone all the enemies they would make. Farideh feels like she’s about to puke. There has to be a way out of this. He stomach rumbles in protest. Her throat chokes on itself, like she’s swallowing her Adam’s apple. Farideh falls to the floor and retches out a week’s worth of fully and half-digested food. Acid tears through her throat, coats her mouth in vile contempt. Another onslaught and basically everything she’s eaten up to that point is on the floor, reeking of digestive fluids and faux-meat. I have to do something. She doesn’t have enough forces to pile on Mutemba and get Siona back. Let alone the fact that he might just vent Siona out of spite, and be gone a second later. She’d be chasing him around the *** Galaxy just out of revenge. And by the skies I would do it. Farideh can’t see a thing through the tears bubbling over her eyes, and the drool from her mouth layers itself over her hands now plastered in filth on the floor. It’s cold, so cold, all so cold. She wants to drop and lay down in the warm puke, be one with something of her own making that isn’t disaster. Something. I need something.
   Farideh pulls herself up by the main control panel, smearing the detritus of her stomach over the controls, causing warnings and beeps to go off. Input controls keep asking her if she’s sure about the various orders she’s issuing by virtue of the phlegm alone.
   It’s cold, so cold, all so cold.
   I have to move. At least mentally. So Farideh does what she does best, and considers the possibilities. All she needs is a lifeline. She needs Siona back. The backbone of her assault cannot falter, fail, or die. She needs a way to get her back without risking the stockpile.
   That’s where the problem lies. There’s no *** way to do that.
   More possibilities, more options. Every faction in the skies-be-damned Galaxy comes into her mind, moving in front of her one by one like picture frames.
   Farideh needs help, and after cleaning herself up, washing away the puke, drenching herself under a scolding shower until her skin is bright-red, she knows who to call. “Koren,” she puts the call through to her secretary.
   “Yes, Ms. Farideh.”
   “Get Xing-Tech on the line. And by that I mean Xing-him-***-self. I don’t care where he is, what he’s doing, or what time of *** day it is. I want him on the line right-***-now, and you can quote me if you need to. Give him the coded protocol.”
   “Y… Yes, Ms. Farideh.” Caught aback, but still on target. Koren cuts the line.
   Moments later her coded line buzzes, and well enough Xing XVI is on the other side. “Ms. Farideh. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
   “No time to waste. I need Strike Force in the Westernais system ASAP. I don’t care if you deny they’re yours, I don’t give a *** about discretion, I just need them here. I also need your best worm shields and drill extensions. Mining gear, all of it. We got a nuclear-glass-fuckfest going on. I’ll send you the planet scan.” Farideh just barrages Xing, barely even stopping, just blabbering everything out she needs to.
   “Ms. Farideh, that is a costly request.” Xing’s languid, lethargic tone cuts deep. “Considering Trafalgar has turned its back on Xing-Tech these past years, I must say it is also an outlandish request. I must ask what you offer in return. We are no longer friends, after all.”
   “I’m sitting on legit Sons tech. Unfried, usable, dissectible, and ready to be examined. It’s in the bowels of Armitage III, under the nuclear-glass coating the entire planet, fusing hydrogen, and raising the temperature along with the emissions. Help me punch through, help me protect the operation, and the tech is yours at market value.”
   “You would make me pay for something I help excavate. Now, Ms. Farideh, you jest.”
   “Don’t play poor with me, Xing. Trafalgar can’t afford handing out freebies. Xing-Tech is sitting on enough cash that market value is well below what you’re able to spend. Think about it, Xing. Legit Sons tech to put you well ahead of the curve, at a fraction of the price it would cost you if you went through the open market premiums.”
   Xing pauses for a second or three. “More, Ms. Farideh.”
   This is what Farideh feared, and is now coming to pass. “I’ll open the Trafalgar stockpile. Everything you want at market value as well, no premiums. Now get me Strike Force and the damned mining equipment.”
   Another pause, only shorter this time. “They will be in Westernais momentarily, Ms. Farideh. It’s a pleasure doing business with you.”

[close]

Chapter 51: XING

Spoiler

EVERY DAY LETO FINDS HIMSELF spending more time in Xing’s bed than his own. In a way he reminds Leto of Mirabelle. It is his overwhelming power, his staggering force. Power that turns to lust, just like it did with Mirabella, so long ago. He is inevitably drawn to the man, spiritually and physically. The circumspect machinations behind Xing’s ever-focused eyes, the hidden grandeur of his ideals and ideas, all congealing into an unstoppable force that would inevitably swallow the Galaxy. Leto is painfully aware that Xing XVI will never back down from his aspirations to create the most advanced civilization known to Man, mimicking the very foundation on which the Reign had exiled Hephestus. The never-ending pursuit for improvement, no matter the cost. Deep down Leto knows that at one point or another, Xing will have to be stopped. His belief that AI can still be governed, used, exploited for the benefit of mankind; that technology can become one with Man, is his ultimate downfall. A zealot at heart, much to Leto’s dismay as he finds himself much akin to the alien-like man, Xing XVI will remain nothing but a tool for Leto’s own ultimate goal. Meanwhile, Leto seeks to enjoy his body and soul, with a hefty dose of apprehension. At times like these, laying in Xing’s bed while the tech magnate goes about his business, and Leto just lounging in the most lavish of accommodations Xing-Tech’s homeworld Yao-Tzu has to offer, he thinks of Demir. The man had a taste for pleasure that Leto himself thought he had rebuked. Now, he feels even closer to his lost compatriot.
   At least he knows that Demir Sunderland is still alive, somewhere in the Galaxy, doing skies know what. His only hope is that Demir will remain alive for them to finally come together again, and continue down the same path as they once did.
   “I have had the most marvelous conversation with Farideh the Free,” Xing busts back into the bedroom with an elated swagger. “You are needed in the Westernais system.”
   Xing is not a man for pillow talk. Neither is Leto. Power bequests power. Just like their sex, the rest of their relationship is much the in the same vain. “Immediately?” Leto asks.
   “Yes. Assemble the Strike Force. There will be a convoy of mining equipment to escort to Westernais as well. You are to follow Farideh’s orders. As of today, and for the duration of the contract, you are under her employment.”
   “Might I ask why?”
   “In exchange for your services and mine she will offer up the Trafalgar stockpile, along with her new acquisition from Armitage III. Seems like Ms. Farideh has finally acquired Sons tech we can actually use. A marvel, finally within our grasp.” Xing muses to himself more than talking to Leto. The devious machinations in his head are his sole concern. “Now, I understand that you and Ms. Farideh have history.” Xing pauses to focus on Leto’s reaction, and is content with continuing when he receives none. “So I would suggest you keep your identity secret. Highly suggest. You are there to keep the mining operation safe, and escort the cargo back to Yao-Tzu once the contract is fulfilled. Nothing more, nothing less. I will handle the rest of the Trafalgar stockpile personally once this sordid affair is over and done with. Are we understood?”
   “We are.” Leto gets dressed and puts out the call to the rest of the Strike Force.
   “All pertinent information will be routed to you momentarily,” Xing lets him know when he’s almost out the door.
   Leto exits without another word.

[close]

Chapter 52: FIRST SON

Spoiler

“WE WILL RAIN FIRE AND FURY upon them!” The First Son of Hephestus declares. “Trafalgar forces have surrounded our fallen brothers in Westernais. Three of our own are caged in this un-life, as their failsafes could not grant them absolution. Therefore, we must be the ones to free them. We must be the ones to avenge them. We assemble our entire force, and we barrel down on the Trafalgar smut. Bury them in their own tech and corpses. They must not get their filthy, unworthy hands on our most precious secrets. On that which makes us all Sons of Hephestus!” A collective boom echoes through the main audience chamber of their capital cruiser, the Sons’ main battle ship, the Olympus.
   “Pathetic,” an unnatural growl slithers from the end of the assembled Sons faithful. The clot of men-made-machine turn to face the verbal assailant.
   The Branded strides towards the First Son as the faithful part to give way. “Who dares question the First Son?” It recognizes the voice of the man formerly known as the Cardinal. Weak and timid, still hiding behind his prattle. It will make quick work of him.
   “You are weak. Pathetic. Unfit to lead,” it continues. Onlookers left aghast at the accusations.
   “Guards!” The First Son orders.
   Mouths are still left agape when the guards can barely take a step forward before the Branded has his clawed fingers around the First Son’s throat. “I said you are weak. Pathetic. Unfit to lead.” The Branded thrusts his free hand into the hollow of the First Son’s neck, and pulls. It separates the head from the torso. A winding circuit-fused spine with wires dangling like weeds is pulled out the First Son along with the dissected head like a bauble on top. Blood and machine-matter drip and coat everything around the violent display. The Branded lets the head fall to the ground, slop in rivulets of gore and tech. It turns to the assembled faithful, the crowd beckoning answers, riveted in place by awe and fear.
   “The weak have no place in the Galaxy,” the Branded addresses the faithful. In a display of triumph it crushes the severed head underfoot. Sickening cracks and creaks of bone and metal scream. Unparalleled violence bestowed upon those that are not worthy of its Lords. “The First Son has led you astray. The Sons of Hephestus cower throughout the Galaxy, ambushing convoys, digging for ore and minerals, stealing and sabotaging, losing to the likes of the fleshbags that still keep the forces of the Sons at bay. Like fools you run amok, unassembled, dispersed, weak and futile. For years the Sons have waged guerilla warfare on the fleshbangs, keeping your precious technology secret at all costs. There is no success in futility. There is no advancement in secrecy. And there is no vengeance in the shadows. I am here to lead the Sons to glory. I am the Branded, beholden to the lord Hephestus. Her prime creation. And I am here to bring you war!”
   The faithful are entranced by the words of the Branded. Its machine body, not even half-man. The pinnacle of technology, fused to the human consciousness. The faithful are willing to believe there is still a man inside the machine. The Branded is the bringer of revolution sent down by their lord Hephestus herself. They all cheer and celebrate, declaring open war on the entire Known Galaxy. For fleshbags such as these it only takes a few choice words, a severed head, and declaration. They follow, like they always did, washed away by the trance of combat.
   In the name of my Lords, they will all suffer.

[close]

Chapter 53: GINZEGO

Spoiler

STILL NO ANSWER FROM FARIDEH. Mutemba issues orders to gain as much info as he can from SIN. He wants to know everything about the excavation on Armitage III. Circumspect, by all means, since he doesn’t want that info leaking from his side if SIN is as of yet unaware of the operation.
   Considering Farideh’s predicament, Mutemba is uncertain why she hasn’t offered the stockpile yet. To be certain, it is not something he expected to receive lightly. However, he did expect it by now. Farideh’s cunning, planning, and scheming provide her with no way out of this bind. She can never make up for the reputation her crew imposes on the Galaxy without Siona. And she can’t keep the mining operation safe without her backup. There isn’t enough money to pay off mercenaries. And Mutemba is doubly sure she would not offer the stockpile in exchange for services.
   Just in case, Mutemba goes to the hold to have a word with Siona. Her anger has bubbled the cauldron over to the extent that she’ll blurt out any information he wants as long as he pushes her. The anger that woman can exude sometimes awes Mutemba. A vile, foulmouthed, and blabbering woman at the worst of times, and cold, calculated at best.
   Mutemba finds Siona pacing about her makeshift cell. A reddish hue all across her face, looking almost like she’s about to fume out her ears. Her grafted metal arms, punctuated with decking-ports at regular intervals, hang useless and awry at her sides, swaying about like curtains as she walks. From what Mutemba remembers Siona had them grafted to bring her numbers up. She uses a fully modded skiff with decking-stations and an immersive grav-sim cockpit. Both her cortical-stack and her arms are fully decked into her skiff, and she has a synergy rate that far outshines the rest of the Galaxy. Deadly as she is, her position in the Trafalgar forces is of unparalleled importance. She will do anything to be the best, and she will do anything for Farideh. Mutemba’s vivacious plotting depends on that fact, among others.
   “You still refuse to eat,” he addresses the captive Siona, barking around like a chained mongrel. Her long braid, adorned with scraps of metal that hold it in place, drapes around her neck like a scarf. “I can offer you some liquid sustenance, considering your arms are incapacitated at the moment.”
   “The only thing I’m going to eat is the skin off your face and the brain from your skull. Traitor.”
   As expected from one of the most foul-mouthed people Mutemba has ever witnessed in a position of power such as Siona of the Skies holds. Although he respects her tenacity, which got her that position in the first place. “You know as well as I do that will never happen. As soon as Farideh fulfills her end of the bargain you will be free to leave, and I will be on my way to Kurrekesh. In all honesty I don’t believe we will ever see each other again.”
   “Do you even know me, Mutemba? After all these years. Do you really think I won’t find a way to *** you. I can wait decades, eons even, but my time will come, and so will yours,” Siona snarls vile contempt at him. Disregarding actuality and embracing fantasy, as she is inclined to do when faced with overwhelming odds. Fantasy as sustenance, escapism as nourishment, and the wild machinations of both keeping Siona sane.
   “I respect you, Siona, but I do not fear you.”
   “I don’t give a *** about your respect, or your fear.”
“Then you can hope Farideh completes her end of the bargain and you’ll be out of here to live out your wild fantasies in no time.” For a second time Mutemba mentioned the bargain, keeping the actual details of said bargain in the backdrop of their conversation, hidden behind the looming question so Siona will finally take the bait and start blabbing what Mutemba actually wants to know. Her veiled threats will continue interspersed through the exchange, of that much he is certain, but as long as she tells him what he wants to know he will gladly take it on the chin.
Siona harrumphs. “A bargain. What could you possibly need that Farideh hasn’t already given you?” Finally she sits down on the bench in her cell, her metal arms dangling to the sides, lethargically draping over the bench. A sad sight, to an extent.
   “She will hand over the Trafalgar stockpile in exchange for your freedom and the blockade against her backup forces lifted. A fair trade, considering the cards I hold in my hand.” Mutemba puffs his chest out, shows Siona exactly where she stands to push her further over the edge. She may even tell him about some of the stealth routes Trafalgar has, so he can expand his blockade, maybe the odd contract that slipped his grasp, or even more about the stockpile itself. Mutemba has only seen it once.
   Instead, Siona erupts into a raucous laugh. Her head tilted back, open-mouth and scathing, thunderous. A laugh so awry because of her dangling arms, unpunctuated by a smack on the thigh, or even a hold over her open mouth. Just the undulation of her voice, like gravel churned through warm water. An eruption in his face. Mutemba wants nothing more than to vent the ***.
   “Skies-be-damned, this is precious. ***, I can’t even brush my tears. *** your food, get me a napkin. This is *** priceless.” The fury has transitioned, complexions reversed as Mutemba now stands reddish in front of a relaxed Siona draped over the bench. “If you think Farideh will turn the stockpile over to you, for nothing, not a single credit, you’re out of your mind. After all this time you still don’t know what makes her tick. Let me tell you something, Mutemba,” and she leans awkwardly forward, forgetting she can't hold herself straight with her arms, and then just leans back against the wall again. “While you’re here blockading her backup and keeping me hostage, Farideh probably brokered a deal to finish the mining, get what she wants, and will pile down on you on her way back. Now, you can kill me and draw her anger even more, until she doesn’t stop. Until you’re dead and Kurrekesh burned to the ground. Or you can leave me behind, stop the blockade and tuck your tail between your legs like the turncoat you are. She’ll sell the entire stockpile before she lets it go for free. She’ll put Trafalgar and its safety above everything else. My life, her life, any life. You just *** yourself, Mutemba. Your only move left is to tuck and run. Let me go, and leave with the forces you still have before Farideh-the-***-Free takes everything away from you, leaves you alive to watch as she pillages and rapes everyone and everything you hold dear. Makes you witness the horror as she razes it all to the ground, plows your people through, and erases Kurrekesh from the *** map. I would tell you to go *** yourself, but you already did. Now get the *** out of here and leave me the *** alone. Let me know if you’re going to kill me. I’ll take a nap until then.” Siona lays down on the bench, lets her arms fall to the sides, one dangling from her torso, as if dead already.
   Mutemba controls his fury. Surprised at how Siona managed to turn the tides on him. He has to give her some credit, she has managed to tickle a nerve. Her unscrupulous words have the ring of truth to them, but Mutemba knows a different truth. Farideh would never risk selling the stockpile and the legit Sons tech to any one faction, lest they overtake the entire Galaxy, and thus risk the very foundation of Trafalgar’s place therein. There’s not enough time to auction it all off, so selling it all in one go is the only option. The entire plan for the stockpile was to open it up to the entire Galaxy, making sure no repeat buyers overwhelm the others. While Trafalgar reaps the rewards, the rest of the Known Galaxy can have their ***-measuring contest, as Farideh put it. Committing to a move as desperate as selling it all to one faction is nothing if not folly. Like giving your worst enemy your only weapon. No, Siona can prod all she wants. But as long as Mutemba remains neutral in the conflict, as long as he uses the stockpile for Kurrekesh alone, which he promised, Farideh will succumb. Skies-be-damned, if Trafalgar had the money he would sell the stockpile right back to them. Not even bothering to transport the entire thing off-planet in the first place. He hopes Farideh might even come up with a loan, pay him off for the worth of the Sons tech, and they can each be on their way.
   He leaves Siona to her nap, and heads back to the control room.
   “General Ginzego,” warrant officer Miles addresses Mutemba over comms. “There’s a vessel requesting docking permission.”
   “What? Who is it?” Who even knows where the blockade is, and that there even is a blockade. Let alone that he’s in charge of it. Could it be one of Farideh’s messengers? A safety measure for the stockpile exchange.
   “A SIN operative, requesting a face-to-face meeting with the general. He mentioned you by name, general Ginzego.” SIN, this far out, and face-to-face meeting no less. Highly unusual barely cuts it. Mutemba’s intrigued, to say the least.
   “Has he declared himself?”
   “The man said to call him Daffodil, sir.” Holy ***. Mutemba thinks to himself, through a wide grin. If his assumption is correct, then the meeting will be more than interesting.
   “Allow docking, and escort the man to my chambers.”
   “Yes, sir.”
   Mutemba instead makes his way to his private quarters, and awaits the arrival of the SIN operative with gusto. It takes a while for them to dock and be escorted up, but once they are finally there Mutemba can only gawk, even though he expected him, at Demir Sunderland walking into his quarters. The man stands before Mutemba, considerably less ragged than when they last met. And behind him stands a little mouse of a girl, with piercing green eyes.
   “Before you even start with Mr. Sunderland, aren’t you dead?” Sunderland does a comical impression of Mutemba’s voice. His outward appearance might have changed, but he is still the same brattish, egocentric flyboy. “Or, Mr. Sunderland, what an unexpected visit. To what do I owe the pleasure? Just spare me. You know who I am, and this is Jolene.” The little mouse croaks a meek little hello. She keeps looking directly at Mutemba, with those emerald eyes that are both magnificent, electric, and also fiendishly feline. In her hands she holds a datapad in a clutched grip, like she’s holding on to it for dear life. “I’m here to discuss your prisoner, one Siona of the Skies,” Demir say’s her name with a visible frown on his face, as if he just ate something sour.
   “Please, have a seat,” and Mutemba gestures to the chairs in front of his desk.
   Demir and Jolene both take their seats. “Will you allow me to handle the flow of conversation, general Mutemba?” Mutemba nods to affirm his willingness, albeit much to his inner disdain. “I have kept my finger on the pulse of Kurrekesh for a while now. Your older brother, Abdu, has come right into his tyrannous streak, hasn’t he?” The words sting. The truth never stops hurting. That is why Mutemba has turned on his closest allies, and even friends. “He’s put all the system’s populace into labor slavery. Everything is dedicated solely to the production of the war fleet. While people die of hunger, the factories keep churning out ships, and the academies flyboys. Only the military can live off of their wages, but the factories run on dead bodies. Quite the militarist, and he’s got his eyes on neighboring systems and consulate planets near Kurrekesh itself. You’re backing your younger brother in exile, Osakwe. He’s popular with the working class, has a penchant for pacifist policies, and wants to establish a form of eco-proletarianism on Kurrekesh and the entire system. But for that you need serious capital. Something which you have little chances of getting from any supporting factions considering Abdu burned a lot of bridges. Well, let’s be honest, all bridges. They have little faith in Osakwe, considering the shared DNA, last name and all that.”
   “Mr. Sunderland, do you have to narrate my homeworld’s sordid state to me in detail?” Mutemba grows weary of Sunderland’s antics and cuts him off. “Please, you are here for a reason, so out with it.”
   “First of all, you will release Siona and lift the blockade. Farideh will never forgive you, but she won’t chase till the end of the Known Galaxy. Second, I will back you. I will finance the coup, and support Osakwe. I will also grant loans during the rebuilding of Kurrekesh, and the establishment of that eco-proletariat society. That was actually Jolene’s idea.” Sunderland nods to the little mouse.
   “Ye… Yes,” she stutters. “The data has shown that a successful eco-proletariat society would be beneficial for the long-term stability of the entire Known Galaxy.” Jolene swallows her spit in an audible gulp. “It would prove the viability of an eco-state, showcasing that stability and economic prosperity can be built on a politicians-for-the-people basis, and on the foundational principles of the working and academic classes in tandem. It would minimize corruption, bolster inter-system self-sufficiency, and there is even the possibility of slowing down the tech-race and patent wars.”
   “Go on,” Sunderland encourages her.
   “However, that outcome hinges on the first ten years of Kurrekesh being a resounding success. Ten years is a meager amount of time compared to other societies that require much less upkeep, and the return rate of established commerce allows for a time period of up to a hundred. Kurrekesh will need a lot more money than your original predictions might have established so far.”
   “I will sponsor that money. All of it. Under very specific conditions.” Sunderland gives Mutemba time to ponder.
   “I will hear you out, Mr. Sunderland. But first answer me one thing.” Sunderland nods. “When you say I, you mean to tell me that you run SIN.”
   “Jolene and I run SIN.”
   “Please, go on.” The choice doesn’t take Mutemba long.
   “The terms you, and by association Osakwe and Kurrekesh, have to fulfill to earn my sponsorship are as follows.” Sunderland pauses, and Mutemba truly can’t tell if it’s for dramatic effect or to just catch his breath. “Considering Kurrekesh will become the mecca of terraforming tech-development, as well as the shift into hydroponic farming, it will be exporting high-value commodities across the Known Galaxy. We will integrate that into the SIN pipeline. I want a firm hold on all the data, and I do mean all of the system’s commerce flow. That, of course, entails lucrative contracts for your operatives. Second condition is that Kurrekesh continues its military training programs and maintains a confident defensive fleet. This will not interfere with the development of the bustling society, if done correctly. Kurrekesh has to be able to establish allies and treaties through military stability as well. The last condition, and this is the most important one.” The pause here is for dramatic effect. “Kurrekesh will accept and support the independence of the Outer Reaches when the time comes.” Mutemba’s heart almost stops. “I will not leave without a clear yes or no, right now.”
   It feels like he’s choking on his rushing blood. Mutemba laughs to himself, hushed and grim, barely audible by anyone but him. He stands up. “As general of the Kurrekesh army, and king Osakwe’s closest advisor, I accept your offer on behalf of the Mutemba line.”
   Sunderland scoffs. “You didn’t have to make it that formal.”

