Chapter 2
I don’t know what to write for this quote… I’ll figure that out later…
“That oughtta do the trick, Ray,” assured Olan Harvey, as he finished tightening the last bolt on the lift’s locking mechanism. “If it starts making that noise again, we’ll probably need to replace the rotary clamp on the third pulley. It looked pretty worn down.”
As Olan stood back up, he wiped the grease from his gloves, then turned to face the young Harvester, his arm outstretched. Ray took his hand in a firm shake, thanking him.
“Olan, you do good work. Thank you very much.”
“Anytime, bucko. Is that all?”
“Yeah, that’s all that’s been giving us any problems.” Ray paused for a moment, then continued, his voice muffled by the respirator mask he wore “I just wanna let you know, though..”
Oh great, not again. Olan was grateful that Ray couldn’t see his eyes roll in irritation through the mask he wore.
“…I’m really sorry about what happened to your cousin, Olan.”
Do people not consider the possibility that I’d like to keep my mind off it?
“Thanks,” Olan muttered, struggling to withhold his annoyance.
“Jarom was a great guy–” Ray continued but was promptly interrupted by Olan.
“Sure was! Well, hey, bucko, I gots to get to Perimeter Gatehouse C pretty quick; they put in a work order for me to repair the rampway up there.”
“Oh, uh, sorry to keep you so long, Olan,” apologized Ray, not sure quite how to react to Olan’s apparent lack of interest in the fact that his cousin had died the day before.
Olan nodded his head to the Lift. “You let me ride this up?”
“Uh, oh, yeah. It shouldn’t be making that noise or wobbling anymore, right?”
“Of course not, I fixed it. Things that I fix stop making noises.”
As Olan stepped onto the Lift, he gave the command, “Send me up, bucko!”
And up he went. The Lift moved slowly, taking him up the shaft to the surface of the Cracks. Sure enough, the irregular sound was no longer. Olan always did a good job. Always. He’d spent five years in the Maintenance Crew here at Harvesting Facility J-7, and had yet to find something that he couldn’t fix – well, at least, nothing that someone else could fix but he couldn’t.
He’d been at J-7 since it was first opened up to Harvesting. It was run by House Ganser, and his ’special’ connections had been able to hook him up with the job early. Apparently, House Ganser had a few skeletons in their closet, and Rover was able to take advantage of that to get Olan the job. Of course who on Pathros didn’t have skeletons in their closet.
Except for my mother. What an angel.
Aiex Harvesting.
As the Lift ascended, Olan looked at the Cracks around him, and the work that was being done. All along the walls of the Cracks were shelf-like rock formation, many of them with pools of the bright purplish-pink Aiex. On a number of those shelves, Harvesters crouched cautiously, pumping small quantities of the lucrative substance into silver canisters. They approached their task with the greatest of care, understanding the fragile makeup of the Aiex, and how much money would be lost is the Aiex was contaminated.
It had always amazed Olan, just how much cash was being made in these dark, dank cracks in the ground. How could the liquid be worth so much?
Its obviously worth enough for people to live on this hellish world.
Aiex was, simply put, a miracle. In the two hundred years since it was discovered, just about every disease had been cured. Of course it was worth a lot. A whole lot. Looking down into the depths of the Cracks, Olan was reminded that Aiex was worth the life of his cousin.
From the surface of the small pools of liquid, Olan could make out small puffs of gas, slowly rising up. As he look upward, he could see where the gases ran together, forming the murk. The thick gases covered the whole planet, and they started down here, in the Cracks.
After a few minutes, the Lift reached the surface of the Cracks. As it slowed to a halt, Olan radioed his next job.
“Perimeter Gatehouse C, this is Olan Harvey. Just letting you know that I’ll be there in a few minutes to fix that rampway.”
“Copy that, Olan. We’ll be waiting for you.”
Olan strode across the catwalks that spanned the Cracks, headed in the direction of Perimeter Gatehouse C. Now that he was on the surface, the murk hung all around him in the air. It wasn’t too thick here, as he was just barely on the surface, but the light purple murk still severely limited his vision. It was like a veil, tossed over the whole planet. You just got used to not seeing much.
Olan was always thankful for his suit, though. If he weren’t wearing the murk-proof Murksuit that he was, then he would be fully susceptible to the murks adverse effects. Thinking about that made him shudder. No variety of murk had any positive effects, but this particular brand was especially unnerving. Olan chucked to himself at that clever play on the word ‘unnerving’.
