Even in his previous life as a special-ops trigger puller, Angel had spent a decent amount of time in hotel business centers and conference rooms - CIA and other three-letter agencies having used them on the regular for briefings and operations centers. Still, if this is supposed to be the Courtyard Marriott of Imperium hotel chains for mid-level business travelers on the go, it says a lot about how the Imperium conducts business that their conference center is airlocked from the rest of the hotel with a millimeter wave radar scanner at the single entrance and a full EM isolation suite at Angel’s command via vox.

I am not an intergalactic industrial magnate - but I did stay at a Holiday Inn Express.
Angel checks over the EM isolation suite one more time, while picking at the someone tepid platter of local and easily imported flash-frozen fruit that comes as part of the basic conference package, that having been scanned once as well by the hotel’s system, and twice by his own equipment as well.

Ihan might not be bribable with dinner - though in truth that wasn’t Angel’s intent, and if he wanted to bribe her, it would have started with “an estate large enough for you to get lost in” - but he was skeptical that the woman somehow never ate, and his mother believed that guests should never be without something. Besides, eating put people at ease - something about shared vulnerability.

Well, it looks like Angel might not have brought enough for everyone - Samal Ihan’s trin shows up with a fourth guest in tow. His armor is left on its uncamo’d chrome, save his rank and name: Rav-Odun Swaketai, a name that pops from Angel’s pre-mission reading as the head of the whole Turai garrison posted on Grinacanne as the Imperium’s official presence on-world. Notably, not the Rav-Odun in charge of the hand Emperor Thrax has sent to enforce order in a more...enthusiastic way. As the security airlock cycles, he waits patiently inside, and switches to a calm, I'm-in-charge-here look at Angel as he clears the airlock. Behind him, Arketta's hands shift from crossed in front of her to her side to resting on the pantaki on her thigh.

Well, we’ll get this done one way or the other in a single meeting then.

“You brought a guest.” He gives the Samal a slight smile, showing that he’s not particularly perturbed. “Ever so slightly rude, but efficient.”

“Samal Ihan figured that if you were going to have a discussion about offering...your help about the situation on this planet, you’d be better off talking to the man that’s supposedly in charge of it,” Rav-Odun Swaketai says, popping the seal on his helm and resting it on the table before taking a seat - at the head of the table. “You don’t look like the normal Bashakra’i troublemaker - you’ve made no effort to hide from my Turai, your Wherren and his friend haven’t scouted our barracks or our patrols. Instead, you go straight into the fields, poking around out there for...the other Turai on-world.” He draws a sip from his drinking tube. “Your people have done well on this planet - I suspect at least half the industria presences here are infiltrated by your people, and of course the workers are on your side. And yet Grinacanne remains productive and orderly.”

He sighs. “Order. That’s what the Turai are supposed to represent. Restraining the impulses of the individual for the good of all. I grew up on a frontier world, Bashakra’i, I know what hunger and thirst looks like. And it looks like what has been brought to Grinacanne.” He looks to the side and spits in disgust. “Turai driving this society apart, at the Emperor’s orders. Vidas Lam would be ashamed. But you...what has your terrorism brought? What worlds are thriving under your rule?”

(Angel Wits: 1d10+1d6 vs. 1d8 = 10 vs. 6) The #1 feeling Angel gets from Rav-Odun Swaketai is exhaustion. He must have aged 10 years in the time since the Emperor's "backup" hand arrived on-world, and does not like what they've done, or what it means for the planet. He wants the galaxy to make sense again, and has lost a fair bit of faith about where that sense might be coming from.

“Had I been someone other than who you thought...that would have been a very dangerous few minutes for you.” Angel sits, his stance comfortable and fairly relaxed - he’s neither overly concerned with the Rav-Odun’s instinctive posturing, nor the threat presented by the four Turai. Everyone in this room wants to walk out of there alive, which is usually a good starting point.

Instead, he nudges the tray toward him after taking something for himself.

“I respect that, so I’m going to dispense with...obfuscation. We haven’t scouted your barracks or your patrols because I’m not particularly interested in you. Turai doing the best with what they have to make a shitty situation better are some of my favorite people. I know what it’s like to fight a war in a place where people don’t want you. What we share is a desire to see Grinacanne returned to...something resembling a place people might want to live.”

Angel takes a sip of water. Please don’t make me kill you.

“You have made one wrong assumption however. I’m not Bashakra’i. And as for the worlds thriving under my people’s rule? There’s only one, but I’d like to think Narsai is a special case.”

That gets a pause, but only a momentary one. “So, you’re one of the 815? The tales about your ability to disguise yourselves are impressive. You play a good pretend noble, 815.” Swaketai shifts in his seat - Angel notices it’s a shift that brings his pantaki slightly closer to bear. “But I know your reputation as well, 815. Where the 815 go, things explode and people die. That...is not what Grinacanne needs.” His words might be menacing, but he still remains seated and his hands on the table. “What we need here is peace and order. The Emperor has decided to provide kidnappings and brutality instead. It’s order, but not the order we swore our lives to. Vasa, he is a troublemaker but his people only strike when struck first, and now that the Emperor has obliged, they send the 815. Convince me, 815. Convince me that you are what Grinacanne needs, instead of the Emperor’s new order.”

“Thank you.” Angel remains at least reasonably confident that he - or Arketta - can outdraw Swaketai, and chooses not to mirror the movement.

“Things explode. People die. Usually less people than would if things didn’t explode. As far as these things go, I tend to be one of the more...subtle...members of 815.”
Angel smiles slightly. “You know our reputation - but do you know how this all started? How we stepped through our Gateway, onto a new world - hauling gear and keeping an eye on a bunch of scientists. Would have stayed that way, but that’s not what the Emperor wanted from recontact with the homeworld.”

The scout shrugs, a familiar expression to the Turai in the room, the universal stance of put-upon infantry given orders.

“I want stability for Grinacanne. I’d like for your posting to be a boring backwater. I’d like to see the mines work, and the miners get paid for their labor. You said it yourself. The Bashakra’i are doing well. The Emperor...has brought kidnappings and terror. And there comes a time when that’s not enough. When you put the boot down hard enough on someone’s neck that they decide, win or lose, they might as well die fighting. A day when they’ll decide those captives are martyrs, and they set out to make a few more.”

Angel’s expression grows more serious. “There’s going to come a day when fear won’t mean order, and violence won’t bring a veneer of peace. And if you let it get to that day, you won’t be the ones who get to decide how things fall. Either the Bashakra’i will win or the Hand will. Either way, there will be explosions. And people will die. And best case, you’ll all have to go to sleep at night to images of people you were supposed to be protecting who you had to kill instead.”

“Or you can help me find another way. You can help me relieve the pressure that’s going to kill this place.”

(Angel Talk: 2d8+1d6+1d10 vs. 2d8 = 4 vs. 7)
(Wild Die: 1d6 = 4)

The Rav-Odun seems to consider Angel’s words, but the furrow of his brow tells both Angel and Arketta that there’s still concerns that are tilting the scales away from their direction. Angel’s mind starts racing to think of what else to add when Arketta speaks up behind him.

“What about - I mean, have you heard from Boranai recently, Rav-Odun?” Arketta says. “Because the Bashakra’i hold Boranai. The Gateways are secured against the Imperium but they can’t stop the Cortex. Do any of your Turai have family there? What have they heard?”
Rav-Odun Swaketai turns to Arketta, who gives a reflexive bow. “You sound too much like a Turai to be Narsai’i,” he says. “That must make you Arketta Quis, or Ngawai Holoni.”
“Samal Quis, Rav-Odun,” Arketta replies.
Swaketai nods. “Well, Samal, in fact one of my Rav-Samals is Boranai’i. He has not said what the Bashakra’i have done with the planet, but he has not said they have glassed the planet or that his family is starving, either.”
“That is because Boranai is...it is the same as it was before,” Arketta says. “The Bashakra’i and Narsai’i are trading for what Boranai needs, and the people are just living their lives as they did under the Emperor - just without the threat of being slaughtered for wanting some say over what happens to them.” She steps forward to stand even with Angel at the other end of the table. “We do not want to see the galaxy return to fighting each other, Rav-Odun. We want everyone to have a chance to say what we all do, instead of being forced to follow what the Emperor says at the end of a chamakana. Boranai is proof. Ask your Rav-Samal.”

“Very well, Samal,” Rav-Odun Swaketai says, and waggles his way through the haptics of his armor’s vox, no holo needed. “Let’s consider this your final argument.” Both Angel and Arketta shift reflexively just a little at the barely veiled threat. Set on speaker, Swaketai’s vox chimes a couple times before the other side completes the connection.
“Rav-Odun,” the Rav-Samal replies on the other end.
“Rav-Samal Arperros,” Rav-Odun Swaketai says, Angel amused at the rolled Rs. “I’m making a very important decision, and it turns on Boranai and how things have gone there since the Bashakra’i invasion.”
“So, it’s that decision,” Rav-Samal Arperros replies on the other end. “Well, I haven’t had much time to speak with my family, not that the Imperium makes it easy to reach there through the Cortex. But I have gotten a few messages through the filter, and they say not to worry, that all is well. It doesn’t sound like much has changed, but who knows how far the Bashakra’i have gone to disguise what they have done if things have gone wrong.”
“What do you think, Rav-Samal?” Swaketai asks.
There’s a pause on the other end. “I think that things are fine, Rav-Odun,” Rav-Samal Arperros says. “I think that I’d have heard from the rest of my family that was off-world when the Bashakra’i invaded if the planet was starving and dead. So, I think that the Bashakra’i are keeping their word to the Boranai’i.”

“Thank you, Rav-Samal, that’s all I needed to hear,” Rav-Odun Swaketai says, and disconnects with a wave of his hand. “Well then. And you say the Bashakra’i are looking to do the same for Grinacanne?”
“The more planets that align with us, the more planets we can support,” Angel replies. “We are not looking to destroy order in the galaxy, Rav-Odun. Just make a better one.”
Rav-Odun Swaketai thinks for a moment, then nods. “Very well then.” He puts his helm on and stands up, then flicks through a haptic. A moment later, Angel and Arketta’s voxes chime. “This should help narrow your search area down. Good luck, 815.”

Angel takes a look over the file that was sent, and nods. “My thanks. We’ll be in touch.” He offers his hand to the man. “The name is Angel, by the way.”
“Angel.” Rav-Odun Swaketai makes an obvious note of the name. “It is good to know your name, either way things turn out. Good luck, then, Angel.”

The Rav-Odun leads the trin through the security airlock, leaving Angel and Arketta in the room alone. Arketta waits for the Rav-Odun to clear the hallway, then lets out a deep breath. “Did...did we just negotiate the planet away from the Imperium? If, you know, we don’t die.”
Angel grins. "I think we might have. And a lot of that was your doing. Well done. Unless, you know, we die first."

Ibash

When one makes a vox connection to the main offices of the secret police ostensibly charged with hunting you down, you take some precautions. New voxes clipped around everyone’s ears (since giving the Throne the address of the vox mounted inside Luis’ head would be bad), it was decided that the best place to make this particular connection would be somewhere as public as possible - the Throne would be able to see that at least the invitation itself wasn’t a trap (which would both increase trust and their interest in coming here, if for no other reason than trying to grab them), and it would, at least for the time being, keep them safe from any threats on their lives from the shipbuilding cabal. With that criteria in mind, it was decided to hit up a nearby juice bar with a nice plaza overlooking the river winding through Ibash’s main city. It satisfied the safety and exposure criteria, looked pretty good on the local ratings app, and Hale still really needs hydration after last night.

With the local gateways cycling to Napai, Garrett opens the group connection to the address for the literal front desk of the Throne. As befits an organization that publicly doesn’t exist, there’s no cheery pre-recorded message or perfunctory greeting on the other end, just a man answering the connection with a neutral “Yes?”
“Yeah, this is Garrett Davis, Luis Stanhill, Swims-the-Black, and Sexton Hale, we’d like to talk to the case officer in charge of Ibash, please?” Garrett says.
There’s a pause as no doubt various alerts are sent and traces started before there’s a reply. “I’m sorry, I don’t know -”
“Oh, come on,” Garrett says. “We both know who each other are, and we have something you might be actually interested in, so just patch me through, please.”
Another pause. “One moment.”

The pause goes on unnecessarily long - if it was just a connection transfer. If it was running down the addresses on the other side of the connection, searching across all active and connected Cortexes to Napai, finding the location of those particular voxes and bringing up surveillance, though, it only takes slightly longer than Luis would have expected.

“This is Ibash,” a woman says from the other side of the connection.
Luis waves absently at the direction of the nearest surveillance sconce just on the off-chance.
“Hello…” Garrett pauses for a name, which he knows he won’t get. “Well, we were just taking a relaxing vacation on Ibash and we just happened to stumble onto something you might be interested in. Did you know the local shipbuilders cabal - you know, the one that steals money from everywhere, extorts most of the planet, and runs their own private army - that they’re finally doing something that might actually not get ignored?”

(Garrett Persuade: 3d10 vs. 1d8 = 9 vs. 6)

“We aren’t ignoring them,” the Throne officer on the other end replies, a little too quickly to be a patient and measured response. “But what is it?”
“Military-grade hardware production for pirates and rebels, knowingly,” Luis says.
Garrett whistles. “That definitely sounds like something you should be interested in.”
“They would never be that stupid -” The Throne officer pauses. “Unless they were provided an opportunity to be that stupid.” If it was possible to hear someone’s eyes narrow over a voice-only vox connection, all four members of 815 heard just that. “So. You came to Ibash to stir up trouble.”
“If ‘stop a greedy cabal of corrupt industrium executives from sucking a planet dry and murdering people with impunity while the Imperium sits by and does nothing’ counts as stirring up trouble, then I’d have to ask who’s really the one keeping peace and order around here,” Garrett replies.


(Garrett Persuade: 3d10 vs. 3d8 = 10 vs.

“Hmph,” the Throne officer says. “Why contact us, then? You know that we’re going to try to arrest you just for making this connection.”
“We’re aware,” Luis says. “We doubt you’ll succeed. On the other hand, when we do this our way, it’s likely things may have to get...ugly. We can’t arrest anyone here. You can, which avoids violence in the streets when the factions of the cabal come to blows with each other and it all comes down.”
“We’re offering you the chance to be one of the good guys here,” Garrett says. “I did your job for years, so I know how infrequently that happens. We’re taking them down with or without the Throne’s help, but this way the Imperium gets some of the credit too.”
“And the added paranoia and pressure of having an active Throne presence doesn’t hurt whatever scheme you’re hatching to drive them apart,” the officer adds.
“Hey, and she gets it,” Garrett says.
”I told you, the Throne’s officers know what they are doing,” Swims adds.

“If I really knew what I was doing I would be sending the Ethics Gradient to Ibash as we speak,” the officer replies. “But. I can send a case officer and team to Ibash to look into your...allegations seems like the wrong word, given that it’s your scheming that’s making this happen.”
“Merely giving them the opportunity to finally do something bad enough to warrant the Imperium doing their jobs,” Garrett says. “I’ve seen the Throne work up close in the past. Agent Perus was a good man.”

(Garrett Persuade: 3d10 vs. 2d8 = 6 vs. 1)

“I knew him well,” the officer says. “Yes, he was.”
“There’s a reason why I’m talking to you and not to the Turai,” Garrett says. “I know you want the same things we do - safety and stability. We’re just not willing to let shit like this slide for the greater good. I think you can sympathize with that.”
“Yes,” the officer replied. “I’ll send a team to Ibash to look around. They’ll contact you at these addresses to meet up.”
“Aah, nice try,” Garrett says. “We’ll contact you with a meeting place.”
The woman on the other end of the connection actually chuckles at that. “It was worth a shot. Goodbye, Mr. Davis, Mr. Stanhill.”
“Goodbye,” Luis says.
“Talk to you soon,” Garrett says, and ends the connection.

“I am surprised we’re not already dead,” Hale says, who spent the entire connection sipping quietly on his glass of juice.
Luis nods in the direction of the sconce on the wall. “If they could kill us through that, they probably would, and we might want to move on once you finish your drink, but we did give them some fish at least as big to fry.”
“You ever work with a Throne officer?” Garrett asks Hale.
“Nope,” Hale says. “You always hear rumors that one door or another you kick down was because the Throne pointed us that way, but that’s it.”
“In my experience, they’re cursed with a very big problem - they tend to actually give a shit about peace and order, and they have to see what actually is going on,” Garrett says. “So they see what we see, but aren’t allowed to do anything about it.”
“And so you want to use that to trap them?” Hale asks.
“Not at all,” Garrett says. “I want to give them the chance to actually do what they know they should be doing.”
”We’re not the bad guys,” Swims-the-Black says. ”They want to stop evil people, we want to stop evil people.”
“We’re just not forced to limit our targets to only the ones the Imperium doesn’t like,” Garrett adds.
“Let’s see how the shipbuilder’s cabal takes knowing that the Imperium might have them in the category of ‘people they don’t like’,” Luis says. “I doubt they like it as much as we do.”