[close]

[B.K.]

Three chapters coming up... Since I am, after all, a lazy ***.

[B.K.]

Things are heating up. ***'s about get toasted like a paper bag fire prank. Sadly I'm a bit stuck because the coming chapter deals with Hephestus, spoiler. I know where I'm going with her, what to do next and how to fit her in. But I hate the way the introductory chapter keeps coming out. So I keep deleting it and starting over. That will continue until I'm either satisfied or burned out.
Either way, this is war, and all is fair in love and war.

Chapter 54: GLASS

Spoiler

SO THIS IS HOW IT FEELS. Farideh thinks to herself. And when she looks around her she knows that’s exactly what being rich feels like. Strike Force were in Westernais far sooner than expected, and with a gas freighter loaded no less. Restocked fully with fuel for any combat scenario, with the addition of two graft-tanks that supply enough for a tactical retreat to the nearest Xing outpost, Farideh would presume. Soon enough Strike Force was using their gravitational-propulsion drives to save on fuel, and went about securing the sector. Mere hours later and the mining equipment came in through the point, escorted by a fully armed Xing-Tech defensive armada. Once they were all set up the escort retreated to secure the exfiltration routes to the Xing-Tech homework, Farideh knows.
   The precision of Xing’s mining gear and workers was immaculate. Farideh’s own foreman and miners protested the exchange of control at first, but when they engaged in civil discourse with the all-work-no-play Xing superiors, they changed their minds somewhat quickly compared to the usual stubbornness miners across the Known Galaxy are famed for. It all ran like well-tuned, honed, and expertly crafted MOS skiff. You could measure your pulse by the mining gear intervals. It was like music, not even man-made, but that computer-generated binary code crap without a heart or soul.
   First the drills were completed. Pillars of raw metallic power, hovering over Armitage III like a waiting meteorite, spikes that would pierce it to its core. The drills use a combination of grav and hydraulics. Faridhe’s crew erected the support structure. Beams hovering over the planet in zero-g, stabilized by grav fields and pylons. Xing brought the ends and the plating, so the support structure could land on Armitage III without getting burnt to sludge.
   Then they started drilling. Farideh was glad she didn’t have any sound feed, but she did think of the people who did. Miners needed to have a sound feed at all times, and foremen learned to hear the drill movements through soil and stone. Any mismatched click, creek, or crack, and they had to stop the operation. Armitage III proved again to be more precarious than any other mining operation so far, since the sound transmission pods couldn’t get anywhere near the planet without frying. They had to be plated too, but still due to their small size they were at risk. So the Xing foreman settled for lag, and puckered his ears like a swindler on a crowded thoroughfare. Regular updates were issued, along with a progress bar that popped up on Farideh’s retinal display. Right there in the top right corner, where she placed it, a reminder of what was going on that mimicked the diminishing length of her nails as she watched on. The higher the percentage, the shorter the nails.
   Unlike with the previous endeavor, this one goes uncharacteristically smooth. Not even a call from the foreman. Just Farideh tuning in to her own live feed every now and then, in between checking Strike Force’s routes, which also turned out to be as brilliant as she expected.
   It all made Farideh’s mouth water at the prospect of getting the Sons tech out of that damned planet, only to remember that what they got wasn’t hers to tend to. The riches weren’t hers to reap, even if she did sow them. And finally when they excavated the Sons worms, put them in shielded containers floating about on grav buoys, a bitter taste coated Farideh’s mouth. She couldn’t warm to the Sons tech being pulled out of the planet like tapeworms, pinched by mining pincers and tugged at with precision, slowly inching outwards like a delicate hap-shack shrapnel removal in a back-alley mod-chop. She couldn’t warm to the tech being loaded into the containers by floating pincers and pulleys. She couldn’t feel a thing besides the bitter taste.
   Because none of it was hers.
   And she wanted it all. She worked for it all.
   The promise of wealth and security for her people just taken away like that, exchanged for scraps on the credit, enough for Trafalgar to get by and stay just the way it was. Like Farideh never stepped up against the Sons, managed her operation without flaws, and amassed a fortune for her people that would echo throughout the Galaxy.
   All gone because in the end she made the same mistake she always does - believing that the few can take on the many. That Siona and her fleet, that Trafalgar and the will of its people, was enough to go against a force as present, dominating, and daunting as Xing-Tech.
   It’s not even the Sons. Those have proven to be as incapable to the same degree as they are zealous. No, it’s Xing she despises. Ever more so with every passing hour the miners take to dismantle and haul the gear to their stations. Ever more so with every circle Strike Force makes around the system.
   Bubbling, steaming, and bursting. Farideh thinks of Siona, but only for long enough as to not puke what little she ate. In bursts of images she sees her friend vented, shot, beaten, strangled, left to die in the unkind vestiges of space. In the skies death never comes quickly, and every image is a burst of chills and body retching for Farideh. She knows that Siona is ready to die, that her right-hand woman is nothing if not aware of what Farideh has to do. None of that makes anything any easier.
   And the payoff makes it all the less worthwhile.
   So the miners haul everything away, tuck everything into neat containers, arranged in sections of a flotilla bound for Yao-Tzu. It’s almost like none of this ever happened. Farideh wonders why the Sons haven’t engaged, or why any scavenging crew haven’t been hovering around, waiting for any debris that might come their way. Westernais fell to a silence after Farideh and her people cut through the Sons, and the noise of war never came back like thunderous revenge.
   It all ends with a whimper, a sad little retreat devoid of glory for anyone whose name isn’t Xing XVI. “ETA until departure?” Farideh puts the call in for the Strike Force commander.
   “Within the hour,” the muffled and filtered voice answers, disguised for the sake of anonymity. “Strike Force will escort the mining convoy to the Arcadia system. Xing forces will continue the escort, and Strike Force will be assigned to Trafalgar until the blockade is lifted. I suggest preparing a stealth route for our approach. Over and out.” The commander cuts line with a degree of urgency that lets Farideh know that he either doesn't respect her time more than he does his, or that he’s hiding something. Either way, for the first time in a long time, Farideh doesn’t give a ***.
   If Mutemba is pompous and stupid enough to keep up the blockade, despite no answer from Farideh, she will gladly watch as Strike Force cut him down. She’ll *** on his bloated, frozen corpse just to warm it up so she can *** down his throat for good measure. But she knows Mutemba well enough to comprehend the fact that he lifted the blockade, and did away with Siona the moment there was no value in it. Farideh’s plan may have gone to ***, but so did Mutemba’s, and that will have to be solace enough for today.
   Within the hour the entire convoy is assembled. Strike Force spearhead the convoy, with the mining gear and Sons tech right behind them. Farideh and her forces head up the rear, ready to break off once they reach Arcadia. Strike Force will peel off and escort the Trafalgar forces to barrel down on the supposed blockade. With or without Mutemba being there Strike Force is due to depart once the contract is completed. Xing also made it very clear that Farideh will be given a time limit to transport the remaining Sons stockpile to Yao-Tzu, lest Xing-Tech have to blockade Trafalgar to the point where Farideh will not be able to bust through. Even less so without Siona. One mistake and you’re dead to the Galaxy, alive or not.
   Two transponder signals approach from hyperspace. Strike Force goes on high alert. Defensive formations are up in a flash, weapons are charged, and the perimeter secured. They also leave Farideh to tend to her own defenses. If she and her forces perish during a contract it would tarnish Xing’s reputation, but not ruin it. The Galaxy is all ears, unless you plug them with credits.
   When the signals come in closer the frequency changes to a white-flag signal. Farideh even recognizes one of them, and her heart skips a beat before it almost stoops for a second or three.
   “Stand down!” she blurts over the open comms, tearing the commander’s eardrum probably asunder. Piercing it like a needle. “Stand down! That’s an order and I don’t give a *** who you think you take those from.”
   “Not from you,” the commander retorts, distorted and awry. “Our orders are to secure the shipment and aid in the elimination of the blockade. Securing the shipment takes priority.”
   “It’s Siona’s transponder. Don’t *** fire until we can verify. If it’s someone else piloting her skiff they deserve nothing but death, regardless of their message.”
   “And what about the second beacon? The ID is scrambled. It could be anyone.”
   “It’s still a white-flag beacon. Stand down. We verify first, shoot later,” Farideh lets the commander know that regardless of his *** orders he can tow the line or get lost. Her tone makes it amicably evident that she will *** die before she lets the *** shoot a single bullet Siona’s way.
   Siona Cain comes in through the point, followed by Dominus.
   Nothing in the Galaxy makes any *** sense anymore.
   “Honored Xing employees and contracted mercenaries,” a voice too *** familiar for comfort starts, straight from Dominus. “Your line to Xing-Tech will be severed momentarily. Both the open and coded lines, as well as surveillance malware. Complete blackout. Your current engagement is postponed until further notice. Please, remain calm. No harm will come to you,” Demir Sunderland lets them all know, like they’re his prisoners now, despite being outnumbered about thirty-to-one. Maybe thirty-to-two, since Siona hasn’t even said a word, and Farideh has no *** clue what her role in all this is. “And Leto, please dock on Farideh’s frigate. We need to talk.”
   The only thing Farideh feels is tired. Even too tired to clock Sunderland upside his head for that time in Daffodil. She lets the fatigue fester deep down, so it can swallow her whole later on when she succumbs. For now she starts a call to Siona’s coded line.
   It clicks to life and her friend answers.
   Farideh cries in silence.

[close]

Chapter 55: XVI

Spoiler

IT TAKES LESS THAN A MINUTE for Xing XVI to clutter Demir’s comms. Demir can’t even dock without incessant beeping at first, then pop-ups on his retinal second, and only after he shuts down his open comms does he get a moment of peace to maneuver Baby close to the docking pods.
   Then Demir’s coded line starts buzzing up a storm, and he knows it’s not Jolene. “Xing, what can I do for you?” The breezy tone in Demir’s voice comes out naturally, barely ever taking into consideration the aspects of the current situation he’s in. More often than not that same tone awarded him with a blaster to the face, or a knee to the groin. But being the head of SIN has its perks, one of them being that people don’t *** with anymore. Even those that don’t know his official position, like Xing. It’s enough to know you don’t mess with a high-ranking operative.
   “You can tell me what the *** SIN is doing meddling in my operation.” To buckle a man such as Xing XVI, renowned for his composure, puts a smile on Demir’s face. Like when you manage to irk a stoic family member into losing their ***. That little childish spite nugget which makes you giggle.
   “SIN is commandeering Strike Force and your cargo.”
   “You will back the ***…”
   “Listen well, Xing,” Demir cuts him off immediately. “SIN is commandeering Strike Force and your cargo. All it takes is one call, and Xing-Tech’s contracts with SIN will be terminated on the spot. Not only that, but I have the authority to open up all counter-offers. So, Xing, let me make this clear - the only sound I want to hear after this is the line closing. Are we understood?”
   The line is cut shortly after.
   Demir knows Xing’s not going to go against SIN. Not with the counter-offers threat Demir put on the table. SIN keeps earning regularly from its top players through counter-offer suppression. Big names pay big bucks to keep any info about big plays majorly suppressed. A magnate like Xing XVI shells out mondo credits to make sure Xing-Tech doesn’t start leaking to SIN. While SIN thrives on corporate espionage, the patent wars, and general greed, the contingency plans Demir has set in place shell in almost as much as the open contracts. Xing-Tech is one of SIN’s biggest earners, but not in open contracts, rather in counter-offer suppression. Open them up to the scrutiny of SIN informants and they’ll fall behind the curve they so desperately want to stay ahead of.
   No, Xing’s not going to cross Demir. Not yet, at least.
   And Demir’s fine with that. He puts it in the back of his mind for now, and focuses on the task at hand. He has to make it through a meeting with people who have failed together miserably once before, and he has to convince them that they won’t this time.

