“For over three thousand years, Sydentel Industries has been the leader in its field. When the Decision Matrices were pioneered, our board was among the first to adopt its practice; when Flebaro Donitiar made his first expedition into Deep World Sector Twelve, we followed and established the first lines of communication and supply. When it was clear we could mine more resources from planets with new methods and technologies, we ensured we were the first in our industry to explore those possibilities. When public outcry necessitated a change in leadership, the Matrix was quick to act. What we do, we do so fast others still think it’s impossible. Delays are not in the DNA of this venture.”
—Ridole Grambak, Former Chairman of the Terra Sion Corporate Guild, in a legal bid-memo to the Synatorium for rights to strip Bichevel Outpost
Zaina Quin tilted her head back to see the peak of the skyscraper before her—its highest point, like many buildings on the Garden World of Rishaval, pierced through the clouds and extended into the upper atmosphere.
“You sure this is the right place?” she asked.
Stepping up to stand beside her, Xyrthe Belgrand bit into a piece of red fruit with a sweet aroma. “A-yup.”
Even pulled behind her head, Xyrthe’s long brown hair was disheveled; her usually-vibrant green eyes were muted by grog-fog, and deep, black bags had nestled beneath them, contrasting with her pale skin—and accenting the black mark on her forehead.
Xyrthe dug a scrap of paper from her pocket and double-checked it. “Terra Sion Corporate Guild Deep World Sector Three Headquarters, Resource Acquisition Division on Rishaval.”
Zaina winced. “It’s like you’re speaking another language.”
“They do,” Xyrthe said, then stared at Zaina with a bemused grin.
“What?”
“You nervous?”
“No,” Zaina lied. “Why the hell would I be nervous?”
Xyrthe shrugged. “I was on my first real mission.”
Zaina crossed her arms. “What, cargo and diplomatic details don’t count?”
“Correct,” Xyrthe replied.
“We could’ve been attacked by pirates or something.”
After an eye-roll Xyrthe replied, “None of those escort missions had a HPI above fifteen percent, much less what we’re dealing with now. This time there’s nearly a certainty of action—finally.”
Zaina gulped, rubbing her clammy hands together. HPI—Hazard Probability Index—was a scoring system that determined how likely a lancer was to encounter a violent situation on a given mission. And this task had a rare one-hundred percent HPI rank.
“Look,” Xyrthe continued, “don’t worry about it, all right? We’re probably dealing with a small band of pirates. Merchants ask for our help with pirates all the time. Of course, the real danger is what’s in this building here.”
Zaina’s eyebrow rose. “Aren’t these guys the ones giving us this mission?”
Xyrthe crossed her arms and stared into Zaina’s eyes. “Remember, kid—they aren’t giving us the mission, the scholars are. We don’t work for these assholes—we work for those assholes. Got it?”
Zaina raised her arms in surrender. “Yeah, yeah, I’ve got it, I’ve got it. Well, what’s so bad about these guys? Didn’t they make a big donation or something—they must care about the galaxy, right? How bad can they be?”
Xyrthe’s gaze drifted toward the building, her eyes narrowed into a spiteful glare. “You’ll see when you meet them.”
With a sigh, Xyrthe pulled up the vis-screen on her wrist and pushed a few buttons. A console by the building’s door emitted a beep. Part of the concrete sidewalk detached, sliding to make way for a descending mechanical staircase hidden beneath.
“That’s cool,” Zaina said.
Silence from Xyrthe.
Zaina glanced over at her mentor. I wonder why she doesn’t like them. Maybe she knows whoever we’re meeting.
At the bottom of the stairway was a tubelift. Upon stepping inside, Xyrthe pushed another few buttons, and with a lurch their tube launched upward.
Turning to her mentor, Zaina asked, “So why do you hate these guys?”
Xyrthe shot a murderous look her way. “Not here. They’re recording everywhere inside and around this building. And wherever the hell else they can, too.”
A frown swept across Zaina’s lips—any excitement she’d harbored for this assignment was fading fast. The mentor the Order of Riiva had given Zaina had two moods: dour and spiteful. This mission looked to have her in the latter.
Zaina sighed, then stared at the ceiling. “Well, I think this could be interesting.”
Xyrthe chuckled and shook her head. The remainder of their tubelift ride went by in silence. Finally, their transport slowed, grinding to a halt before the door slid open.