One of the first steps in breaking up the cabal is getting people concerned about cutting each other out of the deal. Toa, bringing the least technical experience to the team and seeming on edge in general, seems like the easiest target to start with. Indeed, even his public profile in gossip magazines and legal filing confirms what the Bashakra’i profile of him suggested: He's a boozy thug, more or less - he's in gossip rags for one of three things: partying really hardy at Local High-End Night Hot Spot, getting in trouble for bad decisions made as a result of said partying, or for beating someone up at said Local High-End Night Hot Spot. As he seemed at the party the night before, he seems pretty much uninterested in the actual business side of things. His industrium barely cracks any mention in business publications, pretty much just carrying on without his direct involvement to help or hinder it. He just collects his paychecks and blows them on shiny things, shiny women, and stims and alcohol.

(Luis Hack: 2d10 vs. 2d8 = 10 vs. 4)

However, Luis’ guess based on the way he was in person is that he’s up to more than just generic hard partying and typical bad decisions. A quick visit through the local Cortex finds Luis at the virtual doorstep of the local Kansat network. Now, Kansatai stations are more or less pop-up prefab affairs, which apparently carries over to their networks - they're using more or less the exact same setup that Luis has seen on at least 3 planets by now - and most importantly here, one worldship, Atea. It's a doddle for him to blow through their security, and a few ticks more to have the file system reel off a copy of Ralon Toa's file, which goes into a secure pocket on Luis' virtual being.

Luis was wondering if he might have any street-level connections in crime, given his loud performance of being the baddest in the basement at the show, but it doesn’t look like he does have any actual gang connections. He's usually carrying a large pantaki - which is faintly hilarious given that they all fire the same needles the same way - but the extent of his gang connections seem to be the friends he made back in his bodyguarding and leg-breaking days. Apparently the work to actually get involved with real criminal operations is too much work to strive for.

When it comes to his partying and drug habits, the file has some somewhat boring details that the gossip rags didn't - namely the names of the nightclubs he frequently gets busted at and then immediately released back into - but it also has the names of some of the local illicit gambling dens he frequents, as well as a list of the stims he's been found with on each of his (very short) detentions. There's your usual party drugs - uppers, libido enhancers, inhibition cancellers - but also some more hardcore things. Apparently he's taken a shine to serious wakefulness enhancers, something stronger than the usual not-caffeine that most people in the Imperium imbibe on a regular basis and more akin to meth meets cocaine except you slam a stim of it into your muscle of choice, including possible side effects of paranoia and mania. Also, he's been caught once or twice with vials of serious muscular hypertrophy stims, the kind that are so strong that they have actual chances of causing stereotypical signs of Narsai'i fitness stim abuse - including rage.

Given the hope of turning him against the others, and the goal to get Voath to consider him a liability worth writing off, it’s perfect news. Not bad work for only three or four hours’ searching.

----

While Luis sits on a chair focusing on the Cortex connection in his head, Garrett, Hale, and Swims-the-Black prepare for Garrett and Hale’s big day out.
“Yesterday was a fucking shitshow,” Hale says, assembling beamers on the bed.
“It happens,” Garrett replies. “No big deal.”
“I was incapacitated for most of the night,” Hale replies. “It’s a big fucking deal.” He clicks the last barrel shroud into place. “So, enough with the ‘figure it out as you go’ spinkshit. I’m here, I’m up to my neck in this shit, so it’s time you show me how to swim in it.”
Garrett looks up from pulling pieces of Turai armor out of their hiding places. “Well, okay then. So, before you were a responsible and upstanding Rav-Turai, how much shit did young and brash Sexton Hale get into?”
Hale snorts. “My fair share. Nothing too serious, but I’ve taken on some extra duty from time to time.”
“Extra duty?” Garrett asks. “Straight into the Turai, then?”
“Volunteered right out of primary instruction,” Hale replies. “Before then, it was physical fitness training and my sex realignment genemod procedure. Before then, I was just another kid growing up in a hab block on one of a thousand worlds. My family didn’t have much, so it was work and instruction.”
“Little Miss Hale didn’t shoplift or raise trouble?” Garrett asks.
Hale shakes his head. “Why?”
“I grew up poor, so I learned fast how to get what we needed,” Garrett says. “Just asking.”
“I grew up Imperial,” Hale says. “They made sure we had what we needed.”

Garrett pauses. “Right. Well, just trying to see what we have to work with. You saved your troublemaking days for when you were in?”
“Nothing more than showing up late and hungover to formation,” Hale replies. “You were in the Narsai’i Turai?”
Garrett nods.
“See, I can tell,” Hale says, sliding into his skinsuit. “You look like someone who knows what they’re doing trained you how to fight. But I can also tell you were a shit Turai. Am I wrong?”
Swims-the-Black stops what he’s doing with the vox and looks over his shoulder at Hale, while Garrett slowly nods. “Yeah, that’s right.”
“See, Davis, I was a good Turai,” Hale says. “I did all the right things, followed the Pillars, watched over the Turai to my left and right.” He pulls the suit up his front as he shimmies into the arms. “I kept order, kept the Imperium from falling off the cliff. It wasn’t until I met you that I wondered what that really meant. Shit was simple, and then it was complicated. So no, I don’t have experience breaking the law, I don’t know how to steal or cheat. I am - was a Turai, and that’s what I know how to do. So...come on, Davis. At least give me something I can work with, because I’m here to contribute and I really don’t see how I can right now.”
”You are here to try to see if you know how to not be a Turai?” Swims-the-Black asks.
“Yes,” Hale says.
Swims looks at Garrett, then back to Hale. ”Perhaps that is your problem.”
“What do you mean?” Hale asks.
”You are trying so hard to be what you think we are,” Swims replies. ”But there is no one thing the 815 are. Garrett is a spy, but I am an Alef-ka and a shipmaster. Luis is a technician and a soldier. We do not need another Garrett Davis, one is already enough. What Garrett asked you here to be is Sexton Hale, Turai.”
Garrett stands up and claps a hand on Hale’s shoulder. “You did fine yesterday. Luis told me how you dealt with Teon, and I was right. When you trust yourself and follow your gut, you have what it takes to do this. So, do that. Got it?”
Hale nods. “Yes. It’s just...I’m not used to doing it and lying about it at the same time.”
“Ah, that, everyone gets used to,” Garrett says.
Swims grunts. ”Think of how you told yourself what you were doing on Whiirr was the right thing to do. That is how you do it.” A fringe of orange comes onto Swims-the-Black. ”Does that help?”
“...yeah,” Hale says. “Got it.”

(Swims Tech: 1d8+1d10 vs. 1d6 = 10 vs. 5)

Swims-the-Black tosses Garrett the vox he’s been tinkering with. ”It’s got the Manta plans from Yisai loaded onto it, and I managed to get the purchase registration changed to Getkasa Combine. So, once this is delivered…”
”I would have your bags packed,” Garrett says with a wink. ”Now, all I have to do is send a message to the Throne on our way to the meeting and we’ll be ready to rock and roll.”

Ibash never sleeps; sun out or not, the work continues as shifts cycle between work, habs and what passes for entertainment to the masses of working stiffs. You’d be hard-pressed to tell the time of day inside the high-speed movers shuttling them about, though the color temperature of the lighting - refreshingly cool at shift’s start, relaxingly warm at the end - will suffice to tell time in the only way that matters to the passengers. This, then, is the inbound journey, collecting miners and their immediate supervisors for a trip to The District, that they might spend some of their loose lats on drinks, holos or company for the day before it’s off to grab some Zs. In the midst of that, one more contracted surveyor getting on from a geology study at Pit 6 does not register with anyone.

Three stops on - just barely short of The District - the surveyor gets off, some more business to handle at the contract office, probably. The tool case he carried with him does not swing with his stride, but every step down the stairs is deliberate, precise. As soon as nobody’s watching him anymore, the tiredness disappears from his face. He steps past a few vending machines on the station’s concourse, dashes the hopes of a fried spink vendor expecting a customer and instead walks steadily towards the little Kansat booth, where the officer on duty perks up.

“Hello,” the surveyor says. “I’m looking for a lost jacket.”
The kansatai flinches, just a little bit, thinking back to the daily brief. “...what size jacket?” she asks.
The surveyor smiles thinly. “It was custom-fitted,” he says.

Wordlessly, the kansatai retrieves a weathered-looking pouch from under her desk and slides it over.

“I think this is what you’re looking for, Sir,” she says.
“Indeed,” the surveyor says. “Have a good day.”
“...thank you, Sir,” the kansatai replies, but the surveyor has already turned, making his way to the nearest restroom.

The surveyor does not come out of the restroom. Throne Agent Quest Oalarna does, though.

---

As Oalarna descends the stairs to high street level, he taps the fresh vox clipped to his ear.

“Oversight check-in,” he says, adjusting the pseudo-lapels on his charcoal-colored suit.
“Oversight 20,” a woman answers him. “Signature check confirmed. Welcome to Ibash. Team is standing by.”
“Copy,” Oalarna says. “Update me on the way.”

It’s a five-minute stroll for a one-minute distance, as Oalarna makes no attempt to hurry his steps, lingering at holoads and taking in some of the views, even sitting down on a bench for a bit. All the while, his generically pleasant expression does not betray the briefing he’s getting over the vox, and after he’s sure that nobody is following him through the light crowds, he finally heads into one of the nearby shops, a hairdresser’s salon.

“Restroom’s in the back,” the proprietor tells him as he squeezes past the older man. Oalarna slips through to the rear of the standardized construction module, past the restroom and to the wall section just to the right of the door to the manager’s office. As if anticipating his stride, it clicks open and slides out of the way to let him through, then closes up behind him again. There are a few more tight stair steps leading down - they never could squeeze in a particularly comfortable passage in the dead space between modules - and finally Oalarna emerges into the local Throne field office, a little triangular space of what should be a purely structural member holding up an Ibash megastructure. Inside, the rest of the team are in various states of unpacking, checking and repacking gear.

“Agent Toros,” one of the women says, her voice immediately familiar from the vox briefing. She’s small, almost two standard deviations short of Turai admission standards, and her soft face has been painstakingly cared for to dispel any hint of the fights she’s won, the enemies of the Throne she’s killed. “I have those heat maps of known movements for you, Sir,” she continued, “if you want to review them.”
“In a second,” Oalarna says.

He turns to inspect the others. A woman in noble garb with a fashionably awful haircut has taken little notice of his entrance, preferring to check the provided stinger’s sights, while the bearded mountain next to her can’t quite hide his reflex of snapping to attention in the presence of a superior officer.

“Agent Teketma, Sir!” he says.
Oalarna acknowledges that with a polite nod. “Then you must be Mauamnai?” he asks the noble-looking woman.
“If I must be,” Mauamnai answers. She looks up at him, tries to read his expression with her golden eyes. “This is a crock of shit, Sir,” she says. “There’s an angle in play here we’re not seeing.”
“Wouldn’t expect less from the Smiling Beast,” Oalarna says. “Are we certain that it’s just four of them?”
“Positive, Sir,” Toros says. “We’ve scrubbed the whole grid through our database. It’s just Davis, Stanhill, the traitor and Third Claw.”
“Don’t call him that,” Teketma hisses. “He stood against the Emperor and lost that right.”
“By all means,” Oalarna says, “if he wants to be Swims-the-Black now, let’s extend that courtesy. And it’s Hale, not ‘traitor’.” Oalarna pauses. “Just for clarity’s sake.”
“All those traitors do get confusing sometimes,” Mauamnai throws in.
“So, yes, there’s a scheme here,” Oalarna says. He pauses, knowing it’ll get everyone’s attention. “But is the intel good?”
“...yes, Sir,” Toros says. “We’re dealing with a bunch of profiteers and cabalists, as advertised.”
“That’s the mission,” Oalarna affirms. “This blight on the Imperium will not stand.” He pauses again. “Now, the main event. We will find out everything we can about the 815 operation here. If Davis and his team have scrofa for lunch, I want the bones from their trash can. I want to know where they go, I want to hear what they say and I want everyone they meet tagged for an interview. But until I give the order...we’re weapons safe.”
“Sir -” Teketma tries.
“The 815 will be brought to justice,” Oalarna says. “But all we know right now about their plan is that they want us here. Until we figure out their game, we’re going to work the problem right in front of us, and that’s the corrupt industrium."
Teketma does not look comfortable with this. "Even if it means trusting traitors instead of taking them down?"
Oalarna smiles. “We work for the Throne, Teketma,” he says. “We don’t trust anyone. We safeguard the Imperium, by any means necessary. Do I make myself clear, Agents?”
“Yes, Sir,” Toros says.
“Yes, Sir,” Teketma says.
Mauamnai nods.
“Glad we cleared that up,” Oalarna says. “We’ll see what game they’re playing at the meeting. Be ready to move in thirty.”

The location that Quaj chose for the exchange between Garrett’s “pirates” and himself is a classic for scheming conspiracists: a rooftop garden in the middle of the central highrise sprawl of Ibash City. High up enough that it’s easy to limit public access to limit the lookie-loos wandering around, and low enough that snipers can be positioned for coverage. It’s a very nice garden on the virtual tour and 3D virtual map of Ibash, with low hedges and multi-colored flowering plants arranged to give splashes of color in between the walking paths and benches, but neither Garrett nor Hale are particularly interested in dying there, thus showing up in full armor, giving them the excuse to be carrying chamakana as well. It ceases to be much of a disguise when Garrett and Hale get off the lift in the garden’s lobby, though, and are greeted by two equally stone-faced mercenaries in black business dress carrying beamers of their own.

“Trying hard much?” Garrett asks as the two mercenaries approach them.
One of them reaches for Hale’s beamer and he pulls it back away from them. “You have got to be fucking kidding,” Hale growls.
“Don’t start nothing, won’t be nothing,” Garrett adds, shifting his grip on his own beamer. “We’re all packing, let’s just not pretend otherwise and everything will be fine.”

(Garrett Talk: 2d10 vs. 1d8 = 8 vs. 2)

There’s a momentary pause before both mercenaries nod to whoever’s in their voxes - presumably Quaj - and stand aside and let Garrett and Hale walk out onto the rooftop garden. At the other end of the garden’s main pathway is Quaj and two more mercenaries, with a couple others wandering the garden.

(Hale Notice: 3d8 vs. 2d10 = 5 vs. 7)

Hale scans the skyline around them, for as much good as it will do - with nearly a dozen buildings with potential line of sight, ranging from windows a few dozen meters away to rooftops nearly half a kilometer off, it’s more force of habit than an actual attempt at spotting potential snipers. It’s easier for Hale to just assume that they’re there.

“All of this for little old us?” Garrett asks Quaj, shouting across the garden.
“I’m not the one wearing Turai armor,” Quaj replies. “The plans?”
Garrett pulls a vox out of his gear pouch - the same vox he had Swims-the-Black doctor, the same vox he had called the Throne on the previous day. “Here it is. Check it out for yourself before you go, so we can get past this ugly bit of mistrust and get on with making a shitload of money.”
Quaj nods and one of the mercs patrolling the garden walks over to Garrett and takes the vox from him. Garrett taps the power-on sensitive part of the little ear clip as he hands it over, and it’s a good thing Turai armor helms are opaque by default, because he’s got a big old smile on his face as he hands it over.

---

“Waiting game,” Mauamnai voxes idly. Could be worse weather for overwatch on the sprawling bistro balcony she’s seated in, though. No rifle today, just pretending to enjoy the view with a couple of light refreshments while her enhanced eyes scan the crowd for anyone suspicious.
“Say again your last,” Teketma growl-whispers. He is the guy with the rifle, up on another rooftop half a kilometer away.
“I said it’s a waiting game we’re playing,” Mauamnai says casually, taking a bite from a not-quite-scone. “Davis isn’t the punctual type, huh?”
“Heads up, everyone,” Toros voxes. “I’m tracking a skimmer registered to Zaakon Quaj on approach to the building to your South. Doesn’t fit his movement profile.”
“So having a person of interest one rooftop away from our covert meet wasn’t on the schedule,” Mauamnai says. “Reassuring.”
“We play the hand we’re dealt,” Oalarna says. “Mauamnai, can you get eyes on and confirm it’s Quaj inside?”
“Moving,” Mauamnai replies. Gathering up the not-scone as if intending to eat it on the go, she gets up from her table and saunters to the edge of the balcony, leaning her arms on it like a dozen other people enjoying the view. Her vision is just good enough to deal with the chasm between the megastructures, good enough to scan the faces of the man and the armed escort climbing out of the hovering skimmer.
“Confirmed, that’s Quaj,” Toros voxes.
“You have the building?” Oalarna asks.
“Yes,” Toros says. “Lift #3. Sconces show two people in full carapace. They aren’t squawking local kansatai or turai IFF.”
“Going up?” Oalarna says.
“Yes, they’re - okay, I have the elevator destination,” Toros says. “It’s headed all the way to the rooftop garden.”
“Teketma, can you get a line of fire?” Oalarna asks.
“Not in a nice way,” Teketma replies.
“Stand by,” Oalarna says.