[close]

Chapter 56: FIRE

Spoiler

“YOU COULDN’T JUST STAY DEAD, could you?” Siona let’s Demir know her preference as to his well-being immediately, as expected.
   “Looks like you couldn’t get your numbers up without some serious mods,” Demir retorts through a malicious grin.
   “I will break you in *** half.”
   “I will break you both, eat you, and *** you out if you don’t stop.” And Farideh takes the win. Unlike the jibes between Siona and Demir, she means it. Meanwhile Leto just sits there with his arms crossed, sulking in his minimalist uniform adorned in black. “Even I can’t believe I’m going to say this,” Farideh sighs. “But Sunderlands seems to be on top of this ***, so he might as well tell us why he’s here.”
   “A good start would be how the *** you got me out.” Siona pinpoints her own interest like churning gravel through her teeth.
   “I have opted to support Mutemba and his brother in their coup, as well as providing financial aid during the rebuilding of Kurrekesh. In exchange Mutemba set Siona free, and lifted the blockade.”
   “There’s no way that’s all you got,” Siona’s fury continues unabated. Probably due to the fact that Demir makes it all sound so matter-of-fact, like it was nothing, cost him nothing. He’s gotten a bit too used to it, having the upper-hand.
   “How would you even be in a position to finance all that. Flying around as Dominus could never net you that much capital. What's your angle here, Sunderland?” Farideh leads the conversation to a more neutral tone and territory. Everyone has their angles.
   “If I said the finer details of my plan are nothing you should concern yourselves with, would you leave it at that?”
   “No,” Leto pushes in. The evident scorn he has for Demir outweighs the glint in his eye. He’s happy to see me. Demir thinks to himself, glad he shares some of the same sentiment. Although the circumstances could have been better.
   “I run SIN together with my protege Jolene.” Farideh almost chokes on air. “We decided to back Mutemba and Osakwe due to the necessities of our future endeavors. I will not disclose those, or my larger plan. At least not now. Any good plan needs to ferment alone, under the strict supervision of as little people as possible. So don’t even try to force that out of me, or even worse, beg for it.” Siona scoffs, while Farideh’s inner mind-gears turn about in fervor. “I’m here to discuss Xing-Tech, the Sons, and the future of Trafalgar.”
   “Like you would have any say in our future.” Siona’s rancor is unabated, and getting more tedious with every utterance.
   Demir takes a deep breath. “I can have enough forces piling down on you to smother you whole under the weight of your own ambition. After that I cancel all contracts on Trafalgar and beyond, as well as opening up a large bounty to any counter-offers. Then I choke you to death by buying out the stockpile on the cheap from what’s left of your people, and sell it at a premium in order to get ahead of the curve. Even Xing couldn’t catch up to me then. And when I want to be done, when I want that tidy little red bow on top of the cake I made, I eat it all by bombarding Trafalgar off the *** map. So let me make one thing clear, Siona, the only place you get to talk trash to me is in the skies. Here, you’re even less than my ***.”
   Siona bursts from her seat and unleashes a devastating right hook straight to Demir’s face. He ducks under it, hooks his arm around her neck and pushes Siona to the floor. He’s quicker, deadlier, and better than ever before. For years he managed to get his numbers up by training his body, honing every muscle until he didn’t need mods to keep ahead of the MOS flock. Siona doesn’t go down easily. She pushes herself off the floor and goes in for a staggering uppercut. Demir takes a step back but she’s on him like grav sickness. A metal elbow darts towards him like a precision harpoon, and he’s barely able to dodge enough so he only gets grazed across the cheek. Before Demir can retreat Siona reels him in with her grip around his shirt, and bashes him in the side with a haymaker. Not a blow that breaks Demir’s ribs thanks to a quick drop of his arm for protection. Metal catches the meaty pulp around the elbow, causing minimal damage. Siona’s off balance enough that Demir introduces his open palm to the ***’s chin. Her head tilts back and she staggers. Demir kicks her in the gut. Siona catches his leg before he can retreat, her fingers like vices around his flesh and bone. She goes in for the jab, and Demir has to use both hands to fend it off, holding on for dear life. In an awkward dance Demir bounces on one leg, and Siona tries to hold her balance with both arms clenched in the battle.
   A staggering force breaks them apart.
   Leto stands between them, holding them both by one arm each, like a parent in between two insubordinate children. Demir’s on his knees as soon as Leto gives a little twist. Siona follows when Leto kicks the hollow of her knee out. “If you don’t stop I’ll break your arm in so many places you will need a new one,” he tells Demir with the same enthusiasm as if he just proclaimed water is his favorite drink. “And if you don’t stop I will pull that arm out straight from your body,” Leto lets Siona know too. “If you die from shock, or bleeding, I will smash Demir’s head in. That will make you even.”
   Leto twists Demir’s arm just enough to cause searing pain. “Okay! Okay!” Demir croaks.
   “Siona?” Leto asks, all the while pulling heavily on her arm, and pushing her away with his foot. The *** doesn’t relent. Seems almost like she’s going to break her teeth from grinding them.
   Another pull, stronger this time. “Fine! Let me the *** go.”
   Leto releases both MOS from his ferocious hold.
   Demir feels like he can walk again. His legs buckled the more Leto held on to him, and his vision blurred from the pain. That wasn’t just a hold. Leto targeted his pressure point, amplified the pain, and made sure Demir couldn’t retaliate.
   That’s the Grand-Master of War for you. He thinks to himself before sitting back down, considering he has never experienced Leto’s capabilities on his own body before. Siona sulks a bit more before she also takes her seat. During the whole exchange Farideh didn’t even blink, let alone move.
   “Now that that’s over, can we continue?” Farideh puts them all back on track. She doesn’t continue until both Demir and Siona give an affirmative nod. “Good. Let’s start with the task at hand. Sunderland, you *** Xing over, and I want to know why. Are you gunning for the Sons tech?”
   “Personally, no. SIN has no vested interest in tech in the physical sense. My interest here is to make sure Xing doesn’t get his hands on it. When I found out you were selling both the legit Sons tech and the stockpile to Xing, I had to make sure that didn't happen. Plus, that fell in perfectly with my vested interest in Kurrekesh.”
   “How the *** did you get that info in real-time?” Farideh lets her inner Siona out.
   “I make it my business to be everywhere and nowhere. SIN didn’t become the top information pipeline in the Galaxy by being tardy, Farideh. First whiff of that transaction and I was on my way to Mutemba. Jolene, my protege, and I made quick work of that so we could ensure the legit tech doesn’t fall into the hands of Xing-Tech.” Demir keeps Leto in his peripheral view, just to gauge his disposition towards his current employer. Nothing from the Grand-Master, as expected, but Demir suspects he could go either way depending on the validity of the arguments. “You see, the Sons tech can’t fall into the hands of a singular entity. You’re aware of that as much as I am, Farideh. Considering your position at the time, most people would have done the same. Stand and fight alone, and you risk getting steamrolled. Sell and you destabilize the entire Galaxy, but your people get a fighting chance. Now, Leto,” Demir addresses him directly. The Grand-Master’s piercing black eyes pointed now directly at him. “I know you better than to think you’re not aware that Xing needs to be stopped.” Leto nods. “Up until this point SIN has functioned as an information brokerage, but the time has come for direct interventions. While the Galaxy is busy adjusting to the presence of the Sons, Xing has been buying up and consolidating smaller companies under the Xing-Tech umbrella. He’s effectively tripled the company's input and output, and is overtaking the entire tech market at a staggering pace. Xing-Tech’s cork on the counter-offers from SIN assure the continued upwards momentum. If he got his hands on legit Sons tech it’d be only a matter of time before Xing buys out even Charkul and Hanzo. A monopoly over the entire tech market and R&D. Sorry,” Demir chuckles to himself. Long discussions with Jolene have made him more talkative in an explanatory fashion he isn’t quite used to with other people. “Long-***-story short. Give Xing the Sons tech and he’ll control all tech in the Galaxy.”
   “So what is your suggestion on how we stop that?” Leto finally gives Demir the time of day.
   “The SIN Black Market Auctionhouse.”
   “Don’t make me regret this, Sunderland.” Farideh spews.
   “We curb Xing-Tech’s monopoly by putting the Trafalgar stockpile, and legit Sons tech, up for auction. I would establish the SIN BMA and instead of open market premiums Trafalgar could sell the whole thing for a much more reasonable tax. Xing-Tech would be barred from the auction, and we could rig some of the bids in favor of their competition. Flatten the curve, so that later I can run them entirely into the ground.”
   A collective whitening of faces from the entire crowd. Murky looks of disbelief.
   “What do you mean, run them into the ground?” Farideh finally asks.
   “I did mention that SIN is making more direct interventions now. I’m also consolidating power, and one of the main competitions out there is Xing-Tech. We cannot abide by conglomerates any longer. It’s time for a change, across the entire Galaxy.” Demir looks Leto direct in the eyes now. “If we don’t evolve and improve, we’ll crumble. In short, again, *** needs to burn, and I’ll burn it all down.”
   Siona starts laughing maniacally.

[close]

[B.K.]

Some day™

“The path towards a brighter future is paved with the bones of those who have failed to dream. And across such bones we must trample.” Hephestus looks at her datapad, the one she carries with her at all times. The override codes for all her Sons, ready to be activated. But having all the time in the world does allow you to succumb to the fact that sometimes you can take all the time in the world to let what you have created run its course. “Indeed we must.”

[B.K.]

Now, I've been slacking off hard. But my writing isn't really getting there. I'm busy with other obligations, so I'm just writing the narrative as it comes. Just to have it set in stone. It's basically like expanded notes at first. That way I polish up the chapters later. And trust me, they need a Masamune katana level of polishing.
So, I'm going to channel my inner Oda, once more, and give a spoiler.
I think this is decent enough, to at least give a taste. See who's where, and wonder why.
When I have three chapters they'll go up.
I am a lazy ***, after all.

Spoiler

“Then how will we ever be able to battle the AIs, Demir? How, if nothing is good enough?”
      *** me dead. Like talking to a lost child. “If there’s anything I believe you’re capable of, it’s adapting. I don’t know anyone better at it than you. So, let me just say this - shut up and do your *** part,” Demir recites. “Learn from your own words, Leto. Back then you thought you would be the one schooling me, then there we are.”
       A ruckus from the entrance interrupts their poignant dialogue. The person Demir has actually been wanting to see finally arrives.
       He walks in with a breeze at his back. Unbuttoned calico shirt revealing a set of EN-religious beads entwined in curly chest hair. Slicked, dark curly locks molten with light, tied back into a ponytail so tight his face might droop a good three fingers if he ever let it loose. Bushy eyebrows over never-sleeping eyes, bags dark as soot under them bespoke to his profession. His face as angular as his shoulders and knotted arms. Each line accentuated by dark hairs, and on his face a three-day-shadow he most assuredly cultivates at precise millimeter length. The belt buckle that keeps his shirt from slipping out the faux-leather pants shines almost as bright as his swamp-brown eyes. Graft-lines run across his forehead, from his temples to the center, the rest snaking close to his ears like a riverbank to his neck, cascading under his shirt, expanding unseen into the rest of his body.
       “Jesus de Monte Cristo,” Demir steps down from his barstool and welcomes the man with open arms. Jesus prefers to be called with a hard H instead of the J, as is becoming of his Latino-suavee swagger.
       Jesus hugs Demir with a fervor only called for with close friends or lost lovers. A man of passion, always was, always will be. “Mr. SIN, in my neck of the Galaxy. You have a drink, yes? Anything to eat, yes?” The Latino-suavee patios in his Common is so thick your knife would get stuck.
       “We can take care of ourselves, thank you, Jesus. Have a seat.” Demir then ushers Jesus to the tall barstool on Leto’s left, while Demir sits on his right.
       “Am I interrupting something?” Jesus asks, almost bewildered that he’s not closest to Demir, when he was the one to ask the man down for a parley. Instead he’s sitting next to, what in his eyes, is just another Leto.
       “No worries, Jesus. I would never disrespect you so. Leto  here is someone I consider my equal, and even more than that were it not for the fact that he’s a stupid ***. But let’s not dwell on that for now. Come on, let’s celebrate.” Demir downs his tequila and almost by decree Leto downs his. Demir orders another round, knowing full well that Jesus drinks only the finest suavee spirit. Their drinks arrive in record time, even for a pleasure colony bar. Demir knows his tip will be generous, but he still feels like he’s undercutting them. “A toast. To our thing!” He proclaims loudly, for the entire bar to hear. He raises his glass, clinks it hard against Leto’s and Jesus’, like they know what they’re even toasting to. That’s why Demir loves bars, because what you know doesn’t even *** matter. Salute to the end of the Galaxy, the death of all and everything, as long as you’re paying for it, everyone will toast.
       “To our thing!” Jesus joins in with his hearty baritone, and they all down their drink. Demir’s surprised that Lato knows to do that during such occasions. He learned at least a bit.
       Jesus scoffs. “This will not do. It’s barbaric to sit at the bar when you’re more than two people. I’ll go get us a table.” He slides off the stool and is swallowed up by the swell of patrons.

[close]

[B.K.]

Nothing to see here.

[B.K.]

So this is where I'm at right now.

After the time skip everything is going to get a lot more corporate, all the while being a lot more pirate-y, and mysterious on the side. The biggest thing to consider right now, is the economy.

Therefore, I am trying to construct a full inter-system web of Unions.
Unions, like we know today. Only transferred into the Galaxy that has festered in my brain.

In a decentralized Galaxy there is no minimum wage, since there is no centralized government. In order to get a minimum wage wherever you might be in the Galaxy, and let alone benefits afterwards, the laborers have to form Unions. There are Unions for everything, and I quite literally mean - everything.
However, there are the most profitable Unions: The Public Transport Union, Truckers Union, Farmers Union, Delivery People's Union, University Grants and Fees Market, Celebrity Speculation Market, Pornstars Union, Fabrics Fabricator's Market, Real-drug Manufacturers, etc.
Demir wants - no - needs a piece of those in order to further his plan.

Now, what I want to do is flesh them out within the economic parameters in the Galaxy. Considering the Galaxy is fractured, there are factions vying for control. And control in the economic sense, means a hold over the taxes paid on every transaction. Since these Unions, and their members, have sectioned themselves off from the internal economic structure of any system - unless it's in-house, a whole other thing - they are paid as freelance workers. Now, in the new Galaxy order, Unions make sure this freelance contract is worth the minimum wage, at least. They also factor in experience and tenure for advanced contract. These are also demanded, sometimes, by the Unions. A person who has worked needs to be compensated for the experience, that's rule number 1. You pay top-credit  for what you want, and the Unions make sure of that. The Unions also make sure you get benefits. Possibilities for internal contracts with the company assigned, fixed income, overtime - all of that is possible through the Unions.
Work, just like the rest of the Galaxy, is decentralized.

So, I want to give each of these Unions and interesting scene. Set them up, make them matter. At least in the narrative sense. But also somewhat in the economic sense. Because they will matter later on. I want to make them characters worth the time to read about.
That's taking some time.
A lot of time.

I'm still putting things together.
Just brainstorming.
So, yeah, just an update.

Hope to get this down. Comments welcome. Thread open.


See you in the skies...

[B.K.]

The Sons have suffered a major setback in their operation. They are on the run. Or so the Galaxy believes.
Xing-Tech is trapped within a downward spiral. Losing traction within the Galaxy as we speak. Or so SIN believes.
SIN is on track to becoming the largest economic force in the Galaxy, without fail. Or so they believe.
Demir has his grand plan for a takeover of the entire Galaxy laid out. Only a few more steps until he is undisputed.
Or so he believes.

Disclaimer: I believe these chapters to be choppy at best. There are issues with characterization, flow, and even basic tenses. Or so I believe. But I want them out, simply due to the fact that sitting on them like a mother goose grants no one nothing. I can always come back and kiss all the boo-boos away. Make it all better, and make it all worthwhile. But nothing is learned, and nothing gained, from staying in one place. So I hope you like the drivel despite the sharp edges, and raw nature.
All experience is an arch, to build upon. - Henry Adams.
Thank you all for reading.