“Olan Harvey, reporting for duty, Cap,” greeted the mechanic as he arrived at the Gatehouse, gloved hand outstretched for a handshake.
One of the gatehouse guards, likewise dressed in a Murksuit – armored, though– accepted his handshake, saying, through the muffling of his respirator mask, “Good to see you here. You know what to do with the rampway?”
“You shoulda said that as a statement, bucko. Of course I do.” The cocky mechanic half-sauntered over to the rampway, pulling a wrench off of his belt. “Now, you reported that it has been jamming halfway down when you try lowering it?”
“Yeah,” affirmed the guard, “We were trying to send out a Scouter this morning to investigate some signals we were getting from the east mesa.” The guard pointed with his hand to the east. Of course, Olan couldn’t see the east mesa he was pointing at, as the murk obscured his vision after five feet.
“Okay, sounds simple enough. Lemme have a look at it.”
Olan studied the lowering mechanism for a bit, identified the problem, then got to work. It was a fairly simple repair; he could have flunked out of the Trade Academy and still fixed it.
“Hey, Grant, I’m getting a code 4 reading, here!” called one of the guards in the Gatehouse. The guard who had greeted Olan hurried over to the Gatehouse, while a number of others followed suit.
Olan was tempted to see what was going on, himself, but refrained. It was better to just get his job done, and not bother them.
“Code 4? Do we have a size reading yet?” Grant asked, his voice laden with concern.
“Not yet. It is approaching, though, and fast.”
“Alright; Taylor, you take your position on Turret G. Malcolm, you take Turret F.”
“I thought Constantino was assigned to Turret F,” argued a surprisingly scrawny guard.
“He is, Mal, but his wife was bringing him lunch, so he went to meet her at the Lift.” A loud beep sounded, representing the size of what was incoming. “Oh, man, get up there now!”
“Grant, this thing is big. We’ve got a Class 7 size reading here!”
Olan may not have known too much outside of mechanics, but he had been on Pathros long enough to recognize what a Class 7 size reading was. He stood up and rushed over to the Gatehouse, where everyone was gathering.
“Class 7? That’s like, upwards of two tons, isn’t it, Cap?”
Obviously annoyed by the mechanics presence at this time of urgency, Grant answered, “Yeah, now get out of the way. This could be dangerous!”
Olan did as he was told, backing out of the Gatehouse.
Class 7… man, that’s huge! I’d bet that’ll be a sight…
Olan hesitated. A Class 7. The opportunity to see something like that did not come often.
He turned slowly, watching the guards as they moved about frantically.
The guards know what they’re doing…
He could hardly believe he was trying to rationalize this.
…and, those guys are up in the turrets…
Hardly believing his own actions, Olan walked around the Gatehouse to the stairs that led up to the turrets. Between the two turrets was a catwalk, from which he would have a good view of what was coming.
This is stupid.
Up on the catwalk that spanned the distance between the two turrets, Olan peered into the murk. He could see a thing. Of course, he could hardly see the ground below, and he was only thirty feet up in the air. About ten feet below him, level with the Gatehouse, is where the barrier began. It was a twenty foot, Ultrasteel wall, circumscribing the entire Harvesting Facility. Surely, the barrier as well as the men in the turrets can keep any danger out.
Olan watched a few minutes longer, staring into the swirling murk. They were almost hypnotic. The colorful gases were like phantoms, dancing through the air before him. The midday sunlight could hardly penetrate the murk, and the light only further illuminated the gases, bringing out their colors. They were beautiful. Beautiful and deadly.
Then he heard it. A dull thump, at first, repeated slowly. It grew louder, and Olan could make out a sort of rhythm. Although Olan had only seen horses on old videos, he recognized a rhythm similar to when they galloped. It was the rhythm of a four-legged creature going full speed.
Olan was filled with a mix of anticipation, fascination, and fear as he stared intently into the murk, looking for that which was approaching. To his right and to his left he could hear a whirring sound, as the men in the turrets powered up their weapons, preparing to fire. Olan’s heart was pounding so hard he could hear it reverberating in his skull.
Finally, the vague outline of some mass became visible in the murk. It was immense, almost as big as the shuttle he would took on the weekends to get to Vandax City. Suddenly a Class 7 seemed like a bit of an understatement to Olan.