Just as Mauamnai is about to ask if they need her to look at anything else, a skimmer in private transport livery breaks from the traffic pattern below and ascends to the balcony level, auto-maneuvering to the nearest docking spot. Taking her cue, she lets the not-scone drop off the balcony down the long way to the ground and hustles through the light crowd, brushing past a few tourists and a little hovering drone attending to a nearby noble. She climbs into the skimmer, where Oalarna beckons her to take a seat. The door isn’t even all the way closed when the skimmer pushes off again.

“We’re dropping a sconce on that rooftop,” Oalarna says, eyes focused forward. “We’ll only get one pass, so make sure your glidepath is good.”
“Can’t we get a feed off Teketma’s optics?” Mauamnai asks. “Better zoom than mine.”
“Asked him to relocate,” Oalarna says.
“Then who’s staying behind for the meeting?” Mauamnai asks.
“This is the meeting,” Oalarna says.

If Quaj and his people even notice the skimmer gliding far above the rooftop garden, it doesn’t give them pause. What they can’t see is the panel at the bottom of the skimmer sliding open, dropping out a little bird-sized package unfurling a only slightly bigger drag ribbon as it seperates. No impellers, no fancy electronics to get noticed - just a bit of applied aerodynamics that falls just slowly enough to silently land in one of the garden’s trees.

The skimmer sets down on the rooftop of the commercial block to the West of the gardens, ruining the cleaning job of the maintenance robots scurrying across the nominally gleaming spraycrete. Oalarna’s first out of the skimmer, in one hand a rifle, in the other a thermoptic blanket. Without much regard for his suit, he plops himself down near the edge and draws the blanket over himself and the gun. Behind him, the skimmer takes off again, this time with Mauamnai at the controls.

“I have eyes on,” Oalarna voxes. “Toros, sconce data?”
“Wind’s too strong for clear audio, I’m capturing what I can, maybe we can scrub it later,” Toros says. “...Vidas Lam.”
“Talk to me,” Oalarna says.
“Guess what vox just came online?” Toros says. “The one Davis used to make contact.”

Garrett shifts his weight from side to side as Quaj looks over the contents of the vox, an unnecessary habit given the armor’s self-adjusting weight distribution, but a habit nonetheless. “Are we happy?” he asks. Any sign of Throne on the rooftop we sent them to? he asks Hale over their internal vox connection.

(Garrett Notice: 3d10 vs. 2d8 = 9 vs. 3)
(Hale Notice: 3d8 vs. 2d8 = 6 vs.

I don’t have anything, Hale replies. Kinda focusing on not looking too obvious right now.
It’s all in how you move, Garrett says, stretching his neck to crane his vision towards the building - and spots a little wiggling ribbon falling from the sky, dragging behind something small and black before it falls into one of the trees in the garden, and the taxi skimmer flying away from where it must have fallen. Finally. I was worried they weren’t paying attention. Armu Transport skimmer, northwest.
Got it, Hale says.
Get ready for action, Garrett says, and steps forward. “Hey, not to be that guy, but you might want to train your rent-a-thugs a bit better,” he calls out to Quaj.
“What do you mean?” Quaj says, his attention still on scanning the many sets of technical documents that make up the full set of Manta nanofab instructions.
Garrett nods towards the tree. “I thought this was supposed to be a private party, but someone just dropped a sconce in that tree. Friends of yours?”
“Taxis don’t usually drop people off next to air handlers,” Hale adds, nodding towards the taxi that’s now parked west of the rooftop garden. “I think we have unwanted guests and it definitely wasn’t us that brought them here.”

(Garrett Mind Games: 3d10 vs. 2d8 = 7 vs. 7)

“We’ll see about that,” Quaj says. He turns to his mercenary team. “If they move, shoot them both.”
“Now that’s no way to start a business rela -” Garrett starts.
“Shut your First-damned mouth,” Quaj snaps, rushing to the balcony and grabbing a set of optics from one of the mercenaries. “Yeah, rooftop to the west.”

(Throne: 1d8 vs. 2d8 = 5 vs. 6)
“Keep them in your sights, and send a team,” Quaj says.

----

“We’re made,” Oalarna hisses on the vox. As close to an admission of defeat as one might ever hear from a Throne agent. He shifts his weight ever so slightly under the tarp, trying to get a better view of the whole garden. “Mauamnai, merge into the nearest pattern, but fly easy. And tell me if you spot any fast movers coming this way.”
“Copy,” Mauamnai replies. “Paranoid little buggers, aren’t they?”
“You need cover,” Teketma says. His breathing is sped up but steady.
“Negative,” Oalarna says. “Find Davis’s transportation.”
“Standing by to spike the sconce,” Toros sounds off.
“Hold on that, Toros,” Oalarna says, some cool reasserting itself. “I want to see how this plays out first.”

----

“I thought you were supposed to be the careful one,” Garrett says.
Quaj turns angrily to Garrett and Hale. “How do I know they’re not your backup? How do I know you didn’t call the fucking Kansatai?” He pulls a pantaki from his jacket. “Take them. We’ll sort this out in a more private setting.” The four mercs on the roof raise their beamers and take aim at Garrett and Hale as they move in.
“You sure you want to do that?” Garrett asks. “You’re throwing away a big opportunity -”
“Better than walking into whatever trap you’ve laid for us,” Quaj says.
Is this part of the plan? Hale asks, a bit of panic in his voice.
It’s all under control, Garrett replies.
It doesn’t fucking seem like it, Hale says.

----

Oalarna watches through his scope and smirks. In another life, he might have truly savored this opportunity to be the deciding factor. Even the possibility of taking a shot - at either side - and watching which way the wind would turn after that gets to one’s head quickly. But that’s how Throne agents blow missions. The finger stays off the trigger for now. Besides, in what possible world does he owe the Smiling Beast more than he’s already provided?

“Mauamnai, Toros, talk to me,” he says. “Any new players stepping onto the board?”
“Silhouette on your nine,” Teketma voxes. “Between the evaporators.”

Oalarna shifts again. Any movement is a serious investment when you’re perched in a hot zone but haven’t been spotted yet, but it’s worth knowing what’s happening. And indeed, there’s someone with a bit more twitch nestled in on the northern building. As far back as they can make it, but there’s only so much you can do to hide the length of a sniper rifle. Probably one of Quaj’s, Oalarna reasons. If the Killing Wind was here, we wouldn’t have seen him.
“Confirmed,” Oalarna voxes. “Designated hostile on Team Quaj. Let’s see if we can spot the whole set. Toros, I want eyes on other possible perches with line of sight into the gardens.”
“Copy,” Toros replies.

Just back slowly towards the elevators, Garrett says. “You’ve got the plans, we’ve proven we held up our end of the bargain, why would we call in the Kansat when we’re carrying around files that will get all of us strapped to the reeducation grids for an eternity?”

(Garrett Talk: 3d10 vs. 2d8 = 8 vs. 2)

Quaj pauses. It’s probably the first time he’s done so since Garrett pointed out the sconce - he must really have been itching to blow Garrett’s head off. “Fair point. But that doesn’t change that someone knows that we are meeting here. This whole scheme is blown.”
“Well, it is now that you’ve been pointing beamers at people and sending your goon squad to run up on them,” Garrett says.

As Garrett and Hale get close enough to the garden lobby doors for them to slide open, they’re met with beamers at their backs.
“Why don’t you hold on one second, then,” Quaj says. “We’ll get this all sorted out in a moment.”
“Because hanging out under observation isn’t my idea of a good time,” Garrett counters. Both he and Hale get poked in the back by beamer shrouds. “Neither is being held at gunpoint.”
This is not going to plan, Hale growls.
Okay, now it could be going better, sure, Garrett replies. Just stay cool, they’re not looking to shoot us. Right now.

----

“Two bogeys departing traffic pattern,” Mauamnai voxes. “Looks like they want to lock down airspace.”
“Registered to Quaj?” Oalarna asks.
“Negative, they’re sterilized,” Toros replies.
“This party’s heating up,” Mauamnai says. “Say the word, boss. I can turn around and pick you up.”
“Keep your nerve,” Oalarna says. “We move now, they have us. Mauamnai, find a place to put down clear of the hot zone. And get ready to ditch the ride if the bogeys follow. Everyone else, eyes open, weapons safe.”

----

Two large black skimmers pull out of the traffic above and start orbiting the building. Sliding doors open up to reveal more mercenaries, this time in black-displaying armor, and they start a slow rotation around the rooftop garden.
“So…” Garrett says. “What’s the plan? We just wait here with our thumbs up our asses while you look for some new friends for extra-curricular activities?”
“That is the plan,” Quaj says. “And perhaps one of you comes with us. Just as insurance. But first, this little meeting needs to be sanitized.”
“Right,” Garrett says.

----

“Sir, I’m ready to spike the sconce,” Toros says.
“Hold,” Oalarna mutters.
“We have to do something,” Teketma grunts. “At least give them something to chase so you can slip away.”
“Don’t worry about me, worry about the mission,” Oalarna replies. “Toros, scenario. Suppose they pile Davis and Hale into their skimmers and take off. What are the odds we can track the unregistered skimmers?”
“Not great, Sir,” Toros says. “Especially while we’re ducking beamers.”
“Okay, everybody, listen up,” Oalarna says. “You’ve all got good separation from the hot zone. If this gets energetic, you ditch and regroup.”
“Sir…” Toros tries.
“They’ll have to find me first,” Oalarna says. “You have your orders, team.” He takes a breath. “For the Throne.”

----

This is getting kinda murdery, Garrett says. I’d prefer to not get this team killed. I’m gonna see if I can talk him down. “Why don’t we just...take a deep breath, get out of here, and figure out next steps over a nice cup of tea or something?”

(Garrett Talk: 3d10 vs. 2d8+1d10 = 6 vs.

“No, I think we clean this up right here, right now,” Quaj says. “If this is your backup, then we can close the loop right now, and if this is the Throne, well...it might be expensive but we can take care of that too.”

All right, that’s enough, Hale says. My turn. Davis, you know how to turn on the rescue beacon pattern?
I do, Garrett replies.
That’ll draw enough attention to keep Quaj from turning this into a bloodbath, at least long enough for us to go over the railing. Hale’s hand drifts down towards the utility belt integrated into the armor - the rappelling hook and line, in particular.
Not the most subtle plan - Garrett starts.
We tried it your way, Hale says. On my go, turn it on and we’re going over the railing. Drop 10 meters and shoot the windows out.
Was going to say that it’s not subtle, but I like it, Garrett says, his off hand sliding down to the rappelling hook behind his beamer. On your go.
Ready, steady... Hale says.

(Garrett Move: 1d8 vs. 1d8 = 5 vs. 6, 1 Wild Die = 4+5 vs. 6)
(Hale Move: 2d10+1d8 vs. 1d8 = 8 vs. 6)
(Garrett Distract: 3d10 vs. 2d8 = 7 vs. 7)

“Well, as fun as that sounds, I think we’ll be taking our leave,” Garrett says, moving to the side just enough to get close to the pull handle on the sliding doors into the lobby.
“You stay right where you are,” Quaj says.
“Give my regards to the Baroness,” Garrett says, looking to the side to make sure Hale’s in position as well.
Go! Hale shouts.

Steady on, Oalarna thinks. He shouldn’t be suppressing a flinch every time the skimmers circle close - shouldn’t be flinching at all - but a man’s got to know his limitations. And he’s got to know when the adrenaline spike and the urge to do something, anything, is exactly the way to get yourself killed. The possibility that they spot him and light him up while he’s still lying there - well, that’s real. That could happen. Let’s stay focused on it not happening and go from there.

But then the focus of everyone, Oalarna included, changes when Davis and Hale suddenly burst into bright flashing white and orange light as they make a break for the edge of the garden. The mercenaries shield their eyes, but only for a moment before beamer fire erupts on the rooftop, blowing shrubs and planters apart as the two rebels haul ass headlong towards the edge - and jump straight off. With all the noise and bother on the rooftop, both skimmers break off to cover the action.

Well how about that, Oalarna thinks. Now, he tells his aching muscles and speeding heart, now we move, while everyone’s looking just the other way. See what waiting for the right moment gets you? He grabs onto his rifle and rolls out from under the tarp, doesn’t bother gathering it up. Instead, he skedaddles towards the next maintenance bot. That ought to give him a second or two to spot the nearest hatch in the roof. Which, of course, he’d already know if the Smiling Beast hadn’t tried to play games - but then again, Oalarna muses, he should’ve scouted all the buildings around the meeting site as well. Sloppy.

Oalarna’s eyes follow the subtle line of the embedded guide for the maintenance robots, leading to a slight bump in the roof. Robot shelter, could be cramped but it’ll get him out of sight. He darts for it, building the plan as he goes. Lazy techs probably leave the cage unlocked, if they did lock it there’s the emergency release inside but that’ll trigger on the security panel - eh, he’s got enough experience dodging security guards and if not, better to be a stupid burglar caught by the kansat than an assassin caught be a crime lord. A bit of gentle persuasion later, the hatch opens and he drops through.

“I’m clear,” he voxes. “See you at the rendezvous.”
“Almost had you, Sir,” Teketma says.
“...almost,” Oalarna admits. Been a while since he went this way; the emergency lighting inside the bay guides him towards the maintenance access hatch. “Anyone see where Davis went?”
“Back into the building a few floors down,” Toros says. “Shot their way through the windows.”
“Guess we’re adding property damage to the list of charges,” Mauamnai says. “I’m clear, by the way.”
“Sir,” Teketma says, “we played their game and it blew up on us. I think we need to consider more drastic measures.”

Oalarna jiggles the hatch lock just so and...presto, it pops open. Wasn’t pushed closed all the way. Easy mistake to make. As he climbs out, he brushes some dust off his suit and takes a knee to break down his rifle.

“We got outplayed, Agent,” Oalarna says. “It happens. Swallow it down and move on. Don’t let it goad you into falling for the next trick.”
“...yes, Sir,” Teketma sighs. Whether it’s a I Know You’re Right sigh or a There’s No Reasoning With You sigh, Oalarna can’t tell. “Do you still want me to find Davis’s transport?”
“Find it if you can, but don’t get close,” Oalarna says. “I’ll settle for a visual assessment. And if doesn’t feel right -”
“It’s wrong,” Teketma finishes. “Jang-xur Rules. I know, Sir.”
“Toros,” Oalarna says, “is the vox still transmitting?”
“It is,” Toros replies.
“Can you get in?” Oalarna asks.
“Already am,” Toros says. “Sir, there’s...I need to verify this with fleet intel, but it looks like it holds the technical data package for fabbing mantas.” She swallows. “Should I...what do we do with it?”
“Please say anything except ‘nothing’,” Mauamnai says.
“Believe me, I’m tempted,” Oalarna says. The rifle’s apart now, time to stow it - he won’t be strolling out with it. He looks around for loose wall panels that are not already some maintainer’s liquor stash. “But as long as Quaj has it, that’s sedition. Leave it, Toros. Anything else?”
“The vox has Getkesa Combine purchase tags...which also doesn’t make any sense,” Toros says.
“Indeed,” Oalarna says. “Curious, isn’t it?”
“I don’t get it,” Teketma says.
“Just a few pieces can suggest the shape of the whole puzzle, Agent,” Oalarna says. “But we’ll leave that for the judgement. Toros, leave it all and make sure you scrub your own trail from the device. Wouldn’t want anyone thinking we set them up, do we?”
“Copy,” Toros says. “Sir, there was also a video file, some...Narsai’i holo? It had the label ‘You’re Welcome’.” She pauses. “I made a copy. For analysis. Could be a steganography carrier.”
“Could be,” Oalarna says. Rifle stowed for later retrieval, he makes for the exit. “Let’s brainstorm a way to pay the Smiling Beast back, yes?”

Grinacanne

With the hotel room properly swept and secured (and a couple of Vasa’s trusted people checked in across the hall for security at his insistence - the benefits of having codes for the whole floor), it’s right to work. Hug’sh and Zaef take the rented skimmer and load it up with “survey” equipment, which just happen to include a lot of powerful scopes and long-range sconces.

To the north of the city are the bulk of the work fields - large lava plains fed by great rifts to the northeast, flowing east to west into pits detonated in the dried flows underneath. There, the pooled lava is collected and processed for raw elements in city-block sized refineries that remind Hug’sh quite a bit of his time visiting what used to be East Germany in one of his European postings, and just remind Zaef of any number of monolithic hab blocks he’s visited, rented in, or squatted in. In the other three cardinal directions, a red-and-black desert, mostly volcanic glass and rusted rock ground into sand over the millennia from long-extinct version of the same rifts feeding the only industry on Grinacanne. Stony plateaus of older, harder rock rise from the sand here or there, creating a somewhat bent and palate-swapped version of the deserts around Mesas Negras.

It's a toss-up either way, but Hug'sh decides to head south. Prospector logic aligns with kidnapper logic: you want to be where everybody else isn't, and while a direct 180 from civilisation would likely be too predictable, you gotta start somewhere. And, assuming the kidnappers round the settlement instead of sticking to one side, sconces scattered on the way south might pick up a crossing even if they don't get the precise camp site.