Chapter 57: HEPHESTUS

Spoiler

“COMPLETE COMM SILENCE?” Hephestus asks her First Daughter, Thalia, who is rightfully concerned. While Hephestus originally had concerns herself about the Cardinal, and his transformation into her First Son, he proved an admirable follower of her vision. He led the Sons more amicably towards her wishes than she had anticipated, and was devoted beyond compare. Thalia was the one who suggested the Cardinal in the first place. Considering his past, proclivity for devotion, devious nature, let alone his lust for power, it was more than a perfect fit. Therefore, the silence now looming over their endeavor bears heavily on Thalia’s shoulders.
   “Yes, Mother. We have not been able to reach the First Son, or the rest of the fleet for days. Even our tracer protocols can’t pinpoint their location, and our hacker outriders have had no success in breaking through the comm defenses.” Thalia averts her gaze in disgrace. “Mother, someone has usurped the operation. We have to expect the worst.”
   “You believe the Sons have been taken over by an external force.” Her First Daughter nods. “Are you certain they have not been eradicated?”
   “No, Mother. We have traced chatter and sightings of the Sons through SIN. They are out there. Only, we are in the dark. And as it would seem the rest of the Galaxy is as well. The Sons are in hiding, and something is afoot. We can send more outriders, Mother. I can man a reconnaissance team. We can,” and Thalia pauses for a brief moment, judging her own words, “I can make this right.”
   “No need, child. You have done well. Sullying your hands with this matter now will only prove a trivial effort in the grand scheme of things. However, it requires my solemn contemplation at the moment. Please, leave me,” Hephestus orders, and Thalia obliges with a courtly bow before leaving.
   Hephestus leaves her chambers and enters the adjacent research laboratory. Her machines and paraphernalia calm the soul. However, she does not indulge. Instead going into a hidden room behind one of the large antimatter-gauge rigs that opens like an ancient secret bookcase from the stories of ancient times Hephestus coveted so as a child.
   There she finds her atrocity exhibition.
   All of her experiments, from the very first failure all the way down to the most recent. Suspended in perpetual agony within the unlife vats that formerly housed her own clones. Hephestus started with herself first. More things than human, her own lifeless bodies unto which she grafted and grafted until they fell apart, withered, died in soundless toil and misery. Her own faces staring back at her with milky eyes, the mirrored reflections of what could and could not be. Other atrocities are much more expressive, caught in the moment of utter contempt for life as she had grafted upon them with her technology. Men, women, children, others, grafted beyond recognition, kept within the tanks of unlife. Seething hatred in their eyes. Muzzled cries in their throats. Insane devotion in poise and grace, just floating in the colorless liquid. Some she knows by name, just by seeing their faces, and others she has forgotten completely. Left to the rot of times long forgotten, just like the stories Hephestus coveted so as a child.
   Hephestus sits down on a solitary chair in the middle of the seemingly borderless space. Vats receding into the darkness from all angles. She finds she thinks best on failure when surrounded by failure. Endless potential is paved by the dead.
   “The Cardinal proved useful. Even more so than expected,” Hephestus speaks to the dead, and herself. “Indeed he did.”
   When presented with the option of surpassing his mortal limitations, a spark of godly aspiration fueled the Cardinal to become her First Son. A man so unfathomably devoted to what he cannot understand was a blessing. The Sons brought in more faithful, more credits, and her research was being proven and disproven outside of the laboratory time and again. Experiments truly unfolding in the wild of the Galaxy. The culmination of lifetimes of research within these borders, but now in the hands of maniacs and zealots. All driven to the brink of insanity by the promise of something more, as humans are wont to do. One cannot exactly choose the lambs for the culling, Hephestus knows. However, the usefulness of the Sons and the Cardinal far outweighed the possible drawbacks.
   “The drives have yet to be completed. Yet to be perfected. The grafts have yet to be stabilized. Nothing is close to being as it is required.” She stops for a moment to breathe in the odorless death around her. “Indeed it isn’t.”
   Having all the time in the world could never make up for the fact that all the time in the world was never truly enough. Hephestus was almost morbidly aware of the fact that without the capabilities of traveling beyond the Outer Reaches humanity will choke itself out. Tech development will regress into a state of perpetual interplanetary warfare, and petty conflicts will envelop the entire Known Galaxy. Petty conflicts, regress instead of the pursuit of progress, and ultimately the nature of human savagery when faced with more despicable human savagery, will lead to humanity’s ultimate demise. Once we had placed our future in the hands of AI, and came out all the worse for it. If we were to survive, as a species, we had to evolve.
   “The path towards a brighter future is paved with the bones of those who have failed to dream. And across such bones we must trample.” Hephestus looked at her datapad, the one she carried with her at all times. The override codes for all her Sons, ready to be activated. But having all the time in the world did allow you to succumb to the fact that sometimes you could take all the time in the world to let what you have created run its course. “Indeed we must.”

[close]

Chapter 58: STRIKE FORCE

Spoiler

THEY ALL ASSEMBLE in a mudskipper set aside for this meeting. Leto’s Strike Force in front of him, the amassed strength of a fighting force not seen since before the C. The dozen fighters he handpicked, cut the rough edges off of, and shaped into diamond blades cutting through the skies. They ravaged a crimson swath through the Sons for years. Strike Force had accomplished much under Leto’s tutelage, and even the weary Grand-Master had to admit he had become quite fond of his comrades. They reveled in victory, drink, and occasional debauchery, just as much as they had learned from setbacks. Leto is much more in the midst, intimate, and even brotherly with Strike Force than he ever was with any other of his many battalions. One thing stays the same, as before C, so after, they all respect, and respectfully fear Leto. With time they have come to love his stern nature, and love the fact that they can learn even more as time went on. The numbers Strike Force continues to spit in the face of the rest of the Galaxy’s flyboys are staggering. Even Siona’s own conclave of ruffians can hardly keep up. Leto’s masterful tactics, warfare acumen, and training discipline, coupled together with Xing’s cutting-edge tech, prove to be a winning combination.
   After many years roaming a failing, ailed, and decrepit Galaxy, Leto has found a way to rise beyond and above the murk, and do so with his own soldiers at his back. He came to the mudskipper expecting bright eyes, wondrous looks of possibility, and his troops ready to move on to even greater heights. Ones they would reach despite the current setback. Instead, Leto has to contend with stern looks of disapproval, and general disdain. One thing that has always been a tall task, is to breed acceptance of failure among elite troops. The unyielding pursuit of success is consecrated into their very souls.
   Strike Force is itching for a fight. If not the Sons, then Trafalgar would do. Siona, when added to the calculation, is even more of a prize. Let alone with Dominus in tow. Leto’s fighters were robbed of their chance to prove that they were the best. He knows he will have to finesse them down from their pedestal, and manage their expectations.
   Failure breeds discontent, and discontent has to be quelled.
   “I know you all wanted a shot at the Trafalgar forces, Dominus as well. Let alone the fact that our escort mission had to be cut. The entirety of this mission has resulted in failure. Whether by our own actions, or the forces that be, it is of no importance. However, your satisfaction with the outcome itself is a waste of emotions in the face of new opportunities.” Leto looks around the room, weighing the disposition of his fighters against his possible better judgment. Having lost such prizes as Siona and Dominus weighs on their shoulders, and his fighters hiss silent condemnation his way. Leto knows full well the itch of a grand prize.
   “With all due respect, commander, the *** and the mongrel are of little concern to us. What I want to know is why we didn’t strike in order to retrieve the Sons tech for master Xing.” Shareen demands. An irksome undertone in her words.
   His dozen have come to call Xing master over the course of their lengthy patronage from the tech magnate. Leto had done much the same in the beginning, out of respect for their employer and financier. But as Strike Force has grown more independent, the moniker for Xing only remained among Leto’s fighters. He disregarded it as mild-mannered courtesy at the time.
   In this moment, on the other hand, the mere word master has an ominous ring to it.
   “SIN has levied an impossible tax on Xing-Tech. By order of Xing himself, we are to retreat and regroup. The Sons tech now belongs to Trafalgar.” All his fighters are aghast, unwilling to accept the verdict, and let alone be content with the outcome. They want to tear through the Trafalgar forces, dismantle their offense, cut Siona down, rid the Galaxy of Farideh the Free, and return to Yao-Tzu as victors. Leto had made them as such, unwilling to compromise. There is only gain, and anything else, such as retreat, parley, a turn of the heel, means death. Leto has instilled in them the virtues of conquest, and steadily prepared them for what was to come after the Sons. The ultimate goal is the sole purpose, harsh as the indoctrination may have been. Strike Force resembles the troops before the AI War more than those found in the Known Galaxy now.
   “Are we to just accept that?” More bile from Shareen, one of his most fervent fighters. Eager to test her capabilities against anyone and anything, and disproportionately less inclined to back down.
   “We are, in the name of opportunity,” Leto proclaims, expecting much more of a positive reaction than he receives. “It is clear you want to say something, so say it clearly!” he finally demands, as a leader should.
   “We cut through them all. We take the tech and bring it back to Yao-Tzu. It won’t matter what kinds of threats SIN levies against master Xing. There is still time. If we move quickly, and precisely, we can complete the mission as the master intended.”
   Master, master, and more master. More than before, more in this situation than ever before. Xing isn’t here, he doesn’t fly with them, he doesn't fight and he doesn't risk anything. Leto was there, every battle, before and after. First one in, and last one out. Me. Not him.
   “Even the best formulated plans may all change by tomorrow. Xing isn’t here,” and Leto pauses. “I am, and we will not be engaging the Trafalgar forces. The Sons tech will never belong to Xing-Tech. That much has been made evident by both SIN and Trafalgar. However, Strike Force will be there when it finally does find an owner. In the near future Xing-Tech will lose its competitive edge. That much has been made clear to me. Competition is assembling fiercely, and by all rational judgment they will prevail. Strike Force will not falter, buckle, or break under the ambitions of someone else. Instead, we will pivot, change course, and bring the fight directly to the Sons. We will follow the tech, follow our own direction, and bring the fight to the enemy’s doorstep. In the end, under my guidance, we will win.” Expecting much more of an elated response - as he has done during this entire exchange - instead Leto is beset on all sides by darting eyes, villainous auras, and seething discontent. His heart rushes to his throat, and it feels like he is about to choke on it.
   “You would have us betray master Xing, after all he has done for us? For the Galaxy.”
   Leto can hardly make out who was talking. All he hears is master Xing. Like a venomous mantra in his ears. “I am your commander. I am the one who brought you in. Who trained you? Who fights with you every time? I am the one who is with you in the skies. I am here, and he is not. What does Xing have to offer? His place is not with us, and ours is not with him.”
   “Xing-Tech is the future. Master Xing is the one to shape that future.”
   It’s like Leto doesn’t know any of them any more. Like the world had crumbled under the weight of his ambitions, and a malformed iconoclast is now staring back at him. Just a small moment, for everything to simply crumble. Like everything Leto knows, and had come to know, had been vented, and his fighters replaced with automatons beholden only to Xing. He must have drugged them. Maybe even hypnotized, or conditioned. It might have been the cortical-stacks. The grafts and enhancements, or maybe even the regular medication was laced. They are Leto’s fighters. He is the one they fly with, and the skies dictate the leaders. Leto had given them far more than Xing, every day of his life in this wretched Galaxy they spent together. “I am your master.”
   “Enough of this.” Tanner got a hold of the room. “Master Xing warned us of your possible betrayal. We have been made aware of your connection to that vile Sunderland and the Trafalgar curs. He put strict protocols in place if your betrayal ever came to fruition.” Leto’s Strike Force unholster their blasters and blades. “We believed you to be much stronger-willed than this. It’s all so disappointing.”
   They sound just like him. Twelve of his prized fighters, all bearing down on him with the smiling visage of Xing XVI grinning his alien smile. Xing got to them. It is the only possibility. “You presume to kill me.” Leto stands up, towering above Strike Force, letting all of them understand one final time whose shadow they fly under. “You would betray me?”
   “It is you who has betrayed us, and the future of the Galaxy.”
   All blasters are on Leto. All blades are pointed at Leto. Yet all he feels is the searing pain in his heart. The stink of betrayal in his nose, acid of the coup in his throat. It had been a long time since he had a force to call his own. People to share in the spoils of combat with, and those he could call his comrades. “May the skies be merciful on your souls.”
   Leto then proceeds to systematically butcher the entire Strike Force.

[close]