Piercing the murk, half-inch rounds were fired from the turrets. The creature let out a roar as it was hit, but pressed forward. As it drew closer, Olan could make out its features, and his breath was taken away.
Jagged spikes protruded from a massive, muscular back, running all the way down to a stout tail, even larger spikes at the tip. The bulging muscles could hardly be concealed by its shaggy fur coat, and two large horns stuck out from its bovine head. The six-inch teeth that jutted out from the lower jaw were illuminated by the glow from its eerie green eyes.
There it was. Right up there with Aiex, making a reputation for Pathros, was the very thing that made the planet so dangerous.
A dragon.
The guns from the turrets sounded again, and the dragon only howled in rage, hurling itself at the barrier. Olan had to catch himself as the whole wall shook from the impact. The beast was so big, so fierce. It was almost in a frenzy, thrashing around, ramming the wall, and howling in anger as the bullets pierced its thick hid.
The dragon stood up on its hind legs, lunging at one of the turrets. When Olan saw its massive jaws at his level, not five yards away, he realized the danger he was in. Arcing from jagged tooth to jagged tooth, Olan could see the electrical charges that would accompany the monster’s bite. Backing away, he scrambled back down the stairs, catching himself again as the beast threw its weight into the barrier once more.
On the lower level, the guards had each taken positions, firing at the beast with their rifles. They suddenly seemed so ill-prepared to Olan. Their rifles were hardly suitable for taking down a behemoth like this.
The beast’s howling had become even more enraged, its attacks more frenzied. The guard known as Grant emerged from the Gatehouse, hoisting over his shoulder a large weapon of some sort. Olan watched as the guard knelt down, took aim, and fired the weapon just as the dragon leaped up again, one of its forearms smashing down onto the gatehouse roof. From the barrel of the weapon came a blast of reddish energy, hitting the dragon squarely in the face. It was thrown backwards, landing on its spiked back.
Silence.
Olan stood still, stunned. His heart was racing faster than ever, and he felt faint. Had he really just witnessed that? Had he really survived that? He was almost shocked that the dragon hadn’t torn down the whole barrier, and rampaged the entire facility. That was close.
That was awesome!
“You,” began Grant, pointing to Olan, “are an idiot.”
Olan attempted to apologize, but the words couldn’t come out. He was still in awe of what he had seen.
“You could have been killed. That, there, was a Class 7 dragon. A voltbison. Last time one of those attacked the facility, there were casualties.” Grant stared him down, though his eyes were hidden by the respirator mask. “When I say get out of the way, I mean it.”
Olan was numb to Grant’s scolding. He could hardly think straight. He just stood there, looking like an oaf.
“Grant, get over here!” shouted a guard from the Gatehouse. “Perimeter Gatehouse B has picked up some more signals!”
Had Grant not been wearing his mask, Olan would have been faced with one nasty glare before the guard rushed back into the Gatehouse.
“What do they have?”
“It looks like their picking up several Code 4 signals, too. They don’t have any size readings, yet.”
A ping on the monitor went off.
“Oh, come on…” muttered Grant.
Several more pings followed.
“Code 4’s. Several of them. I count…” the guard at the computer paused for a moment, counting up the pings, “fifteen.”
“Fifteen? All Code 4’s?”
“Yes.”
A buzz signaled an incoming message from Perimeter Gatehouse B. “Gatehouse C, we have confirmed a number of size readings, ranging from Class 2 to Class 6! We are going to need backup!”
“I’m sorry, boys, but we’ve got fifteen Code 4’s on this side!”
“We’re up to nineteen, now, Grant.”
Then came the size readings.
“By the Stars, we’ve got size readings from Class 1 to Class 7!”
Another buzz. “Hey! This is Gatehouse A, we’re getting swamped with Code 4’s! One of them is a Class 8! We need more men, now!”
Alarms began sounding throughout the Facility, whilst the Gatehouse was filled with shouted order.
“Turrets F and G, prepare heavy rounds. Marlow, prepare the heavy ordnance, now!”
Olan gazed off into the murk, petrified. He couldn’t imagine what all was incoming. After that voltbison, he didn’t think they could get much worse.
The guards were all positioned along the top of the barrier, weapons at ready. For a few moments, there was only the sound of the alarms blaring, the air thick with suspense.
Then its struck. The first dragon came from above. A serpentine form with long, insect-like wings, fire streaming down its back. An elongated mouth snatched up one of the guards, and the dragon flew past, coming within a foot of the terrified Olan.