(Hug’sh Think + Warrior Of Three Worlds: 1d8+1d10 vs. 2d8 = TBA)

With a couple boxes of rocks collected from the dozen sites now outfitted with surveillance sconces, Zaef pilots the skimmer back to the village while Hug’sh struggles with his vox to try to get the sconces to ping for their first check-in signal.

”They must write these error messages just for me,” Hug’sh muses, tapping a few more glyphs until the vox finally gives up and displays a clear signal for all sconces. The bag of bags of rocks rattles under the jump seat of the skimmer as he turns to Zaef. ”We’re all set!” Hug’sh says. ”You see anyone follow us?” he asks.

(Zaef Drive: 2d10 vs. 1d8 = 4 vs. 7)
(Zaef Wits: 1d6 vs. 1d6 = 1 vs. 5)

“Not that I’ve noticed,” Zaef replies. “If someone’s spotted us flying between the bluffs I’ll be impressed.”
”I suspect we’ll be a few other things, too,” Hug’sh says. ”Enough work, though. We have some fancy rocks to drink to.”

---

Even evil space empires know that the best way to keep workers happy is to keep them lubricated, if not with money, then with alcohol. As such, it might be hard to get pneumatic tools, blasting agents, or any other “dangerous substances” through the Gateway to Grinacanne, but alcohol? There’s not even a tax on it.

The local worker’s watering hole to the hotel is called Saulona’s, on account of the guy that runs it’s grandfather was named Saulona, and he’s the one that founded the bar after getting promoted out of the lava fields. It could not be more stereotypical from any other ramshackle unlicensed bar: stolen worklights hanging from the ceiling provide the sole sources of light, a bar fashioned out of a shipping container half-buried in the sand, and various knicknacks, souvenirs, and memorials to the dangerous work the people here do every day hanging from the walls and ceiling. Hug’sh walks through the doorway leading into the late afternoon-early evening sun, followed by Zaef.

“I’m just gonna grab a drink and head back to monitor our survey sconces,” Zaef says.
”Good idea,” Hug’sh rumbles.

Not for the first time, having a sensitive nose is a bad move on Grinacanne, but at least this time it’s mostly alcohol and sweat instead of volcano. His eyes sweep the small watering hole until they spot Maarh bunched into a corner, with a tankard of the finest local swill in hand. Hug’sh favors him with a nod as he steps up to the bar and acquires one of...whatever it is. Suitably equipped, he brushes through the inebriated crowd until he’s at the place Maarh has kept empty for him.

”Hello, Maarh,” Hug’sh greets him, allowing a cautious green onto his chest. ”I hope your day has been a good one.”
”It’s been all right so far,” Maarh says, echoing Hug’sh’s green patches. ”Take a seat, have a drink with me.”
”Of course,” Hug’sh says, doing just that. An echo of Hugh runs through him as he reflexively clinks tankards with Maarh, not that Hug’sh would recognize it. ”There is nothing to report yet,” Hug’sh says between swigs of the decently cold fermented alcoholic beverage. ”But I wanted to talk to you in a less...charged setting.” He pauses. ”I should be clearer. This is part of my duty as well, to gather information. And to identify challenges.” Another pause. ”I can see that we’re both...willing, but it cannot interfere with why we are here. Is that how you feel as well?”
Maarh nods, then takes a drink. ”They have friends of mine held hostage. You are…very attractive, but I want my friends more than I want to get laid.”
”Then we are in accord,” Hug’sh says. ”I also need to ask about Vasa. I don’t want a repeat of our previous conversation. We might not have the luxury of arguing about a course of action next time. Is that going to be a problem?”
”Vasa is...protective of us. Of all of us,” Maarh says. ”He came here with his parents when he was a cub, and grew up working the fields. He sees everyone here as his family, and doesn’t trust anyone else to take care of them unless they’ve proven themselves - and to be honest, the Bashakra’i have proven themselves to be good allies but not the best organizers. Better at blowing things up and shooting people than leading a revolution.”
Hug’sh nods. ”That describes several members of the Alliance, sadly,” he says. ”To stand between the Imperium and the utter annihilation of your people tends to make us all...defensive. I am not here to judge or overrule anyone. I just need to know that we can work together on this mission.”
”We always were working together,” Maarh says. ”It’s just hard for us to trust others with the lives of our friends. You certainly have made an impression.” He ventures a move from “sitting shoulder to shoulder” to “resting muzzle against muzzle”.
Hug’sh gently rubs his muzzle against Maarh’s, but then draws back slightly. ”Judge us after we have fulfilled our promise,” he says. ”Until then, keep your guard up.”
Maarh doesn’t press in, but he doesn’t lean further back either. ”Always.”

The next half hour passes in as much silence as any encounter in a working-class dive can. Maarh and Hug’sh remain close, arms around shoulders and leaned back as far as the benches will let them, but that’s all it can be - they’ve both got things on their mind that weigh heavier than the fun distraction this could be. Hug’sh’s mood oscillates through the silence. There are moments where he forces calm on himself, pre-games the attack, tries to visualize a possible camp deployment done by the book and where to expect the patrols. But when he loses hold of those fine details for just a heartbeat, his vision fills with red. Blood. Fire. One of those. It’ll be terrible, one way or another, and he’s not sure if he should fear it or welcome it.

He flicks his tongue over his gums one more time and takes another swig from the beer - anything to clear the familiar taste of ashes from his mouth - when his vox chimes softly. Hug’sh lets go of Maarh quickly and leans away before he opens the message. It only takes a second to take in three essential facts:

This isn’t from anyone who’s supposed to have his vox address. Neither the team’s voxes nor Vasa’s.
The message is a holomap of Grinacanne Port and surroundings. One area is marked with a sigil designating it reserved for special duty.
You’d have to go some ways up the Turai chain to have access to this map. And take a big fucking leap of faith to send it to Hug’sh, if they even knew to send it to him, because that would mean -

”I have to go,” Hug’sh says, extracting himself from the booth. The holo flickers for a second longer before he manages to dismiss it.
”...good luck,” Maarh replies.

Hug’sh turns back to favor him with a quick nod, but that’s all he’s got time for now. The thoughts from before are loud enough now to drown out the background noise, even as Hug’sh picks his way back past the bar and towards the exit. The vox chimes for an incoming connection just as Hug’sh clears the worst of the haze. Arketta on the line. Hug’sh takes it.

”Where are we meeting?” he asks, first thing. No time for jokes or pleasantries now.
“We are on our way to you,” Arketta says. “We should have clear skies, I think.”
”I’m not sure I trust the weather,” Hug’sh says. ”But the work’s got to be done.”
“We just got out of a meeting with...,” Arketta pauses to make sure she’s clear. “The Rav-Odun. He seemed pretty sure about his decision.”
Hug’sh’s fur bristles at that, and he throws a glance left and right to make sure it’s Arketta’s words, not someone listening in. Still, he heads for the nearest alley. ”If he’s implicating himself personally, I will take that as a vote of confidence,” Hug’sh says. ”There’ll be time to sort through the implications later. So, we have a map and his tacit agreement to stay out of the fracas, yes?”
“Yep,” Arketta says. “Angel and I are gearing up now, we’ll grab you and Zaef on our way out of town.”

Hug’sh licks his gums again. Takes a sniff of the nasty air. Blood. Definitely blood.

”Sounds good to me,” he says.

*insert “Get in loser, we’re going to save some hostages” meme*

One of the benefits of renting an industrial flatbed skimmer is that it fits both a Wherren and a significant amount of weapons and hardware. When Arketta said they were gearing up, she must have meant she was loading every bit of tactical hardware they had on the ship - Hug’sh and Zaef are sitting amongst a crate of beamer rods and a four-pack of surveillance drones, and underneath Zaef is a crate of demolition charges.

“Are we going to talk about how you got that map?” Zaef asks, the wind buffeting his helm.
“We had a frank and open discussion about Grinacanne’s future,” Angel replies. “The Rav-Odun wants what’s best for the planet, we just explained that isn’t letting the Imperium kidnap and murder the civilians under his care.”
“He was already pretty upset with what was going on, he just...he’s a good Turai,” Arketta says.
“He’d be the first,” Zaef replies. “But it worked out. What’s the plan?”
”Indirect approach to the target grid square,” Hug’sh grunts out over the wind. ”We’ll have to flow with the terrain and try not to silhouette ourselves until we have eyes on and can judge the camp security. Arketta, what do you think about timing? Darkness won’t cover us, but I’d like to hit them when they’re running a skeleton perimeter and the main force is resting.”
“Meal time is an option, you’d still have a third on watch but the rest would be distracted,” Arketta says. “But we’d have a low sun and that direct lighting would work against the armor. If we wait until after the hostages are likely asleep, then at least there’d be less guards watching them and the armor and your fur won’t have to work as hard. The main issue is going to be opening a hole.”
”Fast, quiet, expedient - pick two,” Hug’sh comments. ”Yeah, that’s not my favorite problem, either. We’ll have more to go on when we see the layout. My gut feel is that we’re just going to have to deal with the perimeter as it is. Infil shouldn’t be harder than it already is if we have to climb a barrier, but getting people out fast is gonna have to be a neat trick. Either that or we otherwise eliminate the need for...landscaping.”
“That’s what the charges are for,” Arketta says. “I figure on our way in we leave a package at whatever barrier there is, and some on other structures for good measure. They’ll be less interested in chasing us when their base is exploding.”
”Yeah,” Hug’sh says. ”High explosives cover a multitude of sins. If that isn’t enough, I’m sure we can think of a few more distractions as needed.”
“We’re a minute out from the landing site,” Angel says. “Let’s get down, cover up, and wait for dark before putting up a drone.”
”Sounds good to me,” Hug’sh says. As he rumbles, his nose stirs.

Fire. Explosions echoing all through the slave ship, back when he was so much smaller, so much more...afraid. Not again, he thinks, and his fur agrees. Never again.

He turns to Arketta. ”No quarter,” he says.
Arketta looks over to him. “...how much ‘no quarter’?” she asks. Hug’sh doesn’t have to see her face to hear both the interest and trepidation in her voice for what she’s implying.
”The hostages walk out of there and we walk out of there,” Hug’sh says. ”Everything else burns until only desert is left. That much ‘no quarter’.”
Zaef looks over to Hug’sh now too, and while Angel is too busy driving the skimmer, he looks up in the mirror for a moment. “Well, we won’t need to worry about exfil, then,” Arketta says. “But if it’s half the hand there…”
”We will see,” Hug’sh says. With a deep breath, he seems to relax a bit as...whatever...was in his fur drains away again. ”Not a suicide run, if that’s your concern. If there are too many to take, then we won’t outstay our welcome. Hostage rescue is still the primary objective.” He snorts. ”Let me put it another way, then. Anyone that’s between the hostages and freedom, we’re going through them. Yeah?”
“I believe that is the plan,” Angel says.

----

After landing the skimmer in the leeside of a ridge, it was a matter of a couple minutes before a length of semi-reactive camo was raised over the site, leaving just enough room to haul crates out of the skimmer and build a tiny patrol base deep in the Grinacanne desert. Hug’sh grumbles to himself as he struggles for a bit with his plate carrier vest - there’s snug fit on mint condition Hug’sh and then there’s getting the snaps to close with the We’re Expecting fat layer added on top. With Arketta holding things in place (and a few surreptitious snips of stitched-up adjustment straps via Hug’sh’s claws), the carrier finally goes on, to be followed by a water bladder, a daypack and a shitton of things that make people dead. Zaef spends a good few hours piloting the drone around the bracketed area, looking for signs of the target, while Angel takes the first shift for shuteye.

(Zaef Search via Pilot: 2d10 vs. 1d8 = 10 vs. 4)

It’s barely an hour before Zaef spots the base - nestled into a wind-carved gully in a larger sandstone formation. He even managed to come up on it with the base between the drone and the sun, and so was able to get close enough and loiter to get a really good look at the base - a dozen temporary buildings, using the natural cover of the gully to make escape more or less impossible unless you head out the mouth of the gully. Great for keeping hostages in check, but also surrounded the base more or less entirely with high ground. A trin is spread out along the ridge to keep watch, but that’s all that’s up top. Down in the base, Zaef estimates there’s about three quads, judging by the Turai milling around, and that the hostages are kept in three temporary shelters, the three with guards at the doors and the third trin member walking the perimeter. Aside from that though, this seems more relaxed than your usual Turai patrol base. The guards are doing their work, but they’re just about the only Turai out and about, and those that he spots that aren’t on patrol are almost entirely in skinsuits alone. Anonymity and security has made the quads here lazy, it seems.

The plan that emerges, then, is best described as audacious. Put the guy who forgot what ‘Abseil’ means and the guy who never heard of it in the first place down at the back of the base, while Angel and Arketta take the sides and rig up the party favors. With Angel remaining on overwatch, it’ll be all on Arketta to circle around to the front, lick shots at the perimeter to start the stampede and then GTFO as the garrison rushes out to repel the attack. Once they’re nice and bunched up, the giggle switch is punched and several tens of tons of rocks are gonna fall. By this time at the latest, Zaef and Hug’sh will have zeroed the guards at the hostage accommodations and will be leading them out through the rubble. Anything still twitching after the topical gravel application will receive an additional whap rifle shot to the face at no extra charge. Yeah, it’s loud and hard and risky as all hell, but that’s what you get when you put four 815 operatives and a shitton of explosives on the table.

All that decided upon, there’s a limited amount of gear prep, drone footage review and agreeing on go codes that doesn’t fill anywhere near the time that needs to pass until the strike can begin. Hug’sh finds himself in a wonky part of the tired/wired spectrum but experience tells him to get what shuteye you can before you go out and spread freedom with applied high-energy physics. Accordingly, he finds himself a comfy nook in the wind-beaten sandstone and nestles in - finally, something all that fat is actually good for. He takes another whiff of air - out here, it’s not exactly clear, but it is less overwhelming. The sulfur and metal still hang in the air, but mostly it’s the baked desert starting to settle in for the cold night. Overtop, the scents of his teammates are coming in strong now.

It’s about even between smelling Arketta’s anxiety and seeing it in her body language; up until the ride Hug’sh would’ve put it down to the pressure of the mission, those incessant questions of Am I Doing The Right Thing and Can I Pull This Crazy Plan Off but she’s shown her concern about his attitude on the ride as well. It’s glaringly obvious how much Luis is missing here. How much she needs him here to believe in her, because she still doesn’t, not all the way. On the other side of the spectrum, Zaef’s barely sweating, barely concerned. He’s killed motherfuckers in all kinds of worse ways for sport. If this was some sort of crazy exhibition match, the betting odds would definitely be against the team, though. This is easily 7/10 Crazy, even by 815 standards, and just because they’ve pulled off worse stunts doesn’t mean they won’t get caught out here. But, Hug’sh senses, even that’s not gonna keep Zaef from going all in. He’s gonna get this done because that’s what he set out to do. But it’s not that dying here wouldn’t matter to him. No, now there’s something Hugh would never understand, but Hug’sh does, and that’s Kitty. Zaef’s got someone to come back to. As for Angel...Hugh never worried about him, and there’s so much Hug’sh owes him, and if there’s a guy in this universe that you absolutely, positively need to kill, you send Angel, same now as ever. Another thing that hasn’t changed: the way he still looks at Arketta when he thinks Hug’sh has dozed off. Angel never got to make that move, never would now, but the feelings have never entirely gone away, have they? Still, there’s a plausible enough concern in his eyes: Arketta’s really taking a big risk here, and all she’s got to gamble with are her feet and Angel’s trigger finger. There’s no one better to rely on, but even Angel’s got to worry whether he can be as deadly as he needs to be to make this work.

And Hug’sh? He’s in his natural state, slightly confused. The safety of the hostages is his primary concern...isn’t it? Curled up like this, feeling his own hot breath over his fur, he can sense a bit of what made Arketta so concerned about him on the ride here. Hug’sh wants those turai dead. That’s surprisingly easy to admit to himself. It’s to the point where he almost wants this to get nasty and feral so he can tear them apart with his own hands. But where is that coming from? Another easy answer: Hugh fucked it up. He didn’t go hard enough at the slave ship and everything went to shit over his cockiness. To want to collapse that problem space by preemptively killing every last motherfucker in the AO before they spring a contingency on them seems like an almost logical response. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? All those feelings he didn’t have names for, all that frustration over his new life - and as lovely as his new life is, it didn’t solve all of Hug’sh’s problems - all the impotent anger over what happened in Afghanistan, it’s all bubbling up here. Pregnancy is hardly a plausible excuse at this point. All Hug’sh can do is breathe and calm his fur. Patience, he tells himself. Don’t fuck this one up by trying to get even for last time. Don’t put yourself on tilt. Get this done, get the mission done, and then...then you go home. Then you live, instead of killing, at least for a little while.