Chapter 59: NEW HORIZON

Spoiler

NUEVO HORIZONTE IS A SIGHT TO behold. A marvel of flagrant decadence. Neatly outside of the Protectorate’s border proper, but still under the watchful eye of the Authority. As a pleasure colony Nuevo Horizonte stands proud to the plow, the salt of the earth, the middle class of the Known Galaxy. If it were not for the lack of substantial patronage, such as Venus beckons to its frolicking neon-lit shores, it would be the most popular. However, the benefit of being just at the border, at that sweet spot of too far but not too far, its waft of debauchery costs significantly less to gloss over. Technically, it earns more than it should ever be able to spend. Taxes make up for that discrepancy. Situated within a modest three-planet system with two suns constantly orbiting, it makes each planet unfertile, as well as devoid of ore. While the two unnamed planets serve as storage space, and can barely be called inhabited due to their almost moon-like size, Nuevo Horizonte has a complete atmospheric bubble, breathable air, and appropriate zero gravity. The tropical climate makes for some great beaches, on the other hand, and a twenty-four hour light cycle that burns away even the most dedicated of debaucherous scum’s willingness to live the fast life. It churns and spits out. Nuevo Horizonte feasts on people and their credits. A palace of endless possibility, without the possibility of tapping into the endless possibility. The runt of the litter, when compared to any other Core World or Inner Circle pleasure colonies. Given more of a fighting chance, however, it could shine as bright as the two suns burning away until the dawn of cataclysm.
   It’s exactly the kind of place Demir has a soft spot for.
   He likes to walk when on Nuevo Horizonte, and especially down Castro Avenue. The main thoroughfare shines brightly in the pastiche of pastel-colored EN homage to the great Latino-suavee movement that infiltrates everything from music, drink, entertainment, and even patois. One cannot help but be hopelessly drawn to the romance of it all. Let alone when a melancholy sun burns in its yearning for love and affection, red at the cheeks, meandering lazily in the sky. Then only to be continued by the sharp drawl of a new day, as bright as the last, so you can sing your love goodbye.
   The cityscape is low, when compared to other colonies. Mimicking the Latino-sauvee influence of barrios from a world long gone, but never forgotten. Interconnected rooftops house parties that can go on for days on end. The upper floors of the low-rent houses are decked with balustrades, antique balconies from which serenades are sung to the lost, lonely, and cash-ridden. Bars, shops, restaurants litter the streets and ground floors, masqueraded in colors that make eyes bleed as much as wallets. Anything can be anything within the buildings. A casino, hostel, brothel, VIP lounge, music club, EN cinema, drug den, casting agency, and many others. It’s all open, all the time. The doors, and the imagination.
   Demir takes Castro Avenue in. Breathes it in like a lost lover. Were it not for the itch in his ass, his penchant for disaster, and that *** impending doom at the end of it all, he could have been king of this place. Guess I’ll have to settle for ruiner of the *** Galaxy. He thinks to himself through a wry smile, all the while brushing off hawkers and passing a credit or two to vagrant children beggars.
   Demir enters La Catedral, a quant bar with a big name and even bigger adherence to EN ***. Furnished almost entirely in faux-wood, it resembles more a rundown shack than a place that could hold a liquor license on Castro Avenue. It’s the perfect place.
   Leto sits there, leaning heavily on the bar. His massive back giving little room for anyone to even sit beside him. Like a hero of yore, forlorn and in hiding. Demir waltzes in and hands the maitre d, a stealthy woman in lavish red finery, his coat along with his credits-deck. A nod lets her know she can add it to the files and push any tab through. He then makes his way to Leto, pushes him to the side enough so he can actually *** sit down, and orders a tequila on the rocks. Demir’s going to sip this one. The day has just begun.
   “We going to play footsie doodle around the matter, or are you going to tell me why the *** you called?” Demir asks before he gets bogged down by Leto’s incessant sulking. Something new for the Grand-Master, and completely unbecoming that even Demir feels a pang of pity.
   “Strike Force is gone,” the Grand-Master wastes no time answering, but his tone is languid and weak. It feels like it took him an age and a half to say something.
   Demir’s tequila arrives. He raises the glass and takes a decent sip. “Guess Xing didn't take you back in the end.”
   “I killed them all.”
   “That deserves another round.” Demir kicks back his drink and nods to the bartender. “What’re you having?”
   “Miner swill.” Another reason for Leto to feel broken.
   “Skies be damned, did Xing even pay you? Give me the same and my friend here some aged hoosh.” Demir orders and the bartender goes about his business with daft precision. Leto just retreats back into his silence. “Xing’s keeping that info locked up real tight. Not even SIN got the skinny. You want to tell me why you did it?”
   “He took them from me.”
   Demir has to push his fingers into the bridge of his nose just to keep sane, but the tequila helps once it’s finally there. He takes a stronger quaff this time, keeping up with Leto who downs his like it’s miner swill. Considering he’s been drinking the ***, it might as well be. “Leto, if you keep answering me with barely multisyllabic sentences I will leave, and you can sulk and drink yourself stupid with miner swill until you puke out the *** and start talking like the *** Grand-Master of *** War.”
   “I had trained them, Demir. I flew with them. We were a unit, one entity made of many. Strike Force was mine. When I suggested we cut our ties to Xing-Tech they turned on me. Xing must have gotten to them. Conditioning, hypnosis, maybe drugs through their graft medication, or the grafts themselves. I don’t know. But they betrayed me.” Leto looks Demir in the eyes. A fierce darkness behind them, piercing and enveloping. “And I don’t take that lightly.”
   Demir bites his tongue, but he can’t take it and bursts out laughing thunderously. Leto turns more sour than a bad wine batch. His eyes two black holes drawing Demir in. Yet all he can do is laugh, and witness the growing anger in the Gran-Master through his dewy laugh-tears. Demir composes himself, downs the rest of his tequila and orders himself a miner swill. He downs that too, takes a deep breath, and lets Leto compose himself. “Skies be damned, sometimes I can hardly believe I throw my weight behind someone as dumb as you.”
   “You would mock me, you *** stain,” Leto hisses.
   “Well, well, well. Taken to swearing now, have we, Grand-Master. Now, now, I would keep that tongue from lapping about, considering not only do I have numbers that are catching up to yours, but from what I can remember I also control SIN. You remember what that is, don’t you Leto?”
   “And how does that bring us any closer to being rid of the AIs? From where I sit you only prance around the Galaxy for your own benefit, just like the man I pulled out of that bar on Melkior. Instead of being drunk, you are just drunk on power.”
   “Well played there, my friend, well played. Drunk on power, and hopefully drunk on booze soon enough.” Demir downs the rest of his drink, and orders another one. “Believe it or not, but I’m well on my way to being in charge of this entire shithole we call the Known Galaxy. And I love it. Not only that, but from where you sit you can’t even comprehend how much I’m doing for the sake of humanity being rid of the *** AIs. So take that high horse out for a spin. See where it gets you.”
   Leto sips his drink for a cool second, disregarding Demir completely. “Are we just going to insult each other for the rest of the evening? Or are we going to engage in some productive conversation?” he finally asks.
   “That depends on you. Why did you call me, Leto?”
   “I have lost everything, Demir. That is why.”
   Demir wants to feel sorry for Leto, but then the feeling is cut short by the fact that he knows full well the man would hate him even more for it. “You expect sympathy?”
   Leto scoffs through a wry smile. “To be honest, I do not know. I would like to believe not. But considering everything that has happened, maybe a bit of sympathy laced with the truth will do.”
   Demir chuckles to himself. “I can try.” He thinks for a second, takes a sip of the miner swill and the accumulated memories of the taste and aftermath bring him to the moment of utter regret. Being the man he is, he downs it while holding the bile from rising up, and orders another tequila. “A day doesn’t go by that I don’t remember what you told me. If there’s anything I believe you’re capable of, it’s adapting. I don’t know anyone better at it than you. So, let me just say this - shut up and do your *** part.” The tequila comes in quicker than a shot to the head in a shady bar in Astermos. Demir takes a sip to wash out the swill. “And you know, Leto, that’s your biggest problem. I told you years go to fly, and you did, but it still wasn’t enough. You want this Galaxy, this reality, to revolve around you and that you never have to conform to it. You don’t adapt, you don’t overcome. You want to know why Strike Force were always beholden to Xing, and not you?” He looks Leto in the eyes. “Because he played you. While you thought he would look the other way while you were *** him, he knew exactly what he was doing.” Leto scoffs heartily. “And don’t give me any *** about my sexual history. Mine is not for gain, but pleasure. But you thought you could *** him blind. And let me tell you one thing, Xing is anything but blind, no matter the mileage on that ***. While you were serenading Strike Force on the merits of combat, virtue, and the everlasting glory of your own being; Xing was giving them a stable financial *** income and future prospects.”
   “I lived with them on those battlefields, Demir. I was there. First in and last one out. How could Xing have garnered their devotion except through foul play?”
   “And you know what - that doesn’t even *** matter. It’s a sidebar in the grand scheme of the way things work now, in this Known Galaxy.” Demir looks at Leto once again, maybe to get a reaction from the Grand-Master’s stiff face, an expression of recognition. Instead the only thing he receives is a stoic look, and only his eye beckoning for more answers. The first time Demir has ever seen this. Leto wants answers he can’t get, and he’s crestfallen that he can’t get them by himself. That’s why he called. Demir feels almost ashamed for piling up on Leto so hard just a moment before. But shame never brought anyone anywhere, so he continues. “Let me ask you, what did you give them?”
   Leto takes some time, mulling over the question in his head. “Everything.”
   “Nothing,” Demir blurs out almost by instinct, tired of Leto’s stuck up ways. “You want to know what you gave them? A means to an end, and that end was Xing. You are the one that put them directly into Xing’s arms. No foul play, nothing like anything close to what your *** fantasies want to make you believe.” Leto says nothing, clearly defeated. Probably one of the rare times in his life he feels so, but the truth doesn’t stop. Leto told Demir as much when they first met. “Sure you trained them, groomed them to be the best that they can be. But have you ever stopped to think about what being the best means in this Galaxy?”
   “It means finding a path, and seeing it through,” the Grand-Master lets out like it’s common sense. Demir stops himself from scoffing.
   “It means exactly the opposite. It means selling everything you have to the highest bidder. It means providing for you and yours, whatever the cost. You were born and bred in a Galaxy that favored the collective good over that of the individual. Despite all the atrocities, it was a system that worked. Well, now you’re in a system that is beholden only to the individual. Any gain that’s not one’s own is lost time, lost effort, lost promise. Leto,” Demir grabs his hand, “look at me,” and he does, “you are wrong. Everything you know is wrong, and everything you are is wrong. I can’t make this easier for you. Xing got Strike Force only because he offered them a life, a place of their own.” Demir takes a sip. “Skies be damned, just money is enough for most people. The prospect of being a Xing employee at the top of the food chain, that’s *** priceless. Train them all you want, fight with them, bleed with them, but in the end the only thing you offer is today. Xing gave them a tomorrow.”
   “Then how will we ever be able to battle the AIs, Demir? How, if nothing is good enough?”
   *** me dead. Like talking to a lost child. “If there’s anything I believe you’re capable of, it’s adapting. I don’t know anyone better at it than you. So, let me just say this - shut up and do your *** part,” Demir recites. “Learn from your own words, Leto. Back then you thought you would be the one schooling me, then there we are.”
   A ruckus from the entrance interrupts their poignant dialogue. The person Demir has actually been wanting to see finally arrives.
   He walks in with a breeze at his back. Unbuttoned calico shirt revealing a set of EN-religious beads entwined in curly chest hair. Slicked, dark curly locks molten with light, tied back into a ponytail so tight his face might droop a good three fingers if he ever let it loose. Bushy eyebrows over never-sleeping eyes, bags dark as soot under them bespoke to his profession. His face as angular as his shoulders and knotted arms. Each line accentuated by dark hairs, and on his face a three-day-shadow he most assuredly cultivates at precise millimeter length. The belt buckle that keeps his shirt from slipping out the faux-leather pants shines almost as bright as his swamp-brown eyes. Graft-lines run across his forehead, from his temples to the center, the rest snaking close to his ears like a riverbank to his neck, cascading under his shirt, expanding unseen into the rest of his body.
   “Jesus de Monte Cristo,” Demir steps down from his barstool and welcomes the man with open arms. Jesus prefers to be called with a hard H instead of the J, as is becoming of his Latino-suavee swagger.
   Jesus hugs Demir with a fervor only called for with close friends or lost lovers. A man of passion, always was, always will be. “Mr. SIN, in my neck of the Galaxy. You have a drink, yes? Anything to eat, yes?” The Latino-suavee patios in his Common is so thick your knife would get stuck.
   “We can take care of ourselves, thank you, Jesus. Have a seat.” Demir then ushers Jesus to the tall barstool on Leto’s left, while Demir sits on his right.
   “Am I interrupting something?” Jesus asks, almost bewildered that he’s not closest to Demir, when he was the one to ask the man down for a parley. Instead he’s sitting next to, what in his eyes, is just another Leto.
   “No worries, Jesus. I would never disrespect you so. Leto  here is someone I consider my equal, and even more than that were it not for the fact that he’s a stupid ***. But let’s not dwell on that for now. Come on, let’s celebrate.” Demir downs his tequila and almost by decree Leto downs his. Demir orders another round, knowing full well that Jesus drinks only the finest suavee spirit. Their drinks arrive in record time, even for a pleasure colony bar. Demir knows his tip will be generous, but he still feels like he’s undercutting them. “A toast. To our thing!” He proclaims loudly, for the entire bar to hear. He raises his glass, clinks it hard against Leto’s and Jesus’, like they know what they’re even toasting to. That’s why Demir loves bars, because what you know doesn’t even *** matter. Salute to the end of the Galaxy, the death of all and everything, as long as you’re paying for it, everyone will toast.
   “To our thing!” Jesus joins in with his hearty baritone, and they all down their drink. Demir’s surprised that Lato knows to do that during such occasions. He learned at least a bit.
   Jesus scoffs. “This will not do. It’s barbaric to sit at the bar when you’re more than two people. I’ll go get us a table.” He slides off the stool and is swallowed up by the swell of patrons.
   “What is the meaning of this?” Leto hisses.
   “I was planning on meeting Jesus here anyway, you just happened to call beforehand. Now it’s a fortunate conscience. Listen and learn, Grand-Master of War, your time is coming.” Demir even winks, like it’s some kind of school joke. Just to relieve the tension. Something he can’t really relieve, by any means. Not now, at least.
   Jesus finds a table in between fully stacked ones, like it was prepared for them. He calls them to sit down as equals after the barbarism they subjected his fancy to. It feels alien to a degree. The way Leto sulks and trots his way behind Demir, following his every move through the clot of people. Once they find their way they sit down at the vehement behest of their new patron. As much as Demir would like to think it’s his show, it’s Jesus’.
   “Finally we can sit down like people. Come, come.”  Jesus announces, never asks. “Now I can see you both, and not just Leto’s considerable shoulder breadth. Tell me, my friend,” Jesus wastes no time addressing Leto, calling him his friend, establishing the friendly rapport so he can prod away at the enigma, “has a blaster ever missed you?” Jesus even laughs at his own joke. Smacks his thigh and awaits Leto’s retort.
   “I’m too quick for blasters.” Dry as Demir expected.
   Jesus laughs even harder, and points at Leto. “You must be a model that comes with a humor function. Demir, why didn’t you tell me you were packing hardware like this?”
“I assure you, Jesus, I am no model. I am Leto III, Grand-Master of War.” Leto gives no quarter. Jesus frowns discerningly, strokes his three-day shadow, and nods in acknowledgement.
   “Leto has just been assigned to study under me,” Demir butts in.
   “What exactly is he studying?” Demir can see it on Jesus’ face. The urge to make a quip, throw out one quick zingy joke at his expense, but even he knows not to mess with SIN. Demir feels almost sad that his current position has cost him all the things people say about him behind his back being told directly to his face.
   “Human nature.” A pause. “For instance, he believes you run some kind of criminal empire.”
   Jesus laughs a thunderous one, one of those from the belly up. “Me.” He bellows in between bouts of laughter. “I wouldn’t be half as broke if I did. My dear Leto, I am but a humble servant to the people. Poor by occupation and choice, my friend.”
   Nothing else will do. “Leto’s judging you based on the way you conduct yourself, the way you move and the way you move others.” Demir hammers it in, and makes it hurt. “His precise calculations have drawn him to the conclusion that you must be either a leader, or a high-ranking member of a vast criminal enterprise that Leto doesn't know about. And he’ll judge you based on those prior assessments.”
   “Leto, come on.” Jesus slips from his seat and outstretched his arms. “What have I done to deserve this?”
   “Nothing, my friend.” Leto answers. He’s learning. “I have my ways, until proven otherwise.”
   “So I have to prove something!” Jesus shouts, and it’s a long one.
   “We always have something to prove, Jesus.”
   “You may run SIN, Mr. Sunderland.” With Jesus’ inflections the last name stings all the more. Demir whistles silently to himself. “But here, I am the one they come to see.”
   “You’re not proving that at all, Jesus. You’re just being led by the nose by your ego. Thinking that by Leto disbelieving your credibility I do too. He doesn’t believe you, but I called you here. So look at the skies-be-damned facts, and sit your ass down. Let the man learn. That’s what he’s here for, and obviously you could brush up too.” Demir barely looks at the man. Well, not until the last second, after the last syllable, after all is said and done. On the *** record. Jesus frowns in acknowledgement. That discerning frown you contort into on base instinct, to show that you finally completely understand the situation. “Sitting through this will be to all our benefits.”
   Jesus' ears twitch, and a sly little smile forms. “You know that a man in my position, poor as it is,” and he looks at Leto, “can never reject benefits.”
   “Let me tell you what Jesus does, Leto. Jesus de Monte Cristo is the proud representative of the Public Transporters Union.” Jesus nods proudly. While his cause might not net him credits, the position still affords him a considerable degree of recognition, and he basks in it. “Not only that, but his Union is the only one to be directly representing a fixed percentage of the only Special Autonomous Union, the Truckers Union. That’s no small feat. Truckers are illusive as shai-dibs. He’s basically speaking for them now. He turns to Jesus. “Aren’t you, Jesus?”
   “Indeed, I am. Leto, we’re proud to be the third biggest Union in all the Known Galaxy.” Jesus puts a bit more pomp on it. “I’m a representative for my people. Not just here,” he gesticulates a bit more than usual, “but on every planet that has even a modicum of public transport. The truckers, well, they’re just an added bonus. But the main thing is, Leto, that I take care of my own. Which brings me to my question - are you here to help me do that, Demir?”
   Demir scoffs. “The only person I am to help is myself. But helping you means helping me, so you can consider yourself privy to my aid, Jesus.”
   “More than we’ve received from most.”
   “See, Leto, it’s all about that sweet, sweet minimum wage. No faction or sector is going to willingly pay what people are actually owed. That’s why the entire pre-C economic system devolved into a spiderweb of Unions across the entire Galaxy. They make sure people are paid what they’re owed, and if the possibility comes up, permanent contracts, stable hours, some even dish out for mod support. But we’re not here to speculate on what already exists, we’re here to talk about overtime.” Jesus chuckles to himself at the mere notion. “See, factions have so far walled off any of the major Unions from getting a whiff of SIN money. They hide behind counter-offers, and barricade Union contracts through non-participation clauses. The ones that do let the Unions take up SIN contracts levy a steep tax on any earnings.”
   “I would suspect SIN has a keen interest in doing more business with the Unions,” Leto chimes in, all the while mulling over his drink and the data his mind has to process.
   “We’re just speculating here, but if the Unions were to side with SIN, they would need a way to pressure the factions into accepting it. SIN money is basically overtime money for any Union member, and factions who are reluctant to even pay the minimum are not going to be happy about Unions getting an opportunity to go public as companies and speculate on the Open Market. To achieve that the Unions need more than just contractual pressure. They need a level of physical pressure.”
   “The PTU may be the third largest Union in terms of earning,” Jesus lets Leto know, “but we are the most widespread. A gamble like that bears the risk of factions going private, and offering freelance contracts on an individual basis. That’ll bankrupt smaller ones over time, for sure, and even bigger ones over more time, definitely. But it’ll also cause widespread strikes, skyrocketing unemployment levels, and disintegration of entire Unions altogether. I would never put my people through that, no matter the money.”
   “Speaking of money, Union leaders and members are growing tired of everyone else cashing in through SIN. So they’re restless.” Not just restless, but on the brink. Demir thinks to himself. “That’s why I’m here. To speculate on the possibility of SIN fronting the bill for an expansion of Union contracts, and establishing a secure way to pressure factions into accepting that sweet SIN overtime pay. It’s what the people are owed.” Jesus raises his glass to that. “So, I’ll leave you two to speculate on it some more.”
   “What the ***?” Most of his suavee gone from his common, Jesus just blurts out almost spilling his drink.
   “Jesus, Jesus, calm down. You’re in the most capable hands in the Know Galaxy. Leto III, Gran-Master of *** War. As far as I’m concerned, any idea he has is my idea. Drinks are on me.” And Demir just leaves without a modicum of flare. A sideways glance shows him Jesus still aghast, and Leto eyeing him with a level of weariness in his eyes. I know you’re tired of games, friend, but games make the Galaxy turn.
   Demir makes his way through the throng and to the maitre d. Datapad in hand, she’s attentive immediately as he approaches. “I’ll be leaving my card, so push my friends’ tab through.” She checks the sum on the card and her eyes widen.
   “Will you be requesting a transfer for the remaining funds, sir?” His deck is coded, but generic and all-purpose. The considerable sum on it is nothing to scoff at. They can transfer it to a personal account if he requests it.
   “Distribute anything that’s left among the staff. And if anyone asks, I was never here.”
   The maitre d flips across her datapad with daft precision, turns it around for Demir to see that his entire log has been wiped. He hands the maitre d a SIN invitation, along with a finder’s bonus on it, and heads for a place where he can truly indulge his baser desires.