Guns began blazing as Grant shouted out order.
Then came the pounding. Olan couldn’t see them, but he could tell that at least two or three dragons had rammed against the barrier, causing the whole thing to shake. Fifty yards to the left, Olan could see a large, catlike beast clear the barrier in a single bound, immediately ravaging all that was around it, sending out poisonous clouds with every breath.
More pounding, and Olan fell flat on his back. He could hear screaming now, too. The bloodied corpse of a guard fell beside Olan, tossed by some fierce monstrosity.
More pounding, followed by a loud crash. Not even a hundred yards from where they were, the barrier gave in, and the biggest dragon Olan had ever seen came charging in, followed by dozens of smaller, yet still frenzied, dragons.
The sounds of rampaging beasts surrounded him, and the carnage was overwhelming. Olan stood back up on his feet, looking around in terror. He had to get out of here. Gazing upwards, towards the center of the facility, he could see the Elevated Bunker, and above that, the refinery.
Above the murk. His thoughts felt empty. I’ve got to get above the murk.
As the flying dragon swooped down once again, picking up Grant in a spray of blood, Olan looked towards the only escape he could fathom.
The lift. I’ve got to get to the lift.
* * *
Cleon stared into the silent, shifting murk. The murk had always fascinated him, even as a child. It wasn’t necessarily that he liked to be in the murk, but rather, he like to watch the murk. He liked to watch the way it swirled, the way the colors blended as an artist would blend his paints to get just the right color. Really, it was the artistic qualities of the murk that Cleon loved so much. No painter could capture the enigmatic beauty of the colorful gases as they churned all around Cleon.
Aiexyn gas, the murk, covered almost the entire surface of Pathros. Produced by the Aiex pools in the Cracks, the murk was a constant veil over the land, leaving only the mountaintops and the oceans uncovered. It was because of the murk that every city on Pathros was elevated – suspended two-hundred meters above the ground by massive ultrasteel columns – keeping well above the murk. Each city was an island in a churning sea of color.
Around Cleon, the murk was a myriad of colors, as the different varieties of aiexyn gas swirled together. The dominant color in this omnipresent mural was a vivid blue, due to their proximity to Harvesting Facility D-9.
Thinking of that, Cleon was reminded of the purpose of his presence at this particular location. The Negotiations.
“Einhauer, is Team A ready?” asked Cleon into his radio.
“Ready and waiting, Officer Markham,” came the reply through the ear piece in Cleon’s helmet.
“Good. Have our scouts spotted House Mallary’s ‘entourage’ yet?”
“No, Officer. Still no signs of them, yet. The Negotiations are about to begin, though, so I could imagine they’ll be arriving shortly.”
“Well then, just stay on guard. D-9 is worth a lot to House Crayn. We don’t want to botch this deal.”
“Yes, sir.”
For a few minutes more, Cleon waited in silence, observing the dance of the murk. He frowned. While a few minutes ago, he could see the soldiers below him, they were now obscured by the murk.
Silver’s running low.
With a gauntleted hand, Cleon reached down to his waist, where seven slender cylinders were attached to his belt. He pressed on the top of the cylinder on the back end, feeling his blood heat up as the Aiex was pumped into his veins. Immediately, his range of vision increased. The soldiers below became clear again, standing on the elevated platform. Looking further, Cleon could make out the wide staircase that went up to the Negotiations Platform, whereon was found the Negotiations Building. House Crayn’s representative, Wayne Tarkan, was already in the building, waiting for the negotiations to begin.
A buzz in Cleon’s ear piece notified him that Tarkan’s monitor had been activated. The negotiations were beginning.
“Mr. Harlowe, good evening,” came the Wayne’s voice, with a long drawl, through Cleon’s ear piece.
“Good evening to you, too, Mr. Tarkan.”
“Are we ready to do business?”
“Yes. Let’s see what House Crayn has to offer.”
“I can assure you,” Wayne’s voice was confident, “it is much more more than House Mallary has provided you with.”
Another buzz sounded in Cleon’s ear piece, and Einhauer’s voice came through, “Officer Markham, we have sighted House Mallary’s ‘entourage’.”
“What do we have?”
“It looks like two squads of twenty, Officer. No cavalry. Their on the west platform, but they are already moving into position on the elevated platform.”
Forty soldiers, no cavalry. Cleon had only come with twenty soldiers. Bad odds? Cleon, fortunately, was House Crayn’s cavalry. Although it was already deadened by Fuchsia, the anticipation Cleon felt before this battle faded away.