Ibash

A new day on the convention floor looks much like the last, protected from outside weather behind layers of hallways and concrete to the extent you might not realize it’d been another day. Kini Aerospace’s booth bucks the trend, though, having shed its configuration from the previous day and re-arranged the ships hovering above it--new projections and a new layout, highlighting the new models announced the previous day, a new exoatmospheric skimmer and executive transport. Even if all that has to be redone is a set of automated impeller control routines, synchronized holoprojections, and three-dimensional parking challenges, Luis has to admire the amount of work done to make the Kini booth look different every day of the show to preen for the ravailers. Who knew reparking ships could be as much conspicuous consumption as gold and platinum paneling?

Luis and Swims head into the booth area, Swims’ size cutting a path through the morning round of onlookers and small press shooting fresh B-roll. They’re a noticeable sight as they work their way into the booth, and while the booth layout was rearranged overnight, it’s the same staff who saw Swims and Davis yesterday. Luis heads for the impeller lift up to the freighter being used as a boardroom, looking for one the non-ornamental bodyguard types or the closest real sales representative.

“Excuse me, sir,” one of the well-manicured functionaries says, striding over to stand next to Luis while a small phalanx of dark-suited men with interesting kauka scars start to move in. Strange, they only dedicated two to Luis and Hale yesterday. “You can’t just...walk up there.”

“I assume not, but I would like to speak with the Baroness about the Holoros contract at the earliest chance she has - immediately if possible,” Luis says. “We’re concerned about the...security of the arrangement and prompt action may be required.”
“I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about -” He pauses for a moment and turns towards the vox clipped to his ear. “Apologies. Please, allow our...staff to accompany you.” Four of the definitely-not-mercenaries step onto the gravlift in front of Luis, and they definitely don’t look like they’re gonna take a “no, I’m good thanks” for an answer.
“Of course,” Luis says. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Swims-the-Black leads the way onto the elevator with a smirk. ”How’s the show, boys?” he grunts.
”Could be better, could be worse,” one of them grunts in reply.

---


“Mr. Lepalon,” Baroness Voath says from behind her desk in the cargo hold hanging above the show floor. She waves a holodisplay closed as Luis and Swims both feel the itch of trained beamers on their backs. “What a...surprise. You said you needed to talk?”
“Yes,” Luis says. “We had our first meeting with Ralon Toa last night. It was...instructive.”
“I saw,” Voath says. With another wave of her hand, her holodisplay opens back up, and a few haptics later security footage of Luis helping Hale out of the exhibition hall while Hale tries to jam his hand in Luis’ pants and his tongue in his ear comes up. “Your friend must be quite hungover, Ralon’s party mix usually doesn’t hit someone that hard.”
“I thought so too,” Luis says. “Even Toa’s profile left us unprepared for him in person, so we looked into him further. He’s even more erratic and concerning than we thought.”
“That is why he is allowed his dissipations and diversions,” Voath replies. Obviously she isn’t concerned about whatever’s said within these bulkheads getting to Toa. “He is...useful for what he does - which isn’t all that much.”
“He’s getting into harder drugs,” Luis says. “And worse trouble. Rage, instability, not just partying hard. Does he do enough to risk him leaking things?”
Voath waves her hand. “Please. He is a partier, not an addict.”
“Have you seen the Kansat reports?” Luis says. “Holoros is serious about our security, especially in matters this delicate.”
Voath scoffs. “Holoros - is that the name of your privateering ship?”
“No,” Luis says. “Nevertheless, when business gets delicate, we find it better to err on the side of caution. We need Arsa, but I’m less convinced we need Toa.”
Voath’s eyes narrow. “I’m less convinced we need you and your unfounded accusations.”
With a blink of his eyes and a flash of his synapses (both meat and metal), Luis flashes her vox the Kansat reports, with the portions about the drugs, the wakefulness enhancers, the steroids all highlighted - the rage, the paranoia, and the increasing seriousness of the trouble.

(Luis Persuade: 10 from previous roll vs. 2d8 = 10 vs. 7)

Voath looks over the file with an increasingly deeply furrowed brow. “Apparently I shall have to have a talk with Ralon about risk and appropriate behavior.”
“We would appreciate it,” Luis says. “But I suspect from this and meeting with it that it will not be enough. If he cannot grasp it, he may be a liability you cannot afford in these arrangements. As I said, we need Arsa. I’m not sure we can afford Ralon Toa.”
“Hmph.” Voath broods for a moment. “I will consider it. If Ralon proves...uninterested in containing himself, then we will have no choice. Security is paramount for this.”
“I’m pleased you agree,” Luis says. “Thank you, Baroness, for your time.” Swims-the-Black nods as well.
“And thank you for...your concern,” Voath says. “You’re awfully...eloquent for a pirate.”
“Not everything in this business is drugs and weapons,” Luis says.
”Most of it is,” Swims adds, and is translated for to Voath.
“Apparently,” Voath replies.

----

The conference may involve many of the kinds of people who can drop a thousand lats on a dinner and call it a cheap night out, but there’s still business to discuss, loans to arrange, or corporate headquarters to communicate with. Alongside the high-class food stalls, bathrooms, and tasteful bench arrangements for brief refreshes, there’s also occasional clusters of small, electromagnetically secure conference rooms, some with several chairs, others just large enough to take a vox connection. After swiping his hand over the panel to register his internal vox with the queue system and waiting in the business center lobby for a bit, Luis is able to get one of the latter. He takes a moment to confirm everything seems secure and then opens an outgoing call to Kodor Viaweph with his vox.
“Good to hear from you,” Viaweph says. “I trust your friend has recovered from his misadventure?”
“He has,” Luis says. “It’s actually what I’m calling about though. We have some information about Arsa which would be interesting to have generally known without anyone being quite sure where it came from first. Do you think you can help ask around to ‘confirm some rumors’?”
“Asking a spy to spread dissent and discord is better than a birthday gift,” Viaweph says. “What do you need whispered and into which ears?”

“Voath may have come into information that Toa’s untrustworthy, paranoid, prone to rage, and a risk to the business Holoroas is bringing,” Luis says. “I figure with something like that, it’d be useful if when she goes to take action, Toa’s already heard something to that effect. With his toxicology report, if he goes in upset and angry, it’s likely to make the meeting exciting. I think it’d be useful if there were a few different rumors going around, nothing specific enough to trace to us. It might even be useful if some of them conflict. Rumors that she’s thinking he’s too unstable to be trusted anymore, rumors that he might be in trouble beyond the usual gossip magazine issues with the law, rumors that she’s thinking he’s not up to the task for some big secret order that might be coming, or rumors she knows he is, and she’s coming to take it for herself. Nothing too specific anywhere, but it’d be useful if people around Arsa and the industry gossip had heard the word, but nothing specific. Some of it’s even true. Sound like fun in your line of work?”
“Sounds like I want to be nowhere near any of this when it goes off,” Viaweph says. “You got a way for me to get into his inner circle?”
“I figure if it gets anywhere into the people he parties with, they’ll tell him quickly,” Luis says. “How about we trump up some credentials and you see about ‘following up on a story’ at the apartments he keeps for his entourage?”
“Business gossip circular, getting the latest scoop on the movers and shakers in the cutthroat Ibash business world?” Viaweph clears his throat. “Heaj Whatever from Ibash Business Daily, would you care to comment on information from sources that Baroness Voath is looking to cut Arsa out of some key business deal in the near future?”
“Exactly,” Luis says. “You can even say you’re not sure it’s true, and if they press you you’re not sure--you got it from a source through a source, and you’ve even heard multiple takes. We can get it spreading through other channels at the same time so if they ask around, they’ll hear about it, we just need to make sure they know today.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Viaweph says. “Get credentials made up for my team and we’ll be there in a couple hours.”
“Sounds good,” Luis says.

The building Toa’s pad is in is a study in measuring value in what you can show. Marble floors, and fancy inlaid wood paneling cover the walls, though not to the level of excess seen in the booths on the show floor. A reception desk fits neatly in between two elevators, and there’s an intermittent stream of well-to-do occupants arriving and leaving as Luis scopes out the desk staff and looks for security sconces. There’s no immediate sign of security systems or sconces as a few people arrive and depart, which likely means they’re paying for security good enough that it doesn’t have to be visible to be effective.

(Luis Computers: 2d10 vs. 2d10 = 9 vs. 10)

The same is true in the electronic world. Ralon Toa might not be that bright, but you don't gotta be bright to know which the best apartment tower for the captains of industry is. Luis runs through every sensor scanning trick in the book, sending sniffers scouring the Cortex around him, and while he can tell that there's a substantial Cortex presence, it's a black box of opaque encryption, humming menacingly. The tower's whole Cortex presence has the same feeling as a stone-faced bouncer at an expensive club Luis is very much not invited into.

With electronic access locked down, the next best options are social - have Viaweph and his team look like somebody they’ll want to let in, and make enough fuss the desk clerks don’t look too hard while buzzing them in. If there’s one thing that keeps a party like Toa’s going at all hours, it’s exotic drugs, but if there’s two, it’s drugs and energy drinks. With a little effort, several cases of the over-caffeinated beverages from the local store are repackaged into some faked-up cartons. Then it’s just handing it off to Viaweph and his...curiously dressed crew. Obviously there was a raid on local fashionista stores between talking with Viaweph last, because they’re now dressed in various versions of the best streetwear that a couple hours shopping can buy.

“Masters, I love influencer covers,” Viaweph says as Manloni takes possession of the hand truck, his braids sticking out from underneath a purple and gold headwrap, and Ilnu reapplies her emerald green eyeliner that wraps all the way up to her temples. “See you on the other side, Narsai’i,” he says with a nod.
“Good luck on no trouble but the kind you make,” Luis says.
Viaweph smiles. “Oh, and such trouble it will be,” he says as Manloni wheels the hand truck away and he swoons away.

Once inside the lobby, Manloni and Ilnu go straight to the elevators, Manloni bringing up the front, setting the hand truck down and adjusting his shimmering green vest, fur lining poking out around his otherwise unclothed chest, and Ilnu standing in the rear, saying nothing as she cruises the Cortex on her temple-mounted holodisplay, obviously the glamour part of the ensemble in her thin-cut high-collared translucent green dress. Viaweph, the face of the operation, goes straight to the front desk.

“Ralon’s crew is expecting us, so if you could just buzz us up,” Viaweph says casually.
“...excuse me?” the woman at the front desk says.
“Ralon Toa? Arsa Manufacturing big muckedy-muck? We’ve signed a influencer contract to promote Azhdha -” Viaweph produces a chilled can from a pocket and hands it over to the woman behind the desk, “amazing stim beverage, melon flavored, and we’re on the clock to get up, shoot promos, promote the product, so if you would be so kind -”
“You’re not on the approved list, sir,” the woman drolly says, pushing the can away from her.
Viaweph’s face falls. “Well, shit. We’re supposed to be on there, and we have little miss “5000 lats an hour” over there, which is a significant portion of my ad budget, sooo…maybe just call upstairs? Or…” He reaches into another pouch and pulls out a 500 lat credit chit and places it on top of the can. “I can bring you on as a one-time consultant. Off the books.”

(Viaweph Convince: 2d10+1d8 vs. 2d8 = 9 vs.

The woman looks carefully at the credit chit and the drink, then surreptitiously takes both before scanning the chit with her vox. Once she sees the full value, she waves her hand through the holodisplay. “34th floor.”
“Thank you very much,” Viaweph says, and leads Manloni and Ilnu onto the lift.

(Viaweph Crew Convince + 1d8 for scheming: 9, 7, 3 vs. 8, 6, 4, 2 out of 3 success)

----

A while later, after having given time for the rumors to make it back to Toa, Luis calls up a connection to the vox code he got from Toa last night.
“You got Ralon,” Toa answers.
“This is Honi Lepalon, Ralon,” Luis says. “We met last night, and discussed Mantas.”
"Yeah, yeah, cool shit," Toa says. "Hey, when will I get to shoot one of those off?"
“When we’re able to begin production with Arsa,” Luis says. “I wanted to make sure you are committed to putting your full effort behind that.”
Toa scoffs. "Of course I am." Luis can hear the edge come into Toa's voice. "Who the fuck said I wasn't?"
“I’m afraid I can’t say, Ralon,” Luis says. “However, I’ve been forced to consider this morning if Kini or Getkasa might be able to manage alone, if Arsa is not serious.”

(Luis Talk: 1d8+2d8 vs. 2d6 = 8 vs. 5)

“What the fuck do you mean, ‘not serious’? I’m serious as a fucking beam to your forehead!” Toa shouts. “It’s that fucking stuck-up whetu Teon, isn’t it? She’s fucking me over with the Baroness, isn’t she?”
“If she is, does it matter? What matters to me is knowing if Arsa is serious--if you are serious about this. I need proof.”
“I’m giving you my people, my workers!” Toa roars. “Fuck you, motherfucker! It doesn’t get more serious than that!”
“We trust Arsa’s workers are serious,” Luis says. “What we have been given cause to doubt is...well, whether you will be a serious partner in this, or take it for granted. Uncertainties have come to light about your recent behavior with our partners at Kini and, particularly, Getkasa. They don’t believe you are serious. If you can address those uncertainties…,” Luis trails off.

(Luis Talk: 2d8 vs. 2d6 = 8 vs. 3)

Toa goes silent - a very, very threatening silence. Luis gives him a moment, then continues.
“I think you understand,” Luis says. “I believe we both have business to be about today, then. Have a good afternoon.”
“Oh, I fucking understand very well, Honi,” Toa says, and disconnects.
Luis ends the call screen on his vox. “Well, that went well,” he says.
Swims-the-Black nods. ”I think we’ve got him all spun up and pointed in the right direction. Now we just need to wait for the fireworks to start.”

(Quaj Tech: 2d10 vs. 1d6 = 6 vs. 1)
(Garrett Wits: 2d10 vs. 2d8 = 8 vs. 7)
(Throne Wits: 2d10 vs. 2d8 = 10 vs. 4)

Baroness Voath’s quarters resembles those of many nobles - an expansive palace built on top of a towering skyscraper, half mansion and half executive headquarters, a place where one can equally live in luxury but also run a planetary industrium empire, in contrast to the more stereotypical ultraluxe crash pad and party house inhabited by rich but dissolute people such as Ralon Toa. There are many layers of security, both hidden and obvious, surrounding it, but they all give way for Zaakon Quaj and his security entourage as his skimmer enters the hangar underneath the residence proper. Quaj stomps out of the skimmer, leaving his entourage behind, and into the lift, taking it to Voath’s office.

“Zaakon, you sounded quite irate over the link,” Voath says as he approaches her black marble desk. “You made a lot of accusations that I hope you have the proof for.”
“Here,” Quaj says, sliding the vox that Garrett gave him over her desk. “When the pirates provided proof, this is the vox that they used. The files checked out, but we were under observation the entire meeting - and on the vox was Getkesa Combine ident codes.”
“Troubling,” Voath says, her brow furrowing.
“Whatever money we stand to make is not worth this,” Quaj says. “We should kill everyone, starting with Teon and these pirates. Clean house and move on.”
“A bit hasty, I think,” Voath says. “Also, there is a different complication. Ralon is...becoming less reliable.”
“I will add him to the list, then,” Quaj says. “We should blame Yarruis for this, while we’re at it.”
“Not until we know who was watching your meeting, and why,” Voath says. “If it was Teon, what benefit does she stand to gain?”
“Turning over evidence of sedition to the Turai should be enough,” Quaj says.
“That would be suicide, she knows that our confessions would lead the inquisitors straight to her doorstep,” Voath says. “Either she has a plan to avoid that issue, or there is a third party involved here. Either way, caution is warranted. Be patient, Zaakon - but be ready to strike.”

----

(Toa Attack: 2d8 vs. 2d8 = 7 vs. 4)
(Teon Escape: 1d8 vs. 1d8 = 3 vs. 7)

“Welcome to Getkesa Combine,” the functionary says from her position on the exhibition show floor for the hundredth time that hour. The couple, dressed casually, walk right past her and go about the business of looking at the booth’s demonstration models. No matter, on to the next passer-by.

“Welcome to Getkesa Combine -” she starts, and is only slightly put off by the shirtless and heavily tattooed nature of the attendee. He stands there at the edge of the booth, looking around for something or someone. “Can I help you?” He ignores her, as another rather...declassé individual walks up behind them. “Excuse me?” she asks.
“Toa has a message for your boss,” the man growls.
“Excuse me?” she asks, this time in offense rather than imposition.
He pulls a pantaki out of his pants. “I said, we’ve got a message from Toa.”

----

It’s the third time through the security footage for Throne Agent Oalarna, and to be honest, even the first one was superfluous. 19 dead, 33 wounded, including Arlomai Teon - that just about says everything. He sinks back into his chair at the field office and permits himself a sigh. Good thing he’s got no more hair to lose. He looks up, across the desk to where Agent Teketma sits. No righteous speeches for either of them now. They’re both grieving this loss.