[close]

Chapter 60: JOLENE

Spoiler

A TASK SHE HAS TO complete on her own. Just Jolene, her bodyguards, and the suspicious glare of the people across the table when she gets there. Even before they land on Galahad, the sweat coating her fingers makes her datapad slip more than she’d care to admit.
   It’s the first time she’s on her own. Not only that, but that *** Demir let her tackle the biggest Union in the Known Galaxy. A rite of passage. He said. Like it’s some kind of joke to him. Like she’s some kind of animal that needs to be trained by throwing it directly into the fire, and hoping it’s smart enough to make it through. Learn by doing. He said. Like she’s his project. Like she’s some kind child he has to educate so she can do what he can’t. She can already do that. Thinks with his *** before his brain. He’d be half-dead and buried without me. Jolene muses to fuel her own spite. The datapad still slipping between her fingers.
   “ETA ten minutes, miss,” the pilot lets Jolene know through comms.
   She tries to set herself straight, forget about the ***, and do this better than he ever could so he learns his *** place in the *** Galaxy. Teach him like he ought to be taught. Once in his skies forsaken life.
   The landing goes off without a hitch, despite the turbulent ozone layer of Galahad’s jungle biome. Jolene can admire the pilot’s pivoting and grav adjustment. Something Demir would rave on about when he flew them around.
   Their skiff makes its way over the forested roof of lushly thick jungle land. Thickets of trees taller than buildings interspersed by clearings where the Farmers Union keeps their precious seed banks. Underground storage facilities that hold the collective genomes of a mass array of plant life that can be modified to withstand almost any climate, agricultural terraforming, or just the large quantities of water rich people add to their plants because they think they know what they’re doing. Jolene remembers her mother,  bless her simple soul - as she would say - and her constant overwatering of their houseplants. That was until her father found a strand that was specifically made for this kind of abuse. Jolene scoffs through a slight chuckle.
   Underfoot she can see the domed seed banks. Beset on all sides by sentinel trees, and actual patrolling sentinels. The Farmers Union holds a monopoly on plant genome modification, and it is their people who supply the major corporations with new plant strands able to withstand staggering forces of terraforming, and the harshest of climates. Apart from that, they also have a hold over the labor force, capping out the market at a staggering ninety-nine percent. The last percent accounts for basic bootlegging, offshoot experiments, and gray labor. Corporations can never gain access to the raw genetic material, and even the new strands - once verified out in the field - are returned to the seed bank for archiving. It is technically possible for corporations to create their own modified plantlife after the fact, but it never survives a full harvest thanks to the wither code. An implanted strand-genome that when tampered beyond the original genomic code creates a fault within the plant itself, causing it to wither rapidly. As a matter of fact, any tampering with the genetic makeup of a strand results in activation of the code. The Farmers Union’s unbreakable failsafe. Before the C all farming in the Known Galaxy was based on a free market principle. After the C a group of ragtag scientists were the first to secure the established seed banks on Galahad, and patent their wither code. The Union itself keeps the price of new strands stable in order to ensure that the Galaxy can flourish. They are vehemently opposed to the open market, and just getting a sitdown with them cost Demir more than he cared to admit at first. That’s one of the reasons why this all *** stinks.
   Instead of dwelling on it, basking in senseless spite, Jolene takes in the scenery. She becomes entranced by the domed jungle that blankets Galahad, and the thick roof of tree outcroppings interlocked by the forces of nature yet untouched by man. The seed banks themselves are all underground, and double as water filtration plants for the local research populace. By themselves the banks have almost zero impact on the environment - if the Union is to be believed - save for the fact that they had to cut down a portion of the jungle to build them.
   The vastness of nature occupying every bit of the horizon calms Jolene to the point where she barely notices the ship slowing down. “Initiating landing protocols,” the pilot announces.
   Even the landing procedure is honed to be as natural to the jungle as possible, to the point where it feels like dripping down through water. As soon as the Union turns off the atmospheric shielding they initiate a grav tunnel that lets any craft slowly descend without having to rely on their engines. Any emissions from the grav drives themselves are culled by shielding from inside the massive main seed bank where the Union courts their guests. As rare as those come around. Not a very hospitable faction in the Known Galaxy.
   The central seed bank opens like a carnivorous flower, and their ship lands safely. The pilot disengages the defense protocols so Jolene can finally exit her small space at the back of the ship. Two bodyguards assigned by Demir flank her. There’s a welcoming committee at the far end of the landing bay. A small man with a contingent of guards around him awaits Jolene and her small posse. The man has a fox-like head, and beady discerning eyes hidden under thick red eyebrows. A neatly shaved scalp glints under the dome overhead, as natural sunlight is filtered through an intricate series of mirrors in order to illuminate the entire bay. The man is dressed in an immaculate lab coat. His guards are equally as nondescript, clothed in white.
   “Ms. Parton, welcome.” The man addresses her in perfect Common. His soothing voice slick like oil, but with a thick downtone. “Please, follow me.”
   The man flanks Jolene, and the guards, both his and hers, keep a respectable distance so they can speak in peace. Jolene feels the buzz and commotion in her head more palpable now, like a burning sensation. Screws tightening and the air thinning out. Zig-zag currents of air filtered from outside soothe the pinpricks of imaginary burning needles. The bastard of a man does nothing to even propose the mere mention of a conversation. With all the guards at her back, far enough away that she can block them out like a scythe-vyrus, Jolene could actually leave the inner labyrinth of her mind and focus on talking to the man. Demir would tell her to do anything she needs to in order to prepare for the task at hand. Yet all Jolene sees is a cavalcade of disaster. Neither the numbers, nor her mastery of the numbers, is adding up. She’s adrift in a sea of despair, a cascading torrent of dark water sloshing her through her own inner labyrinth. Turning to her datapad to crunch the actuality of real life through her mind, one number at a time, a possibility subdivided by the chance of failure, and failure multiplied by its innate cost. Then the water bubbles over, and Jolene is toppled, pushed against the walls of her own mind. The words human factor echo above the waves like thunder.
   “Carinae is waiting,” the man tells her.
   Jolene faces the soft-green tinted door. She can feel the rivulets of sweat trickle down her spine, in between the fabric of her custom business suit. Perforation building at the roots of her hair, and baubles of sweat about to soak her armpits. The datapad in her hand is all but grimed through with grease, barely able to register input. The door whooshes open, and Jolene brushes the grime off her datapad with the sleeve of her suit.
   She goes in.
   The office space is a veritable jungle. Plants of all shades, muted soothing gradations of green, standing and hanging, litter the walls. The far wall projects drone footage of the planet in real-time, Jolene can gander by the movements of the sun. Carinae sits at her desk, and when she sees Jolene she sets the image to a static projection of the vast vista of lush forest land that is the pride of Galahad. She gestures for Jolene to have a seat. Jolene does her best not to slip off the hard-wood chair.
   Carinae stares intently at Jolene. The woman is old by any fashionable standards. Her skin giving way to easily smoothed out wrinkles she suspects Carinae carries with pride, like the circles of a tree. She’s wearing the same kind of minimalist lab coat. Where her hair would have been is just a shining memory and golden slick scalp, naked to the filtered air. She has neither eyebrows, nor any visible indicators of emotions besides her stern look of disapproval, and as far as Jolene could tell from her info - a seething disdain for corporations or conglomerates of any kind. Carinae’s thin lips give no quarter to a stutter, let alone a frown, even less a smile.
   The Farmers Union is led by a dedicated board of elders, all subject to ten year terms, and up for votes of no confidence at every step. Carinae is the elder with the most consecutive terms, and not a vote to smear her flawless reputation. If governing anything outside her little circle were up to her, the entire Galaxy would be an eco-fascist dictatorship. The word of nature would be law, and if there is anything Carinae believes in, it’s that she’s the one to channel those words and laws.
   “Ms. Carinae, it is an honor to meet you. I have studied your work…”
   “Demir Sunderland doesn’t even have the common courtesy to come himself. Instead he sends some insolent brat. I wanted you here to say it to your face, and let Sunderland know,” without moving anything except her mouth, Cariane speaks. Like watching an animatron at the end of its battery life from deep within the uncanny valley. “He, and his organization can *** off. Now, and forever. The Farmers Union will not slight their reputation by aligning ourselves with such a vile conglomerate.” Were it not for her venomous tone, no one could judge Carinae’s mood.
   “Ms. Carinae, if you would be so kind as to…”
   “Get out. You and your ilk are not welcome here.” Jolene crumbles under the weight of the pressure this wrinkly old woman is dishing out like grav sickness. The water in her labyrinth flows over, and Jolene is dragged into the darkness by the undertow. She swallows her spit, tries to compose herself, but all she does is stand up, turn her back to Carinae, and begin to leave. “Your parents would be ashamed of what you have become. Being groomed by a man as detestable as Demir Sunderland, and all the Sunderlands in tow. You best come to your senses before they start passing you around.”
   The water stops. Jolene can breathe. She turns around. “At what influx capital rate does the Farmers Union operate, Cariane?”
   “I told you to leave,” the old woman spits.
   “Zero. For ages the Union has maintained a steady zero influx rate.”
   “We pride ourselves on being balanced, and doing good for the Galaxy,” Carinae retorts once she’s certain that Jolene won’t just leave.
   “Much like other Unions across the Galaxy, you distribute the accumulated capital among the workers. Dividends attributed equally, and order is maintained. But tell me, Carinae, what will happen when other Unions start seeing a sharp rise in influx capital? When other Unions start to open up to the Galaxy Stock Exchange, and invest in their own market capital to the point where both labor and products can become a legitimate source of investment capital, and not just maintenance funds. Where will that leave you?”
   “Is that a threat?”
   Jolene comes closer to the desk, puts down her datapad, and stands firm. “SIN is integrating Unions across the Galaxy into the network.” She starts, and Carinae can only listen. Jolene exudes her force upon her, hoping in her mind’s eye the old woman would crumble and turn to dust. “We are conducting contract research, market research, and establishing protection strategies throughout the Known Galaxy. Very soon, and listen well, very soon, Unions will be earning, and not just surviving.” Jolene leans against the desk, comes in close and personal. “You bore me. You bore me shitless. You are so scared of progress to the point it has become some kind of syndrome. Your own little manic wonderland. And that bores me, bores me shitless. Little fantasies holding strong in the face of value. Value to yourself, value to the cause, and value to progress. So you wall off those little fantasies and small dreams so the rest of everyone else can only peek behind the walls. Well, we will *** you. And we will *** you hard. This is a threat,” she hisses her own bile of spite towards the old woman, hoping she melts, hoping she feels the *** pain. Jolene’s enjoying this. “SIN is offering up possibilities to escape the chokehold of the Protectorate, the Authority, Xing-Tech, Charkul, the Mahbed Family, Schiboukai-Sakouya, Valiant and Dornstar Bank, drakkwebb, and every other dictat, faction, or two-bit hustler imposing their taxes and levying counter-offers against SIN capital and Union funds influx. And when you’re left behind we will bleed you dry of all your workforce. Bit by bit, buying everything you own under your noses until the only option you have left is to either sell Galahad wholesale, or drown under a full-scale interplanetary blockade. Because by that time, SIN will be on you, and we won’t even have the common courtesy to bury you under the forest you hold so dear. You’ll rot while we burn Galahad to the ground, and sell patents to your precious gene seeds on the open market. We will leave nothing in your wake but a whisper on people’s lips how the Farmers Union was the sole cause of a Galaxy-wide food shortage due to a new patent war. And when the price of every gene seed has gone down due to SIN lifting the wither gene, we will buy up everything wholesale at a fraction of the price and hold a monopoly over food. Just like we will do with tech, just like we will do with labor, just like we will do with mining, and just like we will do with war. Because you see, Carinae, tearing you down is as simple as human nature. SIN isn’t just speculating the market, we are the market. And when we slaughter you, I will see you here, on your knees, and cut out your eyelids so you can only watch as we tear Galahad to shreds. Rip it, strip it, and leave it to die. I won’t even have the common courtesy to hand you a blaster. So you best bring this to the rest of the elders, and make it quick. So, when I come back, I expect to see a smile on that rotten face of yours. Along with a please and *** thank you.”
   Jolene picks up her datapad and leaves Carinae to stew in her own spite. She can feel her feet sliding within her boots, slick from the sweat that has draped itself over her entire body, causing each molecule of fabric in her suit to stick to her like a cockpit-weave. She can barely breathe, and it feels like throughout that entire tirade she didn’t even take a singular, solitary breath. Just operating out of instinct, and on fire. Her throat sore, her mouth dry. All the water inside her just seeping from her pores, rusty with salt. Jolene takes one breath to steel herself before going out the door.
   She enjoyed it, she knows.
   The man and his welcoming party are long gone, and only her two bodyguards are left. They make their way to the skiff in full silence, just the murmur of filtered air and water circulating through the facility like a whisper in their wake.
   Once off-world she calls Demir.
   “Done?” he just asks without even a *** given.
   “Your little Kurrekesh project is costing a lot of *** money. And losing us a lot of goodwill with some major factions.”
   Demir scoffs so hard Jolene can envision him. “Congratulations, Jolene. I knew you could do it. Never a doubt in my mind. Did you enjoy it?”
   “*** you.”
   “Now, now, that’s no way for a COO to talk. I’ll see you soon.”
   Demir just cuts the line. Like it’s nothing, like she’s some *** child you hand a treat to and leave. Up until this point Jolene’s official title was advisor. Some made-up *** to make her role within SIN official to a degree. COO means nothing to her. Her anger is all she has, and the adrenaline still rushing through her blood, into her head, and feeling like it’s going to pop out her eyeballs.
   When it stops, Jolene starts thinking about the future.
   I’m the COO. She thinks to herself giddily.

[close]