Yes, thought Cleon, we’re ready to do business.
“Einhauer,” Cleon began into his radio, “Be ready. As planned, I’ll make the advance strike, and signal for you when it’s clear.”
As Einhauer confirmed his receipt of the orders, Cleon whispered a silent prayer, then dug his heels into the side of his mount, and plunged off of the column he was perched on, into the murk.
Yes, Cleon was the cavalry. His mount was none other than one of the famed ‘dragons’ of Pathros. While the numerous varieties of dragon on the murk-blanketed planet rarely resembled the dragons spoken of in the ancient legends from the Earth-Relic, Cleon’s mount was one of the few that did. A Great Dragon, Aerios Breed. Mounted on its back, heavily armored, and armed to the teeth, Cleon was among the ranks of the galaxy’s elite caste of warriors. Cleon was a Dragoon.
With that in mind, the twenty man difference weren’t too bad of odds.
“Now, Mr. Harlowe,” continued Wayne’s voice as Cleon soared through the murk, just below the level of the platforms, “House Vandell has had a Contract with House Mallary for three years now; am I correct?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Good. Now, I have brought with me tonight some graphs, charting the profits and losses that have resulted from your Contract with House Mallary. . .”
Rising upward, Cleon could see the soldiers who were positioned on the Elevated Platform, if only vaguely, through the murk. They were scattered across the platform, crouching behind crates and hiding behind columns. Taking his dragon, Levene, up above the platform, and over the heads of the soldiers. Levene flew gracefully, and with the muffling caused by the murk, was silent to the soldiers beneath. When at the right position, he reached back down to the cylinders at his waist.
I’ll need to move quick. He pumped Green. I’ll need to strike hard. He pumped Vermilion. Looking once more at the forty soldiers beneath, he thought, I’ll need to be fearless. He pumped Fuchsia.
Then he leaped, backwards, off of his mount. Doing a back flip in the air, he fell ten meters, his graceful landing aided by the Green and Vermilion that now coursed through his veins. Cleon’s engineered blade already drawn, the nearby House Mallary soldier didn’t even see the murk-shrouded Dragoon coming as his head was detached from its body, Aiex-fueled fires cauterizing the wound in the process.
As one body slumped to the ground, Cleon darted with supernatural speed behind a column where another soldier awaited his doom.
“You see, Mr. Harlowe, by switching your Contract to House Crayn, you can expect the increase in profits displayed in this diagram. . .”
Another flash of Cleon’s blade brought a swift end to the soldier’s life. The way that the murk limited both sight and sound left the rest of the soldier’s still unaware of Cleon’s presence. He was like silent death, darting from soldier to soldier, silently bringing upon them the sleep of death.
“Impressive, Mr. Tarkan. House Crayn clearly knows what they are doing.”
“Oh, indeed. Now, let us move on to matters of security. . .”
Leaping through the murk, Cleon sliced into a fifth soldier, flames licking around the armored figure. This time, though, the blow was not fatal. As the soldier fell down, his shattered helmet leaving his face exposed to the murk, he let out a scream of pain, clutching his burned neck. Cleon could immediately, through enhanced vision, detect movement all around him. The alarm was up; his presence was known.
The real battle was on.
Ignoring the soldier that lay on the ground before him, its unprotected face now glazed in frost, Cleon kicked off of the nearest column, launching himself to the south. Two soldiers, headed his way, were caught off-guard as one took his armored boot to the face, while the other felt the sting of Cleon’s fiery blade.
“Now, Mr. Harlowe, you and I, both, know that business between the Major Houses can be, at times, vicious. . .”
Both soldier’s now dead, Cleon continued southward, soldier’s closing in on him from all sides. His enhanced blade danced its immolating waltz into another soldier, while at he reached with his left hand to a switch on his belt. A signal, undetectable to human ears, went off. After a second or two, Cleon switched it back off.
“When business gets heated up, protection is desirable. . .”
Ducking behind a column, Cleon narrowly avoided the bite of his opponents’ rounds. He could hear, now, the booted footsteps of at least a dozen soldiers, closing in from the other side of the column. Closing in to a tight-knit group.
As the soldiers rounded the column, Cleon was nowhere to be found. Already, he was five meters away, perched atop a column. He almost smiled to himself as he watched the soldiers look around frantically, seeking their invisible foe.