“Sir,” Teketma says. “What do we...what do we do now?”
“Do you see anything we can add to the kansat investigation?” Oalarna answers, almost by reflex.
“Sir?” Teketma asks.
“That was a serious question, Agent,” Oalarna says. “We need all perspectives to frame the situation correctly. So, do you see a way we can aid the kansat?”
“No, Sir,” Teketma says.
“Who ordered the death of Arlomai Teon?” Oalarna asks, now drilling down.
“I...I don’t know, Sir,” Teketma says.
“Do the kansat know?” Oalarna asks. “Do they care to know?”
“I don’t know, Sir,” Teketma repeats.
“Well then,” Oalarna says. “You asked what we’re going to do. We’re going to do our job, Agent. We’re going to look where others won’t. We’re going to identify the guilty party and then see about getting some justice done, by whatever means we deem necessary. We owe the dead at least that much.”
“Sir,” Teketma says, rising from his chair.
“One more thing,” Oalarna says.
“...yes?” Teketma asks.
“Don’t stop questioning what you see,” Oalarna says. “Don’t stop questioning me, or the others, or yourself. The second you’re sure you’ve got everything figured out, you stop being effective.”
“Yes, Sir,” Teketma says.
“...you can go now,” Oalarna says.

Teketma’s barely two steps away when Toros comes bursting into the room.

“We’ve got Garrett Davis on the vox, Sir,” she says. “Asks to speak to the ranking Throne agent.”
Oalarna smirks, just a hint of bitterness to it. “Put him through.” He picks up the discarded vox from his desk and clips it to his ear. “Hello, Mr. Davis,” he says. “We were wondering if you were going to call again. What more can we do for you?”
“First, I’d like to apologize for tricking your team into selling the cover,” Garrett says. “I’d send you a fruit basket but I never looked to see if that’s a thing the Imperium does.”
“No, we usually apologize in person,” Oalarna says.
“Sounds like a plan,” Garrett says. “Somewhere public?”
“Somewhere of our choice, this time,” Oalarna says. “And with your whole team present. Bring your weapons if you wish, we certainly will.”
“Keeps everyone honest,” Garrett says. “Wouldn’t have it any other way. But you’ll have to settle for three of us. Luis is busy trying to keep a lid on things.”
“Acceptable,” Oalarna says. “You’ll be sharing what you’ve found out about the cabal’s plans and movements.”
“I’ll do you one better,” Garrett says. “I’ll tell you our plan to take the whole thing down. We’re here to break their hold on Ibash, Agent. We’re hoping you can keep it from being with more bloodshed.”
“Color me intrigued,” Oalarna says. “We’ll send the meeting details to this vox. Anything else?”
“Make it fast,” Garrett says. “There’s things in motion already.”
“Indeed,” Oalarna says. “See you soon, Mr. Davis.”

Oalarna terminates the call, then turns to Toros.

“Find me an indoor arcade out of District,” he says. “Low traffic, clear sightlines inside but no panorama. And wake up Mauamnai.”
“Yes, Sir,” Toros says, hurrying off.
“Agent Teketma,” Oalarna says, “you’ll stick with me.”
“Sir,” Teketma says.
“And this time, we’re not playing,” Oalarna says. “Pack accordingly.”
Teketma nods to that. “Yes, Sir.”

Ten minutes on, a fresh skimmer soars above Ibash, with Mauamnai again at the controls. Behind her, Teketma - sporting the wide-cut jacket and kicky shoes of an Industrium bodyguard - fiddles some more with his twin stingers. Oalarna is, as ever, sitting in quiet contemplation.

“Three minutes to the arcade,” Mauamnai says. “Any special precautions, Sir?”
“Blend into the traffic,” Oalarna says. “And let us know if we’re about to have unexpected guests.”
“Sure,” Mauamnai says. “So, odds on them actually showing this time?”
“Favorable,” Oalarna says. “But I don’t plan to make a habit of being stood up by Mr. Davis.” He turns around to Teketma. “The others won’t be a problem for you, Agent?”
Teketma pauses. “No, Sir.”
“You’ll deal with worse assets, I can promise you that,” Oalarna says. “For now, do your job, remember the mission. And be mad at them on your own time. That’s how I plan to handle it, anyway.”
“Sir,” Teketma says.
“While you‘re dispensing wisdom, Sir,” Mauamnai says, “I don’t get what they’re after here. Sure, bring down the cabals and create a power vacuum, but they have to know we’ll be watching for the Bashakra’i moving in. Even before they goaded us into coming here and watching them sow chaos.”
“That leaves plenty of other valid objectives,” Oalarna says. “Send a message that everyone is in reach, disrupt supply chains...help the people.”
“Yeah, right,” Teketma scoffs.
“There is a Narsai’i expression, Agent,” Oalarna says. “Hearts and minds.” He lets that stand for a second, then smirks. “Speculation, at this point. I’d like to replace it with first-hand observation.”
“Sounds less like a Throne mission and more like an Expansion expedition,” Mauamnai says.
“If you prefer, there are about a dozen dossiers on the rebellion’s ultimate agenda and Mr. Davis’s contribution to the same available to you,” Oalarna says. “All expertly written by veteran Throne analysts...who have never met Mr. Davis. We should improve on that before we make up our minds, don’t you think?”
“Sure,” Mauamnai says. “Understanding is the keenest edge, right? Just saying that once we’ve solved the puzzle we shouldn’t forget to catch him.”
“Yes,” Oalarna says.

---

After Mauamnai deposits them at the arcade and takes off to circle the greater perimeter, Oalarna and Teketma make their way in. It’s a well-chosen spot - in the middle of a big mining shift, the crowd here is light and rather sedate, mostly lower-level Industrium functionaries and civil servants. It doesn’t take long for Teketma to spot Swims-the-Black at a gift shop that is, coincidentally of course, quite close to the arcade’s security office. Sexton Hale, it seems, prefers the fried spink stand smack in the middle of the main concourse, giving him line of sight on the major thoroughfares and exits. As for Garrett Davis, he’s wandering around, nowhere in particular, though if Oalarna had to guess, it’d be a round trip to check all emergency exits.

Still a half hour to the agreed-upon meeting time. Oalarna smirks. Everybody wants to show up first, to get a lay of the land, search for surprises and maybe leave a few of their own. But at least this time they have eyes on the other team. No reason to give them the edge, though. Oalarna and Teketma begin their own route to case the place and prepare.

“They’re not very subtle,” Teketma notes.
“No, they’re not,” Oalarna says. “What are you thinking, Agent?”
“They’re where I’d be if I needed to cover a lot of space and be ready for things to get energetic,” Teketma says. “But they could be less exposed. Wouldn’t be hard.”
“It wouldn’t be,” Oalarna says. “So?”
“Either they’re trying to draw attention away from something else,” Teketma muses, “or they’re bluffing.”
“Or they’re confident we won’t move against them if they make a show of playing with an open hand,” Oalarna says. “We’ve seen them. We have thirty minutes to see other things. Let’s keep moving.”

(815 Notice: 2d10, 3d8, 1d10+1d8 vs. 2d10 = 8, 7, 10 vs. 10)

”I have them,” Swims grunts, looking over some souvenirs to bring back for the shipkid. ”Two levels up, looking over the balcony, bald, dressed like an Industrium executive, big bearded man trying to look like his bodyguard.”
“They could just be an executive and a bodyguard,” Hale points out between swigs of his spiced fizzy drink.
”They have stuck close to the railing the whole time,” Swims says, a bit of orange coming into his fur. ”That is terrible tradecraft for executive protection, but very good if you are sweeping the area. I have worked with Throne agents before, they are very careful before making an approach.”
“They’re a half-hour early, I like their style,” Garrett says. “I’ll make the first approach, Hale, you follow behind me, Swims-the-Black, you’ve got their backs.”
”Moving,” Swims grunts.
“On it,” Hale says, grabbing his sandwich and drink.

----

“Here they come,” Teketma murmurs. “Swims-the-Black is circling around.”
“Easy now,” Oalarna says.

They keep their pace as Garrett and Hale maneuver into their path. Oalarna locks eyes with Garrett, gives him a slight nod and then kinks his head to the side, indicating a largely empty establishment that imitates the Imperial equivalent of a bistro in daytime and sports bar in the evening without quite settling on either.

“Welcome to Visani’s,” comes the well-practiced opener from the faster of the two waiters, who rushes to meet the incoming customers. “Please, take a seat anywhere. Would you like to hear about our special?”
“No, that will be quite all right,” Oalarna says. “We would like a large pot of tea and a plate of mixed starters.”
“For you and…” the waiter hesitates, as Swims-the-Black brings up the rear.
Oalarna smiles. “For me and my business partners,” he says. “Five top, if you please.”
“...Follow me, Sir,” the waiter says, leading the lot towards the back of the establishment, where there are a few family-size booths sequestered from the main open floor. “There you are, Sir,” the waiter says. “I’ll be right over with your order.”
“A brandy for me,” Garrett says. “Small one, with a water back.”
The waiter turns back to Oalarna, as if anticipating a larger drink order now.
“Just the tea for me, thank you,” Oalarna says.

With the waiter hurrying off, Oalarna turns to Garrett. “Well then,” he says. “Guests get first choice of seating.”
“That’s very polite of you,” Garrett says, motioning for Hale to slide into the end of the table that’s closer to the exits, which he does before opening the foil packet for his sandwich. Garrett climbs in after him, and Swims-the-Black sits on a couple chairs he pushes together on the outside edge of the table.
“I’m fine here,” Teketma says, standing next to the booth with an eye towards the open floor.
Garrett smirks at that, Swims-the-Black shakes his head, and even Hale gives him a curious look at that. “Vidas Lam, he’s wound tight,” Garrett says. “New guy? Turai? Emperor’s First?”
“I don’t think that’s relevant right now,” Oalarna says, taking his seat. “My colleague is not quite as ready to forgive you for what happened last time. I don’t begrudge him that and I would appreciate it if you didn’t, either.”
“Definitely new guy, then,” Garrett says, and looks up to Teketma. “No hard feelings, just needed to get Quaj paranoid about something that wasn’t us. Ask your team leader how that works.”
“And how’d that work out?” Teketma says, not turning to look at Garrett.
“I think we’re all well aware of that,” Oalarna says.
“You were excellent bait,” Garrett says. “And you can direct your thanks for your escape to Sexton Hale. He came up with the distraction that let the one of you that got cornered make it off that roof, very cleverly, I might add. I do apologize for dangling you without giving you the heads up, but to be fair, if I had told you, you wouldn’t have done it.”
“We don’t award credit for solving a problem you created,” Oalarna says. “So. You were going to tell us your plan, I believe?”

“Well, the broad strokes was basically to dangle a chance to do something very lucrative but very illegal, and once we get the hook set on all five of them, use it to ratchet up the pressure, get them to betray each other, and then either get them to kill each other in a relatively contained way or turn it over to the Turai,” Garrett says. “The next step was to talk to Teon and Yarrius next to get them to flip on Voath, Quaj, and Toa. Obviously, Toa’s...enthusiasm was more than we anticipated.”
“I see,” Oalarna says. The waiter arrives with the tea pot and Oalarna takes a moment to savor the smell of the steeping leaves until the waiter is out of earshot again. “How many casualties did you anticipate, then? When you say ‘relatively contained’, how many bodies were you planning to leave, besides the obvious five?”
“Not many,” Garrett says. “Ideally none, our intel has Voath’s mansion being a regular place for their meetings in a conference room on the east side of the building, very secure, very private. That’s our intended endgame spot, get them all paranoid and pissed off at each other in the same room, and then basically shoot a pop gun off outside right before the Kansat or Turai show up to arrest whoever’s not dead.”
“I see,” Oalarna says. “Supposing, then, that a properly briefed and equipped unit would be standing by to breach the premises and execute those arrests, your next step after that is to fade away?”
“Pretty much,” Garrett says. “We don’t need to be on-world to make it known that the 815 were involved in breaking the cabal that’s been holding Ibash hostage.”

“Then let me explain how I see this situation,” Oalarna says. “You have already destabilized a very volatile constellation of criminals and profiteers. We have no interest in fixing this or propping them up going forward. We want to see this resolved with minimal further collateral damage. If this requires that we briefly overlook your presence on Ibash, then I will bear the responsibility for it. But make no mistake. The second you become superfluous to requirements here, that period of toleration expires.” He takes a sip from his tea. “Manipulating the Throne into helping you achieve your own goals is a very dangerous game to play, Mr. Davis. The people who get caught in the middle are on your head. I say this not to condemn you, but to remind you of the consequences of things your plans might not anticipate.”
Garrett’s expression darkens. “I already have 19 deaths and 33 maimed people to remind me of that.” He sighs. “But it’s good to know that someone in the Imperium has their eyes more on the impact to citizens instead of the power structure.”
Oalarna allows himself a slight nod. “On the good days, we manage to align the practical with the moral,” he says. “I imagine that this is no different on your side of the table. I would like to say that we simply take a view that is both longer and wider than that of others, that counted on an expansive enough scale, the lives of our citizens matter more to the Imperium than glory and triumph. But I cannot say that without also admitting that we are a refuge of romantics like me who try to make up for the terrible things we do on the bad days.” Another sip. “You said your plan had been to talk to Teon and Yarrius. Do you still intend to talk to Yarrius, then? Or do you intend to give further nudges to see your endgame come about?”
“I think we’ve nudged hard enough,” Swims-the-Black says.
“Bigger question is what does your team intend to do?” Garrett asks.
“Watch, and intervene as necessary,” Oalarna says. “By the time we make arrests, I want to have enough proof for sedition charges for whoever we do manage to take alive. Beyond that, I think I have laid out our agenda clearly enough. This is not a partnership and as such neither of us has an obligation to make themselves accountable to the other.” He gives a thin smile. “Shall we leave it at that? I do look forward to the meal, if nothing else.”

Swims-the-Black’s fur shades into orange, but aside from that, no one says anything.
”Why don’t you say what’s on your mind?” Teketma grunts, his hands automatically falling into fluid signs from a time before the Throne. ”You stood before the Emperor, so you’re not scared of a few Throne agents, are you?”
”I think you know what I am feeling,” Swims grunts. ”Watch, and intervene when deemed necessary, very familiar words. Very convenient excuse to never intervene that the Throne rarely fails to lean on in my experience.”
”Get over here and you’ll see me intervene all right, Third Claw,” Teketma grunts.
”Enough!” Oalarna barks. “Stand down, Agent.”
Teketma sucks a breath through his clenched teeth. “...gonna sweep the perimeter,” he says. “Sir.”
“Excellent idea,” Oalarna says. As Teketma stomps off, Oalarna lets out a sigh. “Emperor’s First,” he confirms to Garrett, then turns to Swims-the-Black. ”I apologize for my subordinate. He is impetuous and uncouth still.”
”He cares enough to be offended when I accuse the Throne of inaction,” Swims points out. ”That’s not impetuous. That’s giving a shit. If more Throne agents were like him when I was at the Emperor’s side, then perhaps I would still be there.”
”And the Emperor would be lucky to have you,” Oalarna says. ”But it is not so and can never be again. What you have done has been washed clean in blood. You are now Swims-the-Black.”[/]
”And I am glad to be so,” Swims replies. ”Third Claw stood by and watched Bashakra burn, and many more atrocities besides. Swims-the-Black does not.”
Oalarna nods to that. ”I hope that when it matters, I shall be able to say the same about myself.” He looks from Swims to Hale. “Everyone hopes to find the moment when they can no longer stand by and watch things happen. Yes?”
Hale balefully looks at his sandwich before reluctantly looking up and nodding. “Yes. Yeah, I guess so.”

Luis still isn’t quite used to the idea of just...calling the Throne. It still has a sense of being careful what you wish for, but if you have that kind of investigative resource, you have to be interested in what they turn up, even when part of it’s aimed at you. With Voath and Quaj worked up and Toa and Teon off the table, the only question left is Yarrius --and for that, it’d help to know what he and the others got up to. With that in mind, Luis uses another new burner vox to reach out to the number Garrett got from the local agent team - while a vox in your head is convenient for some things, for trying to pull information out of people tasked with hunting you down, it’s counter-indicated.

It takes a moment for the call to go through. Long enough to doubt if it's the correct address, or if it was burned...or if it's burned now. Finally, a male voice answers. "Go ahead," he says.
“This is Luis Stanhill,” he says. “I was curious about how your investigations were going of the cabal here.”
"Ah, Mr. Stanhill,“ the man - Agent Oalarna - says. "I assume you're curious because you would like to use what we have. Do we stand to gain anything in exchange?"
“We can trade some of what we have on their background ourselves,” Luis says.
“We prefer to source our own intel, Mr. Stanhill,” Oalarna says. “I do have a suggestion, however. If things do go to Mr. Davis’s plan, we will be overseeing a breach of a cabal meeting. It is my experience that criminals do not tend to stick to best practices in how they set up their security systems, but I think your knowledge of their methods might be put to use there. I propose you crack their systems and serve as overwatch during the breach. Make sure that our boots on the ground are not delayed by traps, security lockdowns or other electronic surprises.”
“You’d trust backup from us?” Luis asks, covering while he mentally composes a message to Garrett. Throne wants us to provide overwatch before and during their breach. Probably a trap. Any possible way that’s good for us?
It's not, but that's fair, Garrett replies. He's a clever bastard, wants us on-world and where he can find us when shit goes down. We need the intel, though. Say yes and we'll figure it out later.