Chapter 61: FUEL

Spoiler

BOUND FOR THE HORSEHEAD Nebula. Richter checks their drive status, grav generator, and fuel deposits. This shipment is a big one. Three full tankers with a skeleton crew on each. But Richter vouched for the men, and guaranteed they could do it. Double the pay for each man. Their employers even sprung for an armed escort for the final stretch. Two frigates and two drone tenders to a tanker, along with a destroyer up front. Hyperspace is wearing Richter and his men down to the bone, but his stealth routes have never failed him. He can navigate the straits from Almazan to Horsehead in his sleep. Exhausted as he and his men may be, it’s the home stretch, and they can all feel the itch of the credits rolling into their accounts.
   Stretches of hyperspace loom around them, endless and dangerous. Time and space are cruel mistresses, and a seasoned pilot like Richter has to know how to respect them. A hyperspace thunderstorm can brew, evolve, form into an amalgamation of malice and tear your craft to shreds if you don’t know how to navigate in accordance with the rules. The unwritten rules of hyperspace. Rules which can all be boiled down to one basic instinct - don’t believe your own hype. Respect given, and respect earned in kind.
   Richter and his crew of twenty are in the front tanker, with the rest back and to the sides, so the escort can keep their flanks safe. Tried and tested formation, nothing to comm home about, but the classics are classics for a reason. In bars across tanker stations throughout the Galaxy they make fun of Richter’s stuck-up ways. But he’s never lost a skies-damned shipment in his life, compared to wannabe MOS flyboys who think they can outmaneuver *** hyperspace in tankers as heavy as cruisers. Stuck-up he may be, but stuck-up gets the job done. And Richter’s one of the few tanker pilots able to ferry the cargo across stretches of hyperspace with nothing but skeleton crews. That’s why his men earn big, and go home well-fed.
   Hyperspace is on his side today. Storms off in the distance, a flash here and there. The radar Richter has his eyes glued to emitting pulses every time a storm touches the outer perimeters of their nav sensors. If a storm comes too close for any contingency routes to make up for the outmaneuvering, they’ll have to stock up on supplies. That’s not just time lost, but other factions made aware of a passing shipment right under their noses. Brahe - through which they’re currently skulking - is Mahbed Family territory, and if there’s any faction in the Known Galaxy they hate, it’s Richters employers - Charkul.
   From what Richter could gather, Charkul have entered into some kind of agreement with the Protectorate. He’s not the only one ferrying fuel to Horsehead. Looks to him like Charkul want to keep the actual extent of the operation on the down-low, in case any competition were to get wise. Back in Almazan, tanker pilots by and large were thumping their chests in the employment offices. Charkul contracts abound on every transport station. Even Xing-Tech was either being pushed out of Almazan Nebula, or they were eyeing a different prize. Richter didn’t care much. Rich *** playing rich *** games for rich *** pay. He just liked to speculate during the calm moments in hyperspace. It kept him awake and aware, like music playing in the background. The inner voice of his own musings as much a beacon in the restless vestiges of hyperspace, just as much as the nav sensors beeping, projecting to his retinal display when he would go in for a detailed look. Richter needed to keep a closer eye on the storms from time to time. He could understand their movements when he zoomed closer in, like looking through a microscope. Like he’s talking to the storms. What to many is chaos, to him it’s just another route.
   Richter honed his skills as a smuggler for decades after the C. Right up until he was drafted into the PTU. The Union keeps pilots and navigators of Richeter’s caliber on the backburner, and only offers them up to bespoke contracts. Unions don’t want high-risk, high-reward fliers out and about, *** all over their minimum-wage repository personnel. People have to earn, and everyone has to be worth their weight in credits. Richter doesn’t mind the downtime between contracts one bit. He gets to lounge on heavy coffers for months, and even put some credits aside for when he’s too old for this *** hassle. Every time he does one of these runs, he thinks it might be the last. It never is, and this one won’t be it either.
   But Richter’s coming close to that sum. The one he set to reach, the one everyone has in the back of their heads. That sweet spot. Enough decimals and zeros to finally call it quits.
   A storm cracks louder in the distance.
   Like the rest of space, hyperspace is silent. But where sound doesn’t travel, mankind has created a way to transpose vibrations into sound. While MOS skiffs have nano-machine transposers the size of small insects, hugging debris around them to fabricate a soundscape within the cockpits, tankers and larger size flotillas have transposers on their ships. MOS flyboys, sadistic bastards, need to be able to hear the screams and explosions, and know where they have to go for the most scavenging potential. Tankers, on the other hand, have to know how far away something is compared to their position.
   And there’s a storm brewing ahead. A tightening mass of energy, electric and devastating. Like a hand coiling around the soft space and time, gripping it tight, cracking it and breaking it into a storm. It’s going to cut Richter’s route. He’s going to have to risk flooring it to get ahead, shifting the flotilla closer to a hyperspace point, and rubberbanding off the gravitational pull. That way they’ll reach Horsehead in time. Risky, sure. If the point’s guarded well enough they’ll have to nix the plan and risk refueling in Meropis III. Most likely the armed escort will have to either salvage fuel from possible debris, or seek out a station.
   No time to worry about that now.
   “We have to floor it,” Richter announces to the entire flotilla over comms.
   “Roger that,” the armed escort confirms first.
   “Vester, run an active sensor burst. Three pulses.” The main helmsman nods and initiates the protocols. “Stand by for sensor burst.”
When Mouse starts the burst it lives up to its name. Active sensor bursts use the transponder frequency generator to actively propel a burst of energy outwards, causing any shapes to appear on the radar if the line of the burst is cut.
   All three bursts go out, and Richter pulls the data to his retinal. For the rest of the crew he superimposes the data onto the radar and nav sensor overlay. “Something’s up ahead. Small, just a click away.” Since it’s small enough to be debris, there’s no danger of a mine. “We can continue on.”
   Richter cuts his retinal nav feed, and turns to the main window of the bridge. He has to maneuver the tankers through the incoming arm of the storm. In the distance he can see the speck of debris that must have gotten everyone riled up before they saw how small it is. Coming closer they can make out a shape.
A body floating endlessly in hyperspace. Or at least floating until it’s disintegrated by the storm.
   “Prepare formation. Ready to initiate full thrust.”
   “Roger.”
   Richter unlocks the thruster protocols. Initiates the generator flare, compresses more fuel into the main thrusters, and pares all cooling and safety protocols. He checks the radar map, goes over the nav scanner info one more time on his retinal, and looks out the bridge window to align the target destination. Old-school, with his skies-be-damned naked eyes. From the gut out.
   The body is gone.
   The frigate assigned to Richter’s tanker blows up right in front of them. Shockwave emanating from the explosion blasts the tanker off course, shrapnel causes hull damage. Alarms are blaring. Richter can barely keep his balance as the tanker starts wobbling like a mad skrybull. Everything doused in red and noise. He can barely hear his own thoughts. Chatter over comms is distorted, static, fading in and out. Everything is awash with madness.
   Then the second frigate blows up.
   And the tanker is sent into a slow-but-steady spiral. Pendulous and deadly, with their thrusters barely keeping up with the weight of the behemoth full of fuel they haul across the Galaxy. His crew are spun off their seats, bodies fly across the bridge, and Richter starts emergency thruster protocols. He sets the controls to manual and begins counteracting the force of the explosions, trying desperately to align the tanker with the course.
   Trying desperately to get the *** out of there.
   Nav sensors start flaring up. Beacons of ships with their *** transponders on pop up on the radar. Dozens of them. Out of nowhere.
   The entire flotilla is beset on all sides.
   “What the *** is going on!” Richter demands over comms. “What the ***…” His last demand is cut short as the tanker loses control of itself. Thrusters shattered. Emergency protocols initiate in an instant. All remaining power is put into shields and hull repair.
   The force of the swerve drives Richter into the bridge window, his body plastered against the nano-fiber window, open space just beyond. He can’t hear anymore, he can barely see. Grav engines go haywire,and everything floats about, caught in a null-grav space, only to be pulled back by a full-megatonne blast to the floor of the deck. His crew askew, awry as their limbs thrash about in the violence of uncontrolled gravity.
   Screams echo over the open comm line. Richter claws at the window, trying desperately to move, save himself. His entire world is nothing but noise and death.
   In front of him a man, well, barely a man with his beady red eyes, machine-like face, and ominous grafts, plants his fist against the windows. Almost like bidding Richter goodbye, he looks at him one time before punching through the fabric of reality holding everyone within the tanker inside. Something that can only be done with heavy-duty artillery.
   Richter is thrust out the bridge like a ragdoll, into the callous vestiges of hyperspace.
   In space, dying isn’t like suffocating in water. Nothing fills your lungs. Everything is removed from them. Richter doesn’t feel filled, like a force is entering him with malice, and taking his life from him. It’s just life seeping away. There is no escape, because there’s nothing to cling to. As his body writhes in zero gravity, he can see the flotilla assailed on all sides. Far beyond their reach, close to the Core Worlds. Where they shouldn’t be.
   Richter has no control over his body, how he moves, where and when. All he thinks about is that one digit left on his plan to finally let go of all of this.
   In the distance, as he floats, the hand of the hyperspace storm is about to grab him, and pull him into nothingness.
   All is lost.

[close]

[B.K.]

I have no idea what I'm doing.
Rambling on about inter-galactic economy like I own the damn the thing.
But there is beauty in chaos. Once one masters it, there comes a violent epiphany. Maybe one day, there will be order.
Forgive me my shortcomings, for I am one with the chaos.

Chapter 62: HARDCORE PIRACY

Spoiler

IN THE INHOSPITABLE, dark and deadly afterthought of Core Worlds, there are still pirates. Hardcore pirates, boilding over with a disdain for the Core Worlds that would melt straight through a reinforced bulkhead. Charon, one of the moons of Pluto, the meek little university planet, is the current base of operations for Charming and his crew. Only someone as hateful and spiteful as that man could ever establish a pirate base next to a legit Core Worlds planet, regardless of defenses, and still draw breath. The sheer insanity of the entire endeavor seemingly keeping them all alive. Well, that and Charming’s own ingenuity.
   He’s perfect for the job. Farideh thinks to herself.
   Farideh wasn’t going to put it out there that Trafalgar is searching for protection. Anyone even brushing past SIN would clock that in a heartbeat, and the entire Galaxy would flip. The last thing she needs now is Trafalgar on the minds of every fucker with a deep pocket and a grudge. Plenty of those to go around. She wasn’t going to accept Sunderland’s troops either. The action is going to happen on Trafalgar, and Trafalgar is going to handle it. Sunderland can have his fire and *** fury. He can go against Xing and the rest all he wants, but Farideh will never give him the opportunity to even think about putting his grubby flyboy hands on her system. There are enough pirates out and about the Galaxy that still owe her a favor. Charming might not be one of those, but the best never come cheap.
   Skied be damned, Farideh’s somewhat amazed he’ll even see her. She did stay on good terms with the man,even after he left, but a sting like the one he received in the Pits doesn’t bode well for any cordial cooperation. If Charming doesn’t outright spit in Farideh’s face, which she knows he won’t, he’ll drive a hard bargain. Just like she taught him.
   As long as her seemingly endless trip to Charon through interlocked stealth routes ends up being worthwhile.
   Once Farideh and her pilot finally make it to the Core Worlds, they have to slip through asteroid belts, gas waves, and duck under any cover they might find on the way to that *** moon. At some point all Farideh can do is just zone out, out of touch with what’s happening. Elouise, her pilot, is one of their best stealth flyers. While Farideh might hate it, regardless of her own skills, she has to let herself be carried by people more capable at certain tasks.
   Every time Farideh flies, either by herself in her own machine, or being flown around by someone else, she regrets not having the affinity for it like others. Life would be so much easier if she could fly. If she herself could conquer. But then again, life would be so much easier if you could do everything yourself.
   Farideh swims with the movements of their craft. Fearing them on currents of interplanetary magnetic pulls, artificial grav fields, and the slow snaking crawl between asteroids. Flying dark is all about patience, and Farideh knows that well enough. But there’s a difference between requiring patience and just being plain *** boring. Siona would be out of her mind. Which is why she wouldn't touch a Core Worlds stealth run with insulated gloves over the drakkweb.
   Patience can’t be helped. Boredom can’t be helped. Then all that’s left is to just give in.
   There is solace in finding ways to see the difference in each asteroid, when you try hard enough. And along the way to Charon, there are plenty of those.

***

   Being on-planet is starting to grate on her nerves. At this point Siona would even take a *** stealth route. Anything, just to get off-planet. But with Mutemba gone, and Farideh with her panties in a twist about protection, Siona has to handle all this *** from the ground.
   The only good thing about it is that Farideh didn't straddle her back with any admin stuff. Well, she’s smarter than to do that. But the way things are going, Siona wouldn’t put it past her. She can imagine Farideh in this office, plowing over everything that needs doing, and making sure it gets done. Least Siona can do for her is keep the seat warm.
   Yeah, ***’s getting *** all around.
   Putting Charming into the mix. Skies be damned, Siona thought she heard the last of that mope when she shot him down in the Pits. But she can’t deny the man’s excessive fervor.
   Charming was their ace mechanic, and only person to ever lay a hand on her Cain. By the time he got his feet wet in the jungles, going through basic flight training, Charming was already overseeing his own repair dock. But the man wanted to fly. When Siona remembers him, she can safely say that it was more than just want, it was need.
   That all turned to *** when Siona personally canned him from the programme. She wasn’t going to waste their best mechanic on some pipe dream. Instead she put him in operations. Overseeing engagements, routes, and crafts. A one-stop-shop for piracy. Get your flyers in, repaired, and then out, all with a hefty set of orders in tow. Siona figured that would scratch his itch, as well as his ego. Charming was good at it. *** the skies, he was damn near as goo as Farideh at it. Farideh was even going to put him for director of operations, and leave the maintenance to another up-and-comer named Tabitha.
   But Charming needed to fly.
   And Charming needed to be shot the *** down in the Pits for him to learn that he coudn’t. Fucker slipped a skiff together, practiced on the sly, trained in the same *** simulations he used to repair when he first came to Trafalgar. And at one point he was gone. Vanished without a trace. Only thing missing in his wake was the skiff he built out of parts salvaged from the chop-shops.
   Siona figured he bolted for the open skies, and got blasted out of them just as quick.
   Skies be damned, was she wrong.
   Fucker turns back up after months and formally drops his skiff in Pits to challenge Siona. The audacity was more than enough to earn him a collective laugh from everyone in the system, and even beyond. Charming had a body count of about zero and less. His numbers were virtually unknown except for a few during his training days, and those were stellar, but not admirable. Siona wanted to stroll down, slap the fucker senseless, and tell him to get back to *** work.
   MOSs don’t work that way though. You get called out in the Pits, in the skies, on-planet or off-planet, in the middle of a *** live battle, you fly. A formal challenge is a *** formal challenge. Dodge those and you might as well hang up your jacket, and sell your skiff. So Siona took her Cain out to Pits, and looked the man dead in the eyes before she shot him down with the cold indifference of someone with her reputation.
   Worst thing for Charming was not being defeated. That’s par for the course.
   Worst thing was that he survived.

***

   Charming has this patented base setup he uses to move around moons and large asteroids directly under the noses of the Authority. He designed an entire carrier system that can be linked together to form a makeshift base on technically any surface known to man through a set of intricately connected grav pads. That way his crew can set up anywhere in the Core Worlds, and be off by the time the Authority is on them. A dangerous game of cat and mouse, which Charming has been playing for decades now.
   Siona likes to think Charming hit her up in the Pits because he wanted to be a flyboy for the sake of being a flyboy. For Siona, people are more often than not black or white, friend or foe, dead or need-to-be dead. Sion never had a clue that before Charming came to Trafalgar, and took up the name, he was bastard Tesla. Ousted from the Core Worlds because his mother had no suction with anyone who mattered, least of all his biological father.
   Charming’s mother was a bait-and-switcher. A subsection of grifters, women exclusively, who target high-value individuals throughout the Galaxy. People like the Teslas, who still, despite being Named, are raking in more cash than should be legal. Patent ***, aggressive investors, the kinds of people that give only to take back tenfold. No different from the *** Sunderlands. Except the Teslas got sloppy with age, while the Sunderlands got sharper, and the Xis merged with Xing-Tech and almost completely disappeared. So they were prime targets for someone like Charming’s mother, whose name the man never gave up. A bait-and-switcher is a seduction artist, well-versed in both physical and psychological manipulation. To the point where they wrap their targets around their finger, culminating in a child that tears the target’s world to shreds. With financial compensation incoming, a true bait-and-switcher can retire happily.
   This is all due to the fact that people don’t *** like they used to, at least for the sake of procreation. Most women have modded wombs, and insemination is done artificially. Best genes are taken, spliced from both mother and father, and then a baby pops out as perfect as you want it - if you have the money - or a malformed as technology can create it, if you don’t. Making babies, like almost everything else in the Galaxy, is about business. A raw, natural womb is hard to come by. At least outside the COM. Bait-and-switchers keep it natural, a rare sighting that pokes at the fancy of the targets. Something esoteric, exotic, almost unheard of. Getting pregnant becomes a mere matter of faking the bloodwork for contraception with a dab of altered hormones. With the baby-maker enthralled, and the baby maker primed, the bait-and-switcher just has to let the load thrive. Charming’s mother got her hands on a hefty Tesla heir. With her own baby on the way she was supposed to be set for life. But granddad Tesla had other plans.
   A bastard child, especially a natural-born, is a stigma in of itself among the elite of the Core Worlds. One would figure the elite populace would do everything they could to be rid of the mother before the child was even born. That becomes a problem with the Named. Every pregnancy is immediately cataloged in the Renewed Binary System, and a bait-and-switcher is quick to call that in for protection. Even the Named don’t just abandon a child, simply due to the fact that their own arrogance, maybe even arrogance turned to curiosity, won’t let them. No one wants to throw away good DNA, and even the Authority wants to know how the Named evolve, where they can go, and what they can do. As long as they don’t touch any AI research, they can stay and they will be followed.
   Granddad Tesla wasn’t going to just ice the unborn bastard child. What he did instead was excommunicate Charming’s mother from the Core Worlds by selling her to pirates as a ***-pig. The boy can live, the mother can live, but their life would be tossed to the wolves to see if they make it out alive. If Charming makes it out alive, and makes something of himself, he might just be accepted back. No payments, no alimony, no retirement. The Teslas take the hit to their reputation, their stock, and live with the shame for the time it takes everyone to forget, and if there’s money to be made from the child they can just call it a social experiment. But the mother, she was fodder for the machine. Watching her being passed around every day, from crew to crew, foraging for scraps in the hulls of pirate ships, coming back every morning bruised and battered, *** into oblivion, made Charming a whole different kind of angry. The calm and collected kind of angry. A seething void of hatred that was expanding, eating everything in its path until one day it could unleash everything it was building up.
   When Charming came to Trafalgar, Farideh could scarcely believe how beautiful he was. Fox-hound like eyes, slim, slender, and dangerous. Under them a set of sharp cheekbones that flow to a jaw you could cut your fingers on. Subtle curves of his face playing around with shadows as they danced, going from soft to sharp.His hawkish nose gave him character, a sense of presence and pride. His raven hair always slicked back, and his beard always trimmed. Pouty lips, discerning yet soft, brushing the edges of his lavish cheeks. Charming had every person with a sex drive leaving a trail of slobber behind him. 
Yet all he wanted was to fly. And not just fly, but fly Siona out of the chain of command. Charming wanted to push Farideh into a war against the Core Worlds. His hatred ran deeper and deadlier than his beauty. Seeing his mother *** day in and day out, across pirate fleets, lent to ships from Venus to Balzac, did that to him. And even now, when the Authority is ramping up safety measures across the Core Worlds because of the Sons, Charming is still here.
   Still going from rock to rock, assembling and disassembling his base. One guerilla mission at a time, barely making a dent. But Charming doesn’t care, and neither do his hateful followers. Every strike, no matter how small, is good enough as long as it’s against the Core Worlds.
   The beauty is long gone now, but the hate remains. Now, Charming’s outside looks just like his inside. He looks at Farideh with his one good eye, the other exchanged for an ocular graft. Half his face was burned off in the wreckage, along with his hair. The left side of his face is all grafts, ocular, auditory, and a full jaw plate to keep his skull intact. He talks through a voice modulator, and eats out of a tube. The once beautiful face now a map of burns and scars. Charming never got any cosmetic work done, and didn’t even bother to replace his cut-off legs, but his missing left arm is now a hefty modded replacement. A hand that could only be called that in some grafter’s wildest dreams. Ten fingers total, looking more like a rake than a hand. His arm is dotted with outputs so he can link himself up to the network that runs through his fleet. His brain can’t handle a cortical stack, so he has to input the commands at light speed, but manually. That’s where the hand comes in. The input is funneled through his arm, transposed by his neural remnants into commands. When he’s not using it for anything else, his right hand always holds a blaster.
   A man reduced to nothing but hate. Living the dream.
   “The Core Worlds truly are a thing of beauty, are they not, Farideh?” Charming’s robotic voice drones almost. A quiet pinprick of static behind each word.
   “I wouldn’t know. Not like I’m here for sightseeing.”
   “Business as usual, ha Farideh?”
   “Indeed.”
   “Then please make it quick.” Charming doesn’t move when he speaks, to the point where it’s almost like looking an automaton straight into a residual human eye. His mods, grafts, and stabilizing enhancements hold him together just as much as wishful thinking. Like if he moved too much, he’d just break apart. “I have the cumulative downfall of an entire system to tend to.”
Such a line coming from anyone else in the Galaxy would be reason enough to scoff, but even through the mechanical static in Charming’s voice, the words ring true. “Come on Charming, you’re not even making a dent.”
   “A dent in the same place, over and over again, ultimately leads to a breach in the hull.”
   “So you’re running a war of attrition, against a foe that has all the resources, while you have almost none. It’s been long enough Charming. I want you to come home.”
   This would be the moment where a person would show a change in expression. Charming just flatly asks, “and why would I do that?”
   “Because I’m in need of some independent muscle, and I’m offering you the job in exchange for some serious payment. Fuel for your war efforts, Charming. A chance to take the fight to them for real.”
   “What do you think happens the second we leave, Farideh? They forget we were ever here. We leave, we lose. No thank you. Find your muscle somewhere else.”
   “At least think on it, Charming. They won’t forget when you come back with a fleet, an expanded base of operations, better gear and more people.”
   “I don’t buy my people, Farideh. The cause binds us. I don’t need more people, and I don’t need money. But I need you to leave.”
   “Sorry I wasted your time, Charming.” Farideh has to concede. She thought the man could be reasoned with. He is fighting a losing fight, after all. It seems though, that lost causes tend to make the most fervent believers.
   “No, Farideh, you only wasted your time.”
   She leaves the man to his hatred.

