Rising from his bedroll, Salu Nekridi regarded the small nut-like object that had been dropped into his alcove while he had been asleep. Even as he looked at it did he feel a growing compulsion to crush it between his fingers. He smiled. The lengths through which his current clients went to keep themselves secret was certainly amusing.

With the lights in his alcove still turned off he pretended the light from the corridor had trespassed on his efforts to sleep and pulled the curtain closed. This was the first and simplest step in his employers' demand for secrecy. Next he pulled the slider for the privacy field to its seemingly maximum setting. The thing was a thin smooth strip activated by touch that sent small ticks through his fingers as feedback, with a large pulse signaling the end of the slider. He held it there until he felt two additional ticks; models like these always hid higher settings like that. Any spying device trained on his alcove would now be unable to pick up anything useful.

His employers' instructions now satisfied, he picked up the nut-like object between his thumb, index, and middle fingers, applying pressure. At first it felt as solid as a rock but his compulsion kept him at it long enough for the thing's internal structures to give way, the outer shell shattering with a sound even his upper ears had trouble picking up. In his hand, between the shell's debris, were a small, simple brooch with a clear gem in the middle and an ordinary looking lozenge. He put the latter in his mouth and crushed it with his molars. He knew he had to wait a bit for the effects to take hold, so he admired the brooch. It looked genuinely old, and maybe it was—altered for its new, temporary function.

A haze in the back of his mind—then clarity. It was time.

He squeezed the brooch's gem. Out streamed holographic filaments in patterns his mind accepted but could not consciously understand. The lights were faint but his eyes had no trouble picking it up: most lineages of his clade had excellent vision in low light. The patterns and shapes flashed by in rapid succession, their instructions stored away in his subconscious where they would remain until all had been properly executed. The miniature light show was all over in the time it took him to collect all the nut shell's fragments. Whatever mechanisms were buried in the gem had burnt out, leaving it inert. He had been told he could do whatever he wanted with it now: pawn it off, have it be pickpocketed, drop it in a planter, even keep it for himself. It shouldn't matter. Anyone with decent tools and expertise would identify it as originating from a certain era of a certain culture; anyone with with better than decent tools and expertise would know it did not. By that time, however, it would've exchanged hands enough times that it was no longer relevant. The better than decent expert would wonder what had been encoded on the gem, but would never find out, and would never make the connection to shady negotiations on one of the many near lawless habitats of Erlkandr. At least, that's what he had been told.

After disposing of the nut shell pieces and a quick rinse Salu set off with his other set of clothes in a laundry net, guided by the instructions imprinted by the combination of drugs and holographic images. He made his way through the hostel's corridors, passing people of many different clades. A few of them would appear exotic to a sheltered individual, but none of them veered too far off from the standard human morphology as ordained by the Pwindvo Orthodoxy during the Middle Restoration period. The truly radical clades wouldn't even bother with the hostel's simple alcoves, he figured.

Exiting the hostel he deftly navigated through the alley and into the crowded lower tier of the main promenade. Having lived in places like these all his life he had no trouble crossing to the other side where he found an automated laundry carousel sequestered between an empty storefront and an only slightly dilapidated but vibrant green dome. As the dingy payment slot retracted the required number of discs from his credit stick with a cursed grind, he wondered why his clients' imprint had steered him to this place. It was cheaper than the one at the hostel, yes. But not enough that he would go out of his way to get his clothes cleaned at this dodgy establishment. For one, the hostel enjoyed the protection of the local cartel; hence why everything there was in good shape and safe to use. Not that it mattered to his clients. They were satisfied as long as he drew no suspicion.

The imprint urged him further down that side street until he was greeted with the smell of deep fried hendkoiya. It wafted from a stand manned by a short, young fellow—a boy, really—who looked like he dreamed of a means that involved him not being rooted in one spot all day. Salu recognized him as the kind who every day would report his observations to the cartel grunts overseeing the block, in the hopes of a way into a slightly better and—in his eyes—more glamorous life. The food he peddled would most likely suffer for it.

Nevertheless, Salu paid for one of the greasy lumps, thanking the boy. The boy grunted in return, averting his eyes from Salu's upper ears. He wasn't bothered by the kid's reaction. His clade had a history that elicited responses ranging from hatred through association down to pity and all completely understandable. The past was not the fault of anyone living in the present. It simply was what it was.

Salu looked at the hendkoiya trying its damndest to grease up the cheap mycelium wrapper. Had he really just bought this? Surely the work of the imprint, as he usually would've gone for pache with shredded kebekebe cabbage instead. And so, without feeling particularly hungry, he bit into the hendkoiya. Soggy as expected, but the filling made the whole thing almost forgivable. What was this meat? It wasn't beef, mutton, or some kind of fowl. Maybe it was that skinny cousin of the sheep whose name escaped him?

As he wondered this he took another side street, further and further away from the busy crowds. The housing here was getting particularly grimy and destitute, only getting worse as the light projectors hung up the underside of the upper tier began to fail. It was almost frightening how quickly the bright street gave way to deep darkness, but he had no choice to press on. And so he found himself facing a wall covered in bioluminescent lichen and an urge to go right through it. But how?