There’s a chuckle on the other end of the vox connection. “At the risk of sounding like a cliché, Mr. Stanhill, ‘trust’ is not in our vocabulary.” Oalarna pauses. “But we are willing to use you. Agree to this and we’ll give you access to our investigation’s files on the cabal. We’ll know how to treat you going forward based on what comes of this agreement. So, do we have a deal?”
“I think we do. We’ll need your files, and we’ll need to know more about where and when you’re breaching to make sure we have things ready to provide our overwatch in time,” Luis says.
“Naturally,” Oalarna says. “I will have my information officer compile a package for you. Expect it delivered to this vox within the hour.” Another pause. “Make good use of it. Goodbye, Mr. Stanhill.” The call drops.

Deal’s on, Luis sends to Garrett.
Good, Garrett says. I already have a good idea for how to deal with it. Just gotta have a window to Hedion to discuss it.

---

The headquarters of Duwalon Shipyards is a tall but forgettable structure, a large slab of windows with a few molded concrete details that are just enough to show an architect was involved and yet not paid enough to be interested. It could be any of a hundred other buildings on Ibash or any other planet, an office tower or a bank headquarters. Only the name Duwalon Shipyards on the upper most tier of detailing shows off what it is. Security is notable in its absence, with no mercs visible in the lobby or the foyer when Luis and Swims walk up.

“Can I help you, sir?” the man at the front desk asks. Luis can see into what looks like the engineer’s bullpen behind the glass wall separating the foyer for Duwalon (and Swims-the-Black has a subsequently better view), and it looks...not empty, but it looks like not a whole lot goes on there, and hasn’t for quite some time.
“Is it always this quiet at Duwalon?” Luis asks.
“We down-staff in between design cycles,” the man replies. “Are you here to see anyone in particular? Do you have an appointment?”
“We’re here to see Yarrius,” Luis says. “We had a design project we were discussing with him yesterday at the show.”
“I’m afraid Mr. Yarruis is not taking visitors at the moment,” the man says. “And you do not have an appointment.”
Swims-the-Black leans over the counter, putting both of his hands on it, which dwarfs the hands of the receptionist sitting at the desk. ”And yet you are going to let us in.”

(Swims Intimidate: 2d10 vs. 1d6 = 10 vs. 4)

The man goes pale as Swims-the-Black looms over him. His eyes flick between Swims’ eyes and the jade tusk caps that mark him out as a Wherren especially not to be fucked with. “...have a good day, sir,” he stammers, and presses the button under the desk to let the doors into the Duwalon offices slide open.
Swims grunts and flicks a roll of orange as he leans back. ”Lead the way,” he grunts to Luis.
Luis follows the signs to the executive offices, which are fairly clearly marked. The woman Luis talked to over vox must be the one sitting at the desk outside the big office at the end of the hallway, “Hoa Yarruis” on the holo attached to the door. “Mr. Lepalon, I’m sorry, Mr. Yarruis is not available at the moment,” she says, standing up. “I will be glad to make an appointment with you to see him later on, perhaps in a week or two.”
“Does he believe he has a week?” Luis says.
“...I don’t know what you mean,” the woman says.
“Who is that?” Yarruis shouts from behind his door.
“Mr. Lepalon, sir -” the woman replies, but is interrupted as a burst of stinger fire rakes the inside of Yarruis’ office.
“Stay back! You bloody-minded bastards, you’ll have to...you come through the door and I’ll shoot you where you stand!” Yarruis shouts. Another burst of stinger fire sounds from inside his office. “I’m armed! I mean it!”
“I think Mr. Yarruis is unavailable for the foreseeable future,” the woman says.
“I disagree,” Luis says. “If anything, it sounds like we need to speak with him more than I thought.” He raises his voice. “Mr. Yarrius, it’s Honi Lepalon, from Holoros. We’re not here to kill you, we’re here to talk with you about your security.”
“That’s exactly what an assassin would say!” Yarruis shouts.
“What if we stay out here?” Luis says.
“Then...then I’ll send security to kill you!” Yarruis shouts back. “Get out!”
“Your security wasn’t able to stop us from getting here,” Luis says. “They didn’t even really try. Right now, we’re the people you need to talk to.”
“I don’t have to do anything!” Yarruis replies. “I...I have the gun here! I say what’s going to happen!”
“What do you say is going to happen, then?” Luis says. “You sit in a mostly empty building and shoot anything you hear until you scare your receptionist to death, or somebody actually comes here who isn’t looking to talk? We can help you, and if we walk out, no one else can.”

(Luis Talk: 1d8+1d6 vs. 1d8 = 5 vs. 2)

There’s a pause behind the door for a moment, and then an absolutely ridiculous string of invective and cursing sounds from the other end. Swims-the-Black, situated next to the door, rolls an amused shade of green as Yarruis calms down, his voice considerably more hoarse than before. “- motherfucking scrofa-fucking piece of shit.” He takes a deep breath. “Fine. Come in.”

Swims-the-Black pulls the door open to reveal Yarruis’ office, which is just about as much of a state as imagined from the other side of the door. It’s hard to tell if Yarruis was trashing the place to burn evidence, turning things upside down to find listening devices, frantically packing valuables to skip town, or all three. Swims looks at the stinger scars running up the walls, and decides to take a position near the door, just in case.

“So, what do you want right now, Mr. Yarrius?” Luis asks. “The Ibash’i cabal is coming apart, and fast, that much is certain. What do you want? Do you just want to live? Do you want to make a play for controlling it all yourself? Or would you just like to see the end of the cabal and Duwalon and the others go back to running an honest business in shipbuilding here?”
“I…” Yarruis’ resolve hardens for just a moment. “I make the rules here, this is my industrium, you don’t tell me what to do.”
“I’m not telling you,” Luis says. “I’m asking. You’re at risk right now, but there’s a few ways it could go. If you had your way, would you want to run this industrium honestly, or do you want to be what Baroness Voath has had and try to run this planet, or do you just want to make sure you live through the next few weeks as it falls apart?”
Yarruis stares at Luis, stares at Swims-the-Black, and slumps to lean against his expensive marble desk. “I...I just want to get out of all of this mess alive. Voath’s cleaning house, and I’m next.” He sighs and looks at a small model on a table next to his window. “I used to make things here. Voath said that if I worked with her, we would take control of the market and I could make whatever I wanted, but...it’s been a long time since I sat at my cogitator and built something.”
“She’s not going to be a factor very long,” Luis says. “There’s forces at work she’s not prepared for, and the cabal’s going to fall. If you just want to live, we can possibly assist with seeing to your security. But if you want to make things here, there may be options for that after the Ibash’i cabal, once the housecleaning is over. Are you interested?”
Yarruis scoffs. “You and what army?” Swims-the-Black looks at Luis and raises an eyebrow.
“Do you mind if I make my own check if this room is secure?” Luis asks.
Yarruis opens his mouth, but Swims-the-Black barks at him to shut him up. ”Do it,” Swims grunts. Luis checks the room with his own gear, ensuring it can be secured, including the door - if necessary shooing off the receptionist.

(Luis Tech: 2d10+1d8 vs. 3d8 = 8 vs. 2, 6,

It takes several minutes of careful searching to be satisfied with the room. One is larger, about the size of a pack of gum, only made less apparent by being secreted inside the lining of one of the chairs arranged in a corner, just beyond a half-hearted rip where Yarrius looks like he was searching the room himself. The second turns out to be hidden inside his cogitator’s case. The third, barely the size of a grain of rice, Luis barely catches a sniff of, slid against the inside of the shade of his desk lamp. He destroys all three, and then turns back to Yarrius.

“So, you asked what army. There’s actually two of them she may not be aware of. The first is the Throne. The second is us,” Luis says. “The 815 are on Ibash.”
Yarruis starts to raise the pantaki in his hand, but Swims-the-Black beats him to it. ”Let’s calm down,” he grunts past the sights of his own sidearm.
Yarruis slowly puts the pistol down on his desk, and Swims lowers his own to a low-ready stance. “So. You’re here to...what, destroy Ibash? And you want my help, or...are offering some kind of mercy?”
“We’re here to destroy the cabal,” Luis says. “Voath’s arrangement was corrupt, and needed to be brought down. Quaj, as well, and Toa...we even underestimated how unstable he was. We’re not here to destroy Ibash. Just to clean it up. The same reason the Throne is here. With me so far?”
“Yes,” Yarruis says.
“I was being honest with you--I want to know what you want to do now. The Throne will see to cleaning things up here, very soon. When it’s over, Ibash will need to run properly again--real competition, people really building things. We want to see that too. They don’t think you were involved in instigating much of the worst of things here. Is there anything other than the gang?”
“...what gang -” Yarruis stops. “Oh. No, nothing other than that. I swore off games after that.”
Luis raises an eyebrow at Swims, encouraging him to step in, which Yarruis does not appreciate. Swims doesn’t even need to say anything as he looms closer to Yarruis. “I - so I lost a few bets! And they...they tried to squeeze me for payment, they tried to squeeze me with the Baroness! So I told the mercenaries to make it go away!”
“Were you happy with the results?” Luis asks.
“I mean...the problem went away,” Yarruis says sheepishly.
“Did having them killed make you happy?” Luis asks.
Yarruis pauses again. “It made the problem go away.”
Luis pauses, chasing a train of thought of his own. “Toa was a problem, and so was Teon. I regret what happened to her, though. In part, we’re here because we’d like to see fewer people dead in the endgame here. That’s part of why I need to know if you really meant it to happen like that, if you regret it, and if you’d do the same thing again.”
Yarruis goes quiet. “Yes, I meant for that to happen. Vidas Lam, you’d have to be an idiot to not know what I was asking for. I was scared, and I took the opportunity to make the issue go away. I didn’t like it.”
Luis looks him in the eye for a moment. “All right, so here’s the options. If all you want is your own safety, we offer help with that, a safehouse here or someplace else. On the other hand, I would like to think that what Ibash could use, once the cabal is broken, is companies led by people interested in building the best ships and selling them, not on flexing personal power. If you’re interested, we see about helping you cover yourself from the Throne, they already believe much of your involvement with the cabal was out of necessity. I’m not saying you’ll be running things here, that’s not what we’re here for. Just that Duwalon, and you, will have a chance.”
“In exchange, I…work with your rebellion, I imagine?” Yarruis says, and crosses his arms. “Tell me the whole deal.”
“Yes, we’d like to have the chance to consult with you, and there are some things we might need to have built occasionally,” Luis says. “Small fabrication, or ships.”
“And if I refuse?” Yarruis asks.
“It depends what you want to do,” Luis says. “If you’d rather see to your own safety, get out of the cabal, we don’t have a problem. Telling the Throne we talked to you isn’t much better for you than for us. It might be worse for you, really. They already know we’re here. It’d just bring them down on you worse. If you think you’d like to tell Voath and back her up when the Throne comes down...well, that’s likely to end poorly.”
“And if I back out of this...deal?” Yarruis asks.
“It depends,” Luis says. “Mostly, if you’d just rather not work with us down the line...frankly, an honest Duwalon and Ibash that the Throne knows we helped clean up is useful to us, too. If you go to the Throne and sell us out...that could be as bad for you then as it would be now, in terms of what you’d get from them. If you go out of your way to make things bad for us, then we would have a problem.”
“A problem,” Yarruis says. “And if I cooperate...I go back to running an industrium, just doing the occasional favor and production run for your little group.”
“Right,” Luis says.
“I suppose it would be foolish of me not to accept - on one condition,” Yarruis says. “If you start demanding things that are going to get me killed...or worse, I back out. You don’t come after me, I don’t go to the Turai.”
“Agreed,” Luis says.
“Then we have an accord,” Yarruis says. “So...I should stay put and keep my head down, then?”
“You might want to be hard to find for a little while,” Luis says.
“That, I can do,” Yarruis replies, and turns back to his desk to start gathering things up before looking back over his shoulder at Luis. “And...I suppose you will be in touch?”
“Yes,” Luis says. Yarrius turns back to his desk. Luis nods to Swims, and goes to leave.

”Do you think he will do what he says?” Swims asks as they walk back to the lift.
“I hope so,” Luis says. “I think it’s been a while since he’s had a good reason to try anything risky and stick his neck out. We’ll see what his instincts say.”
"He might be more influenced by circumstances, although I learned long ago not to trust the motivations of industrium heads," Swims replies. "I will say this - that is one difference between you and Garrett."
“Yeah?” Luis asks.
"Yes." Swims nods. "Garrett would have said he expects him to betray us the first chance he gets - but made the deal anyway."
Luis shrugs. “If he does, we’ll just have to deal with it. I hope he won’t.”

Aikoro

Hoim nods and connects to Telosa to let her know the good news. “Team 2, Team 1 is heading in to make contact.”
“Contact, or…contact?” Telosa asks.
Hoim looks over to FTE, who’s already jogging over towards the doorway. “...I’ll let you know,” she says, and disconnects to follow behind FTE.

Technically, the giant hovering mechanical maw is moving if slowly, just enough that it twigs FTE’s internal accelerometers as it climbs aboard.
“Let’s see if we get shot at,” Vama says, and waves his hand in front of the ident panel for the hatchway. A moment later, it lights up green and the doorway slides open.

FTE walks into the harvester’s interior like it owns the place, because it plans to soon enough. “Hoim, let’s get to a hardwired access point. We need to know how they can stop us and we need to get control of what we’ll need to prevent that. Security doors, remote overrides, reactor controls, all that stuff. Plus how much opposition and where it’s concentrated.”
“We’ll need to find a control node,” Vama says, closing the hatch behind them. “Little alcove, cogitator we can access. Should be one in each section, they’re how each part of this thing talks to each other.”
“Any way to find where the nearest one is?” Hoim asks.
“Usually in the middle, it’s going to be in the access hallways and not hidden behind a bunch of bulkheads because it’s part of the regular maintenance tour,” Vama replies.
“Okay, so let’s get on patrol and find it,” Hoim says.

(Hoim Blend: 2d8 vs. 1d6 = 8 vs. 1)
(Vama Blend: 2d8 vs. 1d6 = 6 vs. 3)
(FTE Blend: 1d8 vs. 1d6 = 4 vs. 6)

There’s a fair bit of wandering about involved - the grimy and dust-coated corridors of a giant forest-eating machine all look alike - but the trin finally finds their way into what looks like the main maintenance corridor of the crawler section. At least into a more well-traveled section, with wider hallways, paths for monotasks and flatbed skimmers, and a few maintenance techs and Turai doing their rounds.

One trin looks over as FTE cranes its head around, trying to figure out where in the fuck they’re supposed to be going. “You lost, Turai?” the Rav-Samal asks.

FTE’s head snaps to the Rav-Samal. “No, Rav-Samal. Well, yes, to be honest, just for a moment there. We’re right where we need to be, though.”

(FTE Talk: 2d8 vs. 1d6 = 5 vs. 1)

The Rav-Samal nods. “Good to hear it, Turai.” He looks back to his trin. “All right, inventory for...segment 3-8. Let’s get moving so we’re out of here before the sun sets.” The other Turai trin walks off down the corridor.
Vama watches them go, and then lets out a held breath. “That was less than fun.”
Hoim nods to FTE. “Good job.”
The Sheen nods back. “Thanks. Let’s get to that control node.” They pace down the hallway opposite the retreating trin. FTE keeps its sensors primed for suitable alcoves but doesn’t move its head any more than the minimum. Better to pass the control node and backtrack than to look out of place.

It doesn’t take long - one more corner rounded and there it is - a room that looks right out of a Narsai’i movie circa 1970s, back when they thought computers ran on plastic tape coated in powdered magnets and had physical switches in them. How cute. Still, the aesthetic is identical - a big transparent wall (plastic here) with an airlock segregates the control node from the dust and particulate-filled air inside the giant machine what grinds up rocks and trees and stuff, and inside white metal tiles on the floor and white walls contain a bank of cogitators, all connected with neatly organized cable traces running up the walls, the fiber-thin conduits beaming light between the systems to coordinate the inner workings of the vast machinery contained in just this section of the harvester.

Hoim slides a gatecrasher off her belt and jacks it into the panel securing the airlock door.

(Hoim Hack: 2d10+1d8 (Gatecrasher) vs. 1d8 = 6 vs. 4)

A moment later, the tool gives a silent flash of green and the door slides open, letting the trin inside.

(Vama Tech: 2d10+1d8 vs. 1d8 = 2 vs. 1)

“Vidas Lam, who cabled this disaster,” Vama says as he takes the room in. It takes Vama a moment to parse the cable runs, but a minute later, he points to one of the cogitators against the back wall. “That’s the one.”

“Damn, this is sexy,” FTE exclaims. “Like… like…” it stops as pristine archaic tech blurs with Narsai’i pop culture and Sheen philosophy that simply can’t be expressed quickly. “Right, nevermind.” It approaches the cogitator that Vama pointed out, fingers splaying and shifting into interface jacks. “Whisper your secrets to me.”