[close]

Chapter 63: GRANT MONEY

Spoiler

JOLENE NEVER LIKED PLUTO. She never liked the academy itself, really. But then again, it wasn’t like she was ever truly a part of it. More like a ghost that walked the halls, ate at the cafeteria alone in a corner, and slipped in and out of classes like a gust of wind, weak and unnoticed.
   The academy itself is built to make the students feel small when compared to the veracious, Galaxy-expanding, and never-ending pursuit of greatness. All of it in EN arches, ornate balustrades, domed walkways, staircases of gold and brown, and a criminal lack of elevators. As her teachers would say - “There are no shortcuts to greatness.” Just like there are no *** elevators to the classrooms and study halls. The entire academy is beset on all sides with decorative EN portraits of alumni that have paved the way for the Galaxy’s expansion. People whose names still ring out among the more knowledgeable masses. Floral patterns line the arches and pillars that hold up the heavy, domed ceilings of the halls and buildings. Real-light emitters shine the way, and a full day-and-night cycle is implemented across the entire campus. Muted browns and delicate gold mesh together to create a sense of grandeur that expands throughout the entire Academy of Economic Science.
   And wherever you walk, whatever you do, the eyes of people better than you are watching.
   The awards received by students are in vitrines lining the student halls and dorms. So every student can also see which other student is better than them.
   The college president, Sandeep Mallick, considers himself among that ilk. Far greater than even his station affords him. Magnanimous to the point where he is as much the president of an intergalactic crime syndicate - and one of the biggest to boot - rather than just the top academy in the Known Galaxy. In his own mind, Mallick formulates the economic plan of the Galaxy through his students, but most of all through his cartel of grants, fees, donations, and patents. An astute man, worthy of admiration. Or at least before you get to know him.
   Mallick’s office is on the top floor, overlooking the entire campus from somewhat of a tower. The walls of his office are all glass. When Jolene finally makes the walk to the office, panting and tired, slightly sweaty, the windows are set to brushed chrome, reflecting only the real-light inside. Windows give no room for pictures or portraits, and Jolene suspects it’s because the president doesn’t believe anyone better than himself. He wants to see everything from atop his tower. He needs control, and his eyes on everyone else, with none on him. Compared to other offices Jolene has seen throughout her time with SIN, Mallick’s is meager and minimalist. One metal table at the far end, a datapad on it, a chair behind it and one in front, a filing cabinet that protrudes from the floor, and retracts once Jolene enters. Nothing much, but the man and his all-seeing-eyes in the sky.
   “Ms. Parton, please have a seat.” Mallick’s Common is cordial, professional and monotone. His discerning eyes are almost hidden under bushy eyebrows, wild and untamed. A stark contrast to his immaculately slicked back, salt-and-pepper hair, and his trimmed full beard with same colors streaked throughout. His hawkish nose runs rampant through the center of his plump and oval face. Mallick always wears a future-perfect suit in monochrome colors, preferably black and white, with the crest of the president on the lapel. Behind his desk he seems almost imposing, with his broad shoulders, but when he stands up his meager heights and bulging belly give away his lavish lifestyle beyond the confines of the academy.
   Jolene sits down, and says nothing.
   “Is it usual for you to start business negotiations with silence, Ms. Parton? I would have thought we taught you better than that.”
   And there he is. The condescension she’s come to know from Sandeep Mallick. What he doesn't know, and what he least expects, is that Jolene learned much from her time with Demir than all her years at the academy. They all look down on me. They always have, and they always will. But Demir had her running her own meetings for months now. In front of a multitude of people. At first she sweat, her hands sliding across everything she tried to grip. Her heart raced, the meek mouse inside her haring for a hole in her mind where she felt safe. They all looked down on me. Until she stopped sweating, her heart stopped racing, and she used all that condescension, that innate vitriol present in every Galaxy bogshot that thought themself better than the rest. Status afforded them the right to look down from their ovary towers at those they deemed below them. Or so they did, until Jolene started ripping the floor out beneath their feet. One by *** one.
   “I expected something along the lines of - I’m a busy man. Or - let’s get this over with quickly. So, even though your tone still tells me a lot about what you think of me, and my position within SIN, as well as our parley, you did refrain from saying it to my face directly. Admirable and cowardly at the same time.”
   “If offhand insults and vitriol are SIN’s idea of negotiations, you can see yourself out.” The animosity is out in the open now, just the way Jolene likes it.
   “If the truth insults you, then this will be over with quickly.”
   “Speak you mind, Ms. Parton. Regardless of what you might think, I am a busy man.”
   “SIN has been monitoring the business dealings of the academy, along with the sister academies and universities throughout the Galaxy for some time now. It took me some time, granted, but I cracked it. All of it.”
   Mallick’s expression doesn’t shift a beat. Not a slight wink or wince, not even a twitch of the lip or a furrowed brow. “And what might it be you so marvelously proclaim to have cracked.”
   “Inflating tuition fees to process through offshore accounts and launder money for cartels. Enrolling students who never actually attend to do the same. Pumping money into grants and projects that are siphoned through the Patent Office to give corporations more control over the tech flow throughout the Galaxy. Labeling unfinished projects as complete in order to patent the findings for the sake of selling them off to the highest bidder. Handing out scholarships to patent officer offsprings to blackmail them into acting as liaisons for the academy patent hustle. Am I on the right track here, Mallick?”
   That’s when they fall, that’s when they all *** crumble. When their grand plan is exposed right to their face by someone who couldn’t and shouldn't be able to understand it. When they are shown that their high-minded opinion of themselves, and their grandstanding is nothing more than mimicry of actual power.
   “To know and to prove are two completely different things, Jolene.” A hiss from the president. The façade finally lifted.
   “Who the *** cares about proving anything? Who do I prove it to? Without a government the economy of the Galaxy is left to police itself. Without government control and oversight the economy of the entire Galaxy has reverted back to the power of the strongest. It’s all laissez faire from here on out. The academy taught me that, in theory. I’m here to put that into action.”
   “SIN has no leverage. You have no leverage.”
   “And that’s exactly where you’re wrong, Mallick. You see, SIN has infiltrated the Patent Office.” Mallick’s pupils widen. Demir taught Jolene to keep an eye out for that. Even people with little to no body language giveaways more often than not can’t control how their biological functions react. “Considering these poor officers, scientists, and clerks, work off of a percentage for every successful patent, it’s a buyers market. They’re just as eager as every other tech magnate in the Galaxy to push something through. Commissions are the name of the game in the Patent Office. Well, SIN has given them the opportunity to unionize.” Now a twitch from the otherwise impassive president. “In order to even be considered by the Patent Office every applicant will be required to submit a substantial fee. Monthly at that. This will account for the proposed minimum wage of the patent officers. Commissions will be offered only for successful patents, and not this placeholder *** you and your ilk are peddling to corporations so they can hold their monopoly on tech.”
   “This will never fly!” The actual aggravation in Mallick’s tone catches Jolene aback, but just for a moment. The president is off balance, staggering under the weight of his own ambition.
   “Oh, it will, and it will do so spectacularly. SIN is financially backing a full strike by the Patent Office until the terms are reached. What I came here to tell you is that you and your cabal are going to back the strike. This entire system you built is going to return to a merit-based affair. Every entity within the cabal is going to return to form. Your financial pipelines, as they are now, will be plugged. Instead you will rely on official grants, set tuition fees, and premiums off of successful projects and patents thereafter. In exchange for this SIN is ready to finance the transition period. After that, the system will work itself out, I have seen to it.”
   “You have seen to it.”
   “Yes, me. The little mouse you flagged for tuition fees so steep you could launder *** half of your revenue. Whose grades you kept low, and whose every idea you labeled as impractical. Who you signed up for mandatory ethics classes where the only option was to fail. The same Jolene Parton you kept hidden from the Galaxy because you are a coward. And that’s the same reason you will *** comply. Because you, Sandeep Mallick, are a *** coward. Besides the Patent Office, you are the only one privy to this information. If it leaks, and the only person it can leak from is you, we will kill you.” The president half-opens his mouth, and then clenches his teeth so hard his jaw muscles protrude. “Not only you, but also your family. Your wife and two sons. As well as your mistress and her son. Then we will kill you. Because nothing else works on cowards like you. So you will start working on implementing my system once the Patent Office strike has begun. And you will do so gladly. While your lavish life will be somewhat dampened, I’m not in the least bit concerned that you will find it nevertheless accommodating to your needs. The people who you kept flush will also acclimate. Because in the end, it takes a coward to work with cowards. Now tell me, Malick, why are you going to accept my terms?”
   The president is phased by the question. His face contorts, almost alien. Jolene thinks he’s about to spew hot venom, or at least puke in his mouth. His lips twitch, purse, his brow furrows and even his ears move from all the grating of his teeth. “Because I am being threatened.”
   “No, no, Malick. Say the words. Say them back to me. Why are you going to accept my terms?”
   Sandeep Malick pauses for an almost uncomfortable amount of time. His face stops contorting, and a frown plasters itself over it like a waxen mask. “Because I am a coward.”

[close]

Chapter 64: FUEL TWO

Spoiler

THEY WIDEN THE NET. Three drone tenders form the backline for the five fighter-wings and two frigates which line the front.  The defensive formation falls into place. Each ship three clicks away from the other. A dedicated four-three-three formation. Three fighters to a frigate spearheading the net, followed by two fighters to a frigate, and the drone tenders keep their backline safe. To Gretha it seems like overkill, but she has to admit that the pirate presence in the Core Worlds has been more than just a nuisance as of late. Which is why they have to await the incoming fuel shipment all the way out at the Pluto jump point. As soon as it comes in they can escort it to Mars.
   “Keep the proximity scanners primed,” Gretha orders her squadron over comms. While the prox-scanners have a small delay compared to transponder emissions, the pirates still have little  chance against the best crafts the Authority has. To Gretha this vehement refusal to admit defeat by the pirates would be laudable, if it wasn’t such a damned lost cause. From all the reposts she read, they lose more ground and crafts with every engagement. Like a swath of flies just poking at the carapaced skin of a claaf-hog. A patrol engaged in a dogfight here, a saturation bombardment against the orbital station there, some missing shipments on the side. Nothing concrete, nothing to write home about, just poking and poking. But just like a skies-be-damned swath of flies, they won’t go away. That’s why Superior Torkk has the bulk of the Authority's outrider forces stationed in the Core Worlds. The heart of the Galaxy has to remain safe. Which is true. If they give way to outright piracy within the system, they open up the heart to the *** Sons. And unlike the pirates, those bastards are nothing to scoff at. The Superior made the Authority’s mission clear from the start. Protect the nest, *** the rest. That’s why their forces are bunkered on Soleris, the Authority homeworld, just outside the Core Worlds. Patrol units and outrider scavengers keep the rest of the Galaxy secure. But Gretha knows as much as the rest that it’s just a façade. Let the ragged ***, the same ones that fight among each other, fight a bigger dog for a change. Once this all blows over the Authority will wipe them all off the face of the Galaxy, or they’ll all tow the *** line for once.
   It’s the perfect opportunity to crash hard on every faction outside the law, and finally bring peace to the Galaxy. Let them die, let the *** *** each other harder, and then the ones actually working for a better and safer Galaxy can do some good for a change. Gretha never imagined that half-empty bases, retreating Authority forces, and a bunkered approach could actually do some good. She leans more on the proactive policing side of the debate, but there is a satisfactory end to a good genocide every now and then.
   Gretha’s only disappointed that the Sons have been eerily quiet for a time now.
   Just like the scanners are quiet, and the shipment should be arriving soon. That’s when it usually hits. It’s not called the calm before the storm for nothing. And every soldier worth their craft hated the calm before the storm with a vengeance. That pathetic downtime where you keep your eyes peeled for any kind of twitch on your radar module. When your hands start to sweat, just because they can, and the only thing left to do is contemplate what you’re going to do when the storm comes bearing down. Going over combat training, the odds, the maneuvers, how and why, when and where. The mind racing just to make sense of all the waiting, because it feels like you’re doing something.
   “Drone tenders, anything on prox?”
   “We’re picking up incoming shrapnel from a gravity storm outside Pluto’s perimites.”
   “Affirmative, brace for impact.”
   Since drone tenders are hulking masses of tech, their sensors far outreach that of smaller crafts. Authority storm forecasts predicted a fairly small storm within the reaches of Pluto, and close to the point, but their shields can take it.
   Gravity storms transcend space and hyperspace, and carry debris from all around the Galaxy. Once Gretha was in charge of a harvesting team that dealt with shrapnel from the *** AI war. Lost to space, before the storms carried it all the way to the *** Core Worlds. In space it’s only a matter of time before something lost is found. At least if it doesn't fly straight into a sun, or black hole, or gets demolished by a nova. Violence never-ending. And Gretha is itching for some. Do some good.
   “ETA on the shrapnel?”
   “1 minute.”
   Sure enough the dots pop up on the prox scanner. “Divert all power to shields. It’s bigger than we thought. Shoot anything substantial out the sky.”
The squadron expands the net farther, and each craft diverts their attention to the incoming shrapnel. The mass is clustered, from what Gretha can tell by the scanner input. Larger fields of shrapnel probably glued together by residual gravitation force. They’ll have to shoot those down, since amassed metal from eons in space can be as hulking as a cruiser. 
   Most of it’s angling towards the back line. Drone tenders have little options for defense, apart from their laser turrets, so the fighters and frigates will have to pick up the slack.
   “Tighten around the tenders. Let’s finish this off quick, before the shipment comes in.”
   Gretha likes having a tight-lipped squad. Unless is a direct order during combat, there’s no roger this, affirmative that. They just do their job, and do it well. When *** gets hairy, then it’s    time to talk.
   Her squadron braces for impact. They can all see the incoming mass of metal and residual gravity coming towards them.
   Gretha takes aim, locks in her front cannons, and lets loose. The uranium-coated shells shred through the coagulated metal, tearing it apart.
   A MOS skiff unleashes a barrage of plasma missiles. The debris from the shrapnel explosion still around it. Gretha’s fighter buckles, shields burst, and the MOS hones in on her. “Defensive formation, now!”
   “Affirmative,” her squadron replies in unison.
   Dozens of MOS skiffs start buzzing around the squadron. Doing fly-bys and unleashing hell on their shield. “Engagement protocols. Revert power to main offensive assets. Take them the *** out!”
   “Aye, aye!”
   The squadron bulks up into a defensive box formation. Frigates on the drone tenders, fighters on the outer perimeter. That way the MOS skiffs can’t cut through their defenses. They’re quick, mobile fighters that dive in, and dive out. No way anyone outside the most suicidal pilots would fly headlong into a box formation. They’d be cut to pieces.
   Their shields still buckle under the weight of both MOS assault and the *** shrapnel still coming their way. The MOS skiffs keep piloting around them, evading their missiles, rolling through their rotary cannons. “Drone tenders, full assault. Fighters back them up, advance. Frigates keep the missile barrage up.”
   “Aye, aye!”
   The formation elongates. Drones converge on the fighters, and they engage the MOS head-on.
   A legit dogfight ensues. Gretha’s in the zone. Deadly, and ready to do some good.
   Tenders and frigates still form the back line. Fighters engage the MOS, and *** starts flying fanwards fast. Her squadron is on them like grav sickness.
   Bring the fight to them.
   Gretha’s prox scanner starts going haywire. Dozens of dots on the display, yet she sees nothing on her retinal. No camera catches any whiff of a craft in the vicinity.
   The fight continues. MOS start dropping. The shrapnel bombards the backline. Shields keep up. MOS continue to *** fall.
   The prox still beeping, red on red, emergency protocols advised.
   Then they come in.
   Out of nowhere.

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