“It’s always nice to have someone bigger to watch over you. . .”
Like the flash of lightning she was named after, Cleon’s dragon, Levene, swooped down from the murk, responding to the signal Cleon had sent out. Her mouth was open wide, drawing in the murk. When she was positioned just right over the group of soldiers, the flow of Aiexyn gases changed from going into her mouth, to out. On the way out, though, they were changed. The murk came out as an electrically charged cloud, practically frying the soldiers it engulfed.
“Someone to take care of the bullies that pick on you. . .”
As the dragon wheeled back around, passing Cleon, he caught hold of the saddle, and threw himself back on. Soaring well above the platform now, Cleon spoke into his radio, “Einhauer, they’ve been sufficiently softened up. Strike now.”
“Right away, Officer!” answered Einhauer.
Flying low over the platform-battlefield, Cleon watched as the twenty House Crayn soldiers, each with a red beacon over their heads visible only through friendly headgear – they wouldn’t want to be shooting the wrong people in the murk – scrambled up the stairs, into the field of columns.
“With this Contract, Mr. Harlowe, you will have House Crayn’s protection.”
The air now filled with the sounds of muffled gunfire, Cleon skimmed over the Elevated Platform, watching with eyes enhanced by the Silver he had pumped. The numbers were certainly more evenly matched, now, but Cleon would continue to tip the scale even more in House Crayn’s favor. His sword sheathed, Cleon pulled out a rifle, from the side of the saddle, and, brushing off the murk-spawned frost, took aim.
“Protection from man. . .”
An enemy soldier fell from a well placed shot to the back of the neck.
“. . . and protection from beasts.”
Another soldier was picked up by Levene’s clawed forearms, then rent in twain with animal strength.
It was only a matter of minutes before House Mallary’s soldiers were tossing aside their weapons and raising their arms in surrender. House Crayn took a single casualty, whilst House Mallary was reduced to a mere dozen.
“Mr. Harlowe, what do you say?”
Gracefully perched on top of a column, Levene waited with patience while Cleon dismounted, landing deftly landing on his feet.
“Einhauer, round up the enemy’s weapons and send them back to their Drop Site, Also, call in the Lander.” This time Cleon was able to speak to the soldier in person.
“Yes, Officer.”
Let’s go close up these negotiations. Negotiations they had been, indeed. Negotiations with words on the inside, and actions on the outside.
The door to the Negotiations Building slid open, and Cleon walked into the entryway. As one door closed behind him, another opened before him, revealing the plain white negotiations room. At the table in the center sat the two Representatives. Mr. Harlowe, dressed in a well-tailored suit, his hair combed over an obvious bald spot on the top of his head, sat on one end. Wayne, dressed in a similar suit, but wearing that ridiculous cowboy hat he always insisted on wearing, sat at the other end. Both looked to Cleon as the heavily armored warrior entered the room.
“Mr. Tarkan,” Cleon began, initiating the traditional wrap-up to the negotiations, “are we ready to depart?”
Wayne smiled, smugly, and, turning his head to Mr. Harlowe, said, with his slow drawl, “Well, I believe that is up to Mr. Harlowe, here.”
Cleon’s presence, alone, determined the answer Mr. Harlowe must give.
Mr. Harlowe gave a brief chuckle, and smiling, responded, “Well, certainly, Mr. Tarkan. I believe we have a deal. On behalf of House Vandell and Harvesting Facility D-9, I accept the Contract you have offered.”
Joining in a handshake with the balding representative, Wayne said with a grin, “Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Harlowe. You’ve made a good choice.”
What choice did he have? House Crayn had won the negotiations outside of the clean, white building. It was hard not to win, when you had cavalry and your opponent had none. That was Cleon’s role. He was a Dragoon.
Wayne began packing up the materials he had brought to the Negotiations, taking his time, so as to allow those outside to clean up the mess, then disappear. Although both representatives knew, quite well, that it had, the battle outside had never happened.
Business etiquette on Pathros was an interesting thing.
As Cleon escorted Wayne Tarkan (who had put on his protective suit) through the murk, to the south platform where the Lander waited, three short buzzes in his ear piece signaled an incoming message from his superiors.
“Officer Markham?” came a gruff voice.
“Yes, Captain?”
“We’ve got a situation at Harvesting Facility J-7. Me, you, and Jackson have been called in to take care of it. Rendezvous at the Tinral Bunker in 0300 hours.”
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