(FTE Hack: 2d12+1d10 vs. 2d8 = 9 vs.

Interfaces snake into a couple ports on the cogitator’s polished front and….ew. The aesthetically pleasing room must have been an accident because the inside of this system is a nightmare of beige file system pathways leading to beige directories containing beige systems doing beige functions. FTE reaches out for a directory function and even that is beige on beige tones, just distinguishable enough to be legible. Aaaaaand the output is useless. FTE turns around to just cruise the file system, but all the different execution lanes look the same, doing the same functions. Somewhere in here is the information it needs, but who fucking knows where it is or what it looks like. Beige, probably.

Still, FTE digs a little deeper and spots one optical lane pulsing slightly more often than the others in the hardware layer. It follows it and...there we go. Segregated off by itself in its own little beige world are the main C&C functions for the whole segment of the harvester. Links head out from there to the security systems, to the SCADA controls for the harvester segment, the doors, even the lights. There’s one link that’s not beige - holy shitballs glorious colors - but the security on it is pretty damn tight.

“Vama, I’m sending you a trace for this layer,” Front Toward Enemy says. “It’s… not easy to find without whatever middleware the Imps use. And if they’re not, I almost feel sorry for them. Almost. If I can get through this security, we’ll have this big beast by the balls, so are you ready?”

Hoim checks her mission timer in her helm and nods. “Make it quick, but go for it.”
Vama slides up next to FTE’s shell and finds an interface for his suit’s vox, his functions appearing in the directory next to FTE. “Yeah, I’m in and...that’s a very interesting looking link you’ve found there.”

“Rainbows and razor wire,” FTE mutters back. Its digital consciousness unsheathes a fractal wheel of finer and finer lockpicks and scalpels, able to find a crack in the most unbroken secure edifice. The Sheen chooses one, the beige surroundings reflected in its unreal chrome manipulator, and sets to work.

(FTE Hack: 2d12+1d10 vs. 2d10 = 10 vs. 9)
(Vama Hack: 2d10+1d8 vs. 2d10 = 7 vs. 9)

FTE and Vama lean in, their presences unfolding into dozens of appendages, all poking, prodding, and twisting at the gateway, trying to find the weak spot in its ever-shifting facade that would allow them to crack it open.
There’s a spark from one of Vama’s chrome tentacles as it probes a port that closes on contact. “Fuck,” he curses. FTE shifts a momentary glance from its attention to Vama, and sees that not only has the appendage burnt out at the tip, the corruption is spreading.

“Bail and burn it,” FTE counsels Vama. “It doesn’t know about me yet, it’s gonna stay contained to your throwaway. I’m almost in.” To the room he whispers, “Keep your guns close, gang.”
Vama whips another appendage and slashes the tentacle clean off. It withers and dissolves into digital dust on the floor as he leans back in. “Nothing doing. Let’s crack this thing.”
“Fuck yeah,” FTE grins.

(FTE Hack: 9 vs. 9)
(Vama Hack: 6 vs. 10)

This time a little fireworks show of sparks erupts from both digital presences, and four more limbs lie on the floor.
“Shit.” The grin disappears as quickly as it came.
“Running a little low on time here,” Hoim cautions from the door as she watches the hallway.
Front Toward Enemy literally grinds its gears, mechanized frustration made manifest. “When we’re in we’ll have all the time we’ll need.”

(FTE Hack: 10 vs. 5)
(Vama Hack: 4+5 vs. 10, hey Wild Dice remember those)

Vama leans back in, but missteps have caused the gateway’s ever-shifting security to accelerate to practically a blur of miniscule openings blinking in and out of existence, sparkling with furious intensity. He tries to time his entry, but Vama ends up a microsecond or two off, and this time gets blown clear out of the system, his digital presence vanishing in a puff of dust.

It feels a twinge of guilt, using Vama’s mistakes and the gateway’s response to its advantage, but Front Toward Enemy knows the hacker’s only human. When the security boots Vama, FTE darts through that microsecond pause, twisting and contorting in ways impossible for meat to conceptualize. It’s inside, away from the beige at last, and rocketing down the link - optical, then a modem, then wireless, then another modem, and then back into optical. Wherever this is going, it’s not on the harvester anymore. A few ticks of a quantum processor later, FTE lands in...whatever system is on the other end of that link.

A quick pulse to map the cogitator’s system - immediate surroundings are all about that harvester, makes sense, but further out there’s controls for doors and sconces and...hot tubs and a room-sized retina-grade holodisplay? Unless the crews working the harvester have some of the best off-duty perks in the galaxy, there’s no way this is owned by the harvester crew. A quick hop down and up the directories over to the door system includes the logs for the ident scanners - and there’s an awful lot of Steward Olona all over these logs. BDRM? BTRM? THTR? POOL? Those are not door idents you find in an office hab, or even worker quarters. FTE hits the only conclusion right away - he’s in the cogitators for Olona’s ostentatious new palace.

“Oh shit oh shit oh shit,” FTE barely makes a sound yet the words fill the space, it’s so excited. “I am so in. Hey Siri, is Olona home right now?” A quick flip through the entry logs shows that Olona is not, in fact, at his palace. But when he is…

FTE runs through the palace’s backend, making a compact little sabotage nugget to pass off to the Bashakrai’i. Plan B complete, it turns to its primary objective - linking the already-linked systems with just a few additional events and commands. When Olona’s ostentatious smart palace registers his presence, it’ll lock the Steward inside and trigger the harvester to beeline for it and render the whole tacky ziggurat into its component atoms.

And immediately after finishing the final commit and compile, Olona’s ident code flashes on the roof skimmer pad entrance. The harvester segment suddenly lurches to the right, and the electric hum of the massive impellers underneath warms up to full power.
“Uh, what did you do?” Hoim asks.
“I locked Olona inside his house and now this thing is going to eat him,” FTE replies. “Didn’t think we’d be inside when it popped off, but hey, front row seats.” It doublechecks its team’s faux ident codes inside the security database and queries the status of the internal security systems as well as any official personnel who are in a suitable location and could be framed for the breach. “We’ll announce a security breach and control the narrative, I’m looking for some saps we can have the onboard Turai kill off.”

Before that can happen, though, two things happen, one in realspace and the other in dataspace. In the dataspace, the palace systems suddenly light up with a half-dozen users bursting into the system, all of them chopping away at the joins FTE’s commands have set up in the system, trying desperately to undo its work. In realspace, the general alarm sounds in the harvester, and commands to get to shelter, evacuate, and stop the harvester all sound simultaneously.
“Hey!” a Turai shouts from the other side of the airlock. “What the fuck are you doing in there!”

(Hoim Talk: 2d8 vs. 1d8 = 5 vs. 5)

“We’re trying to unfuck this situation, what does it look like?” Hoim shouts back.
“Looks like you could use all the help you can get!” the Turai shouts back. “I’m coming in, I know the systems here!”

“Just one?” FTE asks. “Let them in and do ‘em. We’ve got our patsy.”
“The rest of my trin is on the way, they’ll be here any moment,” the Turai says as the airlock blows them clear of dust.
The machine would roll its eyes at that news if it had that capability. Front Toward Enemy voxes Hoim and Vama - no voice, just text: **Let all three get in here before we drop them.**
“I’m trying to pull a location on everyone, can you help with that?” FTE turns to the oh-so-helpful Turai.
“Yeah, sure,” the Turai says, and hustles over to FTE.
**Leave the helms alone, we can use them,** Hoim messages back.
**All right, in the neck then,** FTE replies. **Follow my lead.** The other two Turai would be there soon, and they’d need to take them all down simultaneously.

The poor helpful Turai comes in and beelines for a terminal up against the wall. “First things first, gotta see where this hulk is going.”
“Right,” FTE replies, diving back into the dataspace. They’d know where the harvester was headed before too long, but there was no reason to spoil the surprise this early. Front Toward Enemy layers bogus location data in front of the Turai like breadcrumbs. It didn’t have to work forever, it just had to work until the others showed up. And if it didn’t, well, they’d just kill the guy.

(FTE Tech: 2d12+1d10 vs. 2d8 = 8 vs.

It’s a damn good thing this Turai doesn’t know exactly what to look for, because by the time FTE is in and setting up the ruse - even by Sheen speeds - the Turai is already halfway towards blasting through the basic obfuscations FTE had set up. Still, it’s able to lay down the railroad tracks just in front of the tech-savvy Turai, and redirect him right into a loop.

“Fucking clever little spink, aren’t you,” the Turai mumbles to himself.
“We’re here!” another Turai shouts from outside, the two cramming themselves into the airlock representing the rest of the helpful Turai’s trin. “Where do you need us?”
“One of you with me, the other with him!” Hoim shouts back, pretending to waggle her way through dataspace while really readying the sword at her hip.

FTE nods. The Turai thought it was a technical problem. It was time to reveal that it was actually a stabbing problem.

(Initiative for Ambush: Vama = 5, Hoim = 4, FTE = 2)
(Vama Fight: 2d6 vs. 1d4 = 5 vs. 4)
(Vama Damage: 2d8 vs. 1d8 = 7 vs. 3, That’s a gusher)
(Hoim Fight: 1d8+1d6 vs. 1d4 = 7 vs. 2)
(Hoim Damage: 2d8 vs. 1d8 = 8 vs. 5, Extremely dead)
(FTE Fight: 1d6+1d10 vs. 1d4 = 3 vs. 2)
(FTE Damage: 2d8 vs. 1d8 = 3 vs. 2)
(FTE Wild Die: 1d6 = 1, 1d6 = 2, 1d6 = 5 there we go)

Vama didn’t even wait for the Turai to walk up next to him - with a quick pivot on his heels, his sword was in his hand, his other hand on the Turai’s shoulder, and the blade buried halfway into her body, straight up through the ribcage and into the heart. Quick, clean, precise; didn’t even have time to shout before her head sags to her chest from all the blood rushing onto the floor through her armor.
Hoim’s Turai was already connected into his station, and so it was an easy job for her to draw her sword, brace it one handed, and shove it straight through the Turai’s neck at the base of the helm. The flat razor-sharp - actually, the “blade so sharp razors wish they were as sharp” went straight through the thin skinsuit protection and out the other side, leaving his head neatly decapitated and balanced on the flat of the sword as the rest of his body hit the floor below.
FTE’s attempt was...less clean. Its target was midway through turning around to direct the rest of his trin to their tasks when the stabbing started, and so FTE only had time to grab his shoulder, extend the blade from its arm, and shove it into where it hoped the squishy meat organs were. His voice cut off, but the Turai still tried to struggle out of FTE’s grasp, so out the blade came and was shoved back in another slot. Pretty sure that’s where the blood-pumpy-thing is? No, now there’s gargling sounds, must be the air-sacks-thing. One more try? Another gargled groan of pain, and finally a lot more blood runs out around FTE’s blade and the Turai finally goes limp. That’s the right spot.

“Are you dead now?” Front Toward Enemy asks the Turai. No answer. Its blade retracts and it removes the dead man’s helmet, passing it to Hoim. “You’ll have to show me how you balance heads on your sword after this is over,” it says to her. “Is that so you can look them in the eyes and say a cool one-liner while they can still hear you?”
“Goes in straight, cuts right through the skinsuit,” Hoim says. She leaves out the part where she tilts the sword back and the head rolls neatly off it into her off hand. Vama rolls the remaining helm to her feet, and with a quick swipe of her hand over all three, FTE can hear her pull the vox ident codes from each helm.

(Hoim Hack: 2d10 vs. 1d8 = 9 vs. 4)

A quick dive into the dataspace later, Hoim resurfaces just in time for the alarms to go off. “Take your favorite ident and trash the systems,” she says, swiping one to Vama and one to FTE.

The Sheen nods, then slots back into virtual and rips out all the brake lines. Actual authorized permissions make it easy even for a human. FTE has no problem ensuring nothing short of siege weaponry would stop the harvester from its lethal appointment with the Steward.
It's impressive the damage that three experienced hackers can do to a system when they have physical access and don't care about getting caught. Backup systems shred control systems and are blockaded by the backup's backups digital corpses thrown on the pile. The gargantuan crawler/processor is locked onto its course and nothing is stopping it now.

"Hey, did you happen to send the processor to devour the entire palace and Turai barracks?" Telosa asks over the team's dedicated vox channel. "Because we're being ordered to help evac personnel from the palace and no one can find Olona."
"We might have done that," Hoim replies.
"Well, we either need backup or evac or both," Telosa says. "Because we can't slip away and...there's a lot of civilians here that shouldn't get ground into nanoforge mats."
“Then they should definitely run away starting 10 minutes ago,” Front Toward Enemy sends. “The Steward’s locked inside the roof checkpoint. What’s the skimmer situation down there?”
“We got swept up into evacing civilians onto skimmers and it sounds like they’re expecting us to go with them into the middle of the Turai base,” Telosa replies. “So, sooner rather than later for pickup would be pretty good.”
“You’re damn right,” Front Toward Enemy sends back, a note of worry in its tone. “The harvester isn’t stopping with the palace. That base is next - it was too easy an opportunity to pass up.”
"You did what -" Telosa hisses.
"Just hang tight," Hoim replies. "You can't know that it's headed to the base, so just...play along for the moment, we're on our way."
“We sure are,” FTE says off-comms. “One way or the other.”

The Sheen turns to Hoim. “Those helmets we saved - can we make it look like actual Turai discovered the harvester’s path and warn the base using their creds? Get them evacuating civilians off base and into the town, or hell, just not the last two places they’ve been? If that’ll work, Telosa’s team can ditch their armor and ride along as civvies. Then we need to bail.”
"Sure, just one problem with that," Hoim says.
Vama holds up his corpse. "Two ladies."

FTE looks over the corpses, its shell subtly shifting its proportions to account for the difference between its old body type and the form it was now trying to emulate. “Three ladies, none of whom are ‘alive’ by human standards,” it jokes. Then it pops out its multitool and interfaces with one of the dead warriors’ voxes. “I’m looking for her audio logs, anything I can use to build a profile. Then-” it moves its other hand under its “chin”, where ports dilate and fingers splay into connectors “- I’m going to voice modulate a copy as best I can.”

A moment later, FTE hops on the Turai tactical channel. “This is...Turai Hite down in the control node for 3-8. We’ve eliminated the intrusion attempt here, but we’re locked out of the system. I’m sending up the travel path and it doesn’t look good. Recommend evacuating the palace and barracks as soon as possible.”
Hoim and Vama look a little disturbed at the ease at which FTE has shifted into the new disguise. “Turai Hite, confirm the path and ETA,” a woman replies over the net, her clipped tone and the fact that the net went silent at her voice communicating just how senior she is.
“Confirming coordinates and projected timeline,” ‘Turai Hite’ replies. It doesn’t send the actual data, opting instead to send something close enough to withstand observation but altered enough to throw off strike packages computed with it.

“Go,” FTE says to Hoim. “We need to go. Now. I think I’ve fucked with them as much as I can.”
Hoim nods. “We’ll have to figure out where the skimmers are.”
“Right,” the Sheen replies, turning back to its network access before stopping suddenly. “Or… I hack the harvester’s drone complement to pull off something that won’t make sense to you until you see Lord of the Rings. Skimmer bays are probably crawling with actual Turai anyhow.”

Front Toward Enemy scans for the ancillary drones, looking for models with impellers powerful enough to carry it and its team right off the harvester. There’s a bay 50 meters down the hall to the right, in the middle of this segment of the harvester.
“Sheen, you’re not going to have us do what I think you’re going to do, are you?” Hoim asks.
FTE gives Hoim a sheepish shrug, as if you say ‘you got me’. “Drone bay’s ahead on the right. Find one that looks big enough to carry you, climb on, and think wonderful thoughts.”

The Sheen starts layering simulations - how many drones can it directly control, how many can carry people, are their charge levels enough to get civilians to safety when over capacity - it trusts its team to provide cover as they move towards the bay. They’d need to trust it in a few moments. A quick query of Imperial sconces and some juggled guesstimates puts the number of drones FTE needs to get all the remaining civilians to safety comfortably before the harvester shows up to mulch the steward’s gaudy palace is 10 - just enough that FTE could harness them together into a few groups and fly them itself, but definitely more than any meatbag could handle, even with an internal vox.

“Yeah, this’ll do. Hop on everyone, I’ll calibrate them for your mass and then we’re getting out of here ASAP.” Front Toward Enemy relays the flight plan across the most suitable drones, doublechecks it against the harvester’s position, and grabs onto his own drone. The shell locks into place as FTE’s consciousness relinquishes nonvital subsystems in favor of coordinating its new flock. “Wild Blue Ponder would’ve been better at this part - hell, even Gunny would be better for this,” it tells itself, then, out loud: “All right! Prepare for takeoff!”
Hoim and Vama reluctantly click their rappelling lines into their drones. “Ready!” Hoim replies.
FTE doesn’t waste the cycles searching for another pop culture reference, it just voxes “go” to its team - even its vocoder’s shut down to funnel processing to vital systems - and initiates the hack.