His thoughts were interrupted by a soft prodding on his lower leg. There was a small shape in the dark there. It meowed.

"You want some hendkoiya, little friend?"

Meow.

"My bosses want me to eat enough of this to make me look casual, so wait just a bit, all right?"

The little shape leaned on his leg with its two front paws, big, pleading eyes shining in the dark. Meow!

"Well, aren't you lucky, my feline friend." He lowered the greasy wrapper down to the reach of a questing little nose, its owner delighted to smell the leftovers held within. "Looks like I can leave this to you now." He lowered the wrapper down on the floor. The little stray dove right in, gorging on soggy dough and mystery meat like a starving drifter who had stumbled into a noble's pantry.

And then when Salu looked up again, he saw it. An even and straight break through the lichen. A door? He pushed against it and light burst from the crack. Encouraged, he slipped out of the darkness and into the light.

His eyes adjusted quickly enough in the dense and verdant foliage. This was a step up from the green dome he had seen earlier; this place looked like a piece of forest transplanted from a planet. He quietly closed the door behind him and followed the beaten path before him. His upper ears reflexively pivoted to a sudden rustling sound in the bushes. It was followed by repeating, rumbling snorts. A creature casually regarded him from the bushes: pink and fleshy with a striking black head, its snout ended in a blunt flat shape that pointed at the top. There was a strange familiarity to this animal. Had he seen it somewhere before? Had he eaten it somewhere before? Maybe the mystery meat filling of that hendkoiya?

There was little time to ruminate. Up ahead was a shed of sorts with three people standing beside it: two men and a woman. The woman was tall with a thin build, spindly limbs and a skin the color of rust. Salu had no idea what clade she was. Next to her was a Telyuuran man with a skin a particularly dark grey. The other man looked conservative enough to belong to one of the Pwindvo clades with his skin a pink similar to the animal Salu had seen earlier and bright yellow eyes.

Approaching the threesome he was compelled to ask a question. "Are those blackhead pigs yours?" Pig? Had that animal been a pig?

The rust colored woman answered. "No, they belong to my uncle, but my sister raises them. I help out sometimes."

That had been the correct answer. Salu's imprint primed his mind for the next phase.

"Just a moment," the Telyuuran said. He pulled out a portable privacy sphere generator and activated it. "We can speak freely now."

"My clients's demands are as follows," Salu began in an almost automated manner, "What reasons you can give for the blockade's failure, your opinion on the option of immediately continuing the mission with a pursuit of the targets into the Ikkatfo 4 system using the remainder of your fleet, if not, we would like to hear your suggestions as to how to continue the mission and bring it to a successful conclusion. Message end."

The Pwindvo man laughed wearily. "Reasons for the blockade's failure?" he said with a flare of anger. "Even the smallest child in Erlkandr knows of the shiny new warship the Mezhained farted out in transit! And that battle. Measured out to perfection on their end; pure chaos for us! They knew we were there, no doubt about it."

"Taillon, calm down," lady rust said. "I think we can all agree our targets were aware of our numbers and planned accordingly."

Taillon huffed. "Not just the numbers, but the timing. They exited the tunnel, destroyed our fleet, and left for Ikkatfo 4 just as the first wave of reinforcements translated into the system. We planned for a battle after the second wave had joined the blockade."

"Reports have come in from vessels that arrived in Erlkandr after the Mezhained with complaints of unusually long transit times but with arrival times occurring before they should," the Telyuuran added.

"Whatever profane science they're using," Taillon said, "It allowed them to enter the tunnel to Erlkandr with just three warships and exit it ahead of time with four." He began to nervously tug at his lip. "This is a treaty war all right."

"Let's not forget the issue of the security leak," the Telyuuran said. "Who knows what other data has been compromised?"

"I'll take care of that," Taillon said. "Whoever that little spy is will be made an example."

"Since we all know entering Ikkatfo 4 is out of the question," lady rust said, "This leaves us with the final issue."

"I say we break the contract," Taillon blurted out. "But obviously you two will veto that so let's tell 'em we'll freeze our strategy until they leave Kayaalid space."

Lady rust gave him a glare. "We'll not only tell them that, we'll actually do it."

"Bah!"

Lady rust addressed the Telyuuran. "Mlitohan, if you don't have any objections I'll let you compose the reply."

"Certainly." The grey skinned man who was apparently named Mlitohan turned to Salu. "Intermediary. Please record the following reply: We presume our defeat to be caused by the combination of a data leak and the Mezhained's cunning that allowed them to arrive with an extra warship before we could fully enforce the blockade. The relevant details are all publicly available. As for your other questions: due to legal reasons we cannot enter the territories claimed by the Greater Kayaalid Prosperity Sphere. As such we have decided to suspend our combat efforts until our targets leave the Kayaalid territories. In the mean time we will focus on more detailed planning for the time when we can resume our strategy. Message end."

The words piled up in the back of Salu's mind, to be regurgitated later to his clients. "Message recorded," he intoned.

Neither he, nor the threesome said a word as he left. What, after all, was the point of a goodbye if the intermediary was supposed to forget the meeting had ever taken place.