Zaina stepped into a decadent, oversized office with an expensive-looking rug. The walls were lined with bookshelves displaying an impressive collection of hand-written volumes; gridium lamps lined the walls, providing peaceful, calm blue light. A massive, masterfully-sculpted desk made of beautiful, clear stone sat in the room’s center, behind which their quarry was seated. By his side was a masked mercenary dressed entirely in white. Zaina glanced upward—despite how long they’d been on the tubelift, the building’s ceiling was still out of sight.
The man they came to see—an overweight Grigaidan with moist, green skin, gray patches of stubble on his flat face, and pale head-flaps, dressed in an opulent robe trimmed to his exact dimensions, tail and all—stood. “Greetings. Please—come in. I’m glad you’ve arrived.”
Zaina met his gaze and clasped her hands behind her back, wanting to seem professional. “Thanks—um, thank you for having us. I’m Zaina.”
She motioned for Xyrthe to introduce herself, but her mentor rolled her eyes and scoffed.
Their host stepped from around his desk and said, “Yes, yes—the pleasure is all mine. Welcome to the top floor of the Terra Sion building here on Rishaval—my name is Ondor Almada, Chairman of Sydentel Industries. This one here—my bodyguard—is Randall.”
Zaina’s head tilted to the side. “This is the top floor?”
Ondor smiled, baring sharp teeth, and pointed upward. “I like the ceiling high. Makes me feel like a pup again—like I still have a ways to go.”
Xyrthe, ever unfazed by pleasantries, said, “What are we here for, then? Let’s get to it.”
Zaina stared at her mentor in horror, wondering how she could be so callous.
To her surprise, Ondor folded his fingers together and leaned back against his desk. “Ah, straight to the point. Direct—assertive. Partially why I requested people of your—affliction. No offense. I have no problem with heretics.”
Zaina’s eyes narrowed. Ouch. Okay, I think I’m starting to see what she means.
The chairman continued, “As I said, I represent Sydentel Industries, top sub-charter of the Terra Sion Corporate Guild in the resource acquisition field. We’ve long been a faithful donor to the Order of Riiva and asked nothing in return. Even now, we’re asking nothing—it’s all a matter of economics, both in terms of your interests and ours. I’m afraid if we aren’t able to achieve a measure of success on this project, we may end up going under—which would, of course, affect our ability to make donations to the Order in the future.”
“Project?” Xyrthe asked.
Ondor cleared his throat. “Yes—a rather ambitious development project. I’m sure you’re familiar with Archavo Outpost?”
Zaina turned to Xyrthe, who shrugged and said, “What? You think I know every planet in the Nova Rim? Get real.”
“It matters little,” he said. “Archavo Outpost was a military installation built by the Synatorium as a border defense facility against deep space threats; however, in the four-hundred thousand years since its construction, the borders have expanded a great deal—and its positioning is no longer fit for a military installation, given the expansion of training facilities on the core words, and the prime positioning of other planets in the region to act as supply buffers. Over a hundred years ago the Allegiant Militarium pulled their forces out entirely, leaving nothing behind but marauders and drunken laborers who quickly became marauders.
“Now it exists as a relic to be torn apart, its material repurposed throughout the galaxy; the planet upon which the outpost was built—a world with no known name, no known natives of origin—contains precious metals within its core-power grid, and there’s still a good amount of material to be scrapped from the old military base. Bidding for rights to Archavo was fierce, as it always is when Militarium world-installations are concerned, but cooler heads prevailed, and we were given the contract to mine its resources.”
Xyrthe crossed her arms and shifted her weight. “So what does any of that mean to us?”
“Not much, I presume. No, none of that has to do with why you’re here—it’s context, really, so you understand the history.”
“If we need a history lesson, we’ll get one from the scholars,” Xyrthe said.
Ondor clapped his hands together and said, “Right. To the point. Now, then—why you’re here. You see, we’ve encountered a problem. While we own the legal rights to mine Archavo Outpost—I spent a small fortune getting the proper permits and a larger one in a bit of a bidding war—there remains the problem of the marauders on the planet’s surface.”
Xyrthe scoffed. “You’re calling us over marauders? Give it to the bounty guilds. I’m sure you’ve got enough in your coffers to attract a good one.”
Ondor frowned. “I’m afraid I’ve already spent the money I had for mercenaries of that caliber—I’m a bit strapped for capital at the moment. I hired younger, hungrier guilds, but they were wiped out.”
“Wiped out?” Xyrthe asked, leaning in.
Zaina frowned. First time she’s shown real interest.
Ondor cleared his throat, then said, “Yes—these marauders aren’t ordinary foes, I’m afraid. Their leader is a man by the name of Reister Fell. A former detective in the CID, and pure evil if ever I encountered it. He and his ravagers destroyed every force we’ve sent at him.”
