Cling
Cling
Cling
"Attention, please!" a middle-aged man in a suit said, just loud enough for the whole crowd to hear.
"I am happy to introduce the woman of the hour: Queloris Yarvenak!" he said as a woman walked out behind him.
Well, it was not entirely accurate to say a woman—we all knew who she was. We had all seen her at the public introduction through the civilizational governor just half an hour ago, after all. From her perspective, this must have seemed like the mandatory pleasantry with the rich and powerful—a chore rather than something to look forward to.
Clap
Clap
Clap
Clap
"Pleased to meet you," she said in a friendly tone, to no one in particular.
As the main star of this whole event, it did not take long before she was surrounded by all sorts of people enthusiastically starting conversations. If there's one thing these people are good at, it's building relationships—especially when they have something to gain.
"So, you were saying?" my father asked the woman sitting on the other side of our table.
"I have won the bid on three Zephyrite mines on the outer edges," the older woman started to explain slowly.
"And?" my father said, completely indifferent. I was sure this was just a negotiation strategy, though.
"Hehehe... a little patience, Xirion. As you know, mining rights are not cheap, so I am a bit short on cash," she said.
"I'm thinking, I take care of the infrastructure, a friend of mine will buy the slaves..." she began.
"And that we are going to supply the ships?" my father said. It was a logical conclusion—Vril'okai is one of our race's 'shipyards,' after all.
"Yes, and the mining equipment. Interested?" the woman replied, unbothered.
"I am inclined, but that depends, of course," my father answered.
"15%."
All she received in return was a gentle smile from my father. If I had to guess the prices, then a fair distribution would maybe look something like 60/25/15.
Even with our share at 25%, ships are far more expensive than slaves, after all. A few percent could maybe be haggled down with her taking on all the management, but 15% was optimistic on her part, for sure.
The silence from my father seemed to unsettle her, as she made another offer unprompted.
"What do you think about 17.5%?" she asked.
"I think it's too low, but at least not as disrespectful. Will I be responsible for sales as well?"
"Not if you don't want to. To come back to the money... I really am a bit tight. Can you do 18%?" she asked.
"If you are so worried about the short term, I can lend you some. Alternatively, we could settle on a tiered system: 18% now, and then a percent per year until we hit 27%," my father offered.
"27%?! Why don't you just rob me?" she said, clearly faking her agitation.
"Elrin, how many ships did we take again? Should we just rob her?" my father asked, clearly amused.
"We have 250 combat-ready ships with us," I said, not bothering to answer whether we should rob her.
"I'll do the tiered system, but not more than 24%, and while we're at it, starting at 15%."
"18% to 25%," my father countered instantly.
"You're killing me, Xirion..." she said, pausing to think for a moment.
"16% to 25%. Come on, you know that Zephyrite mines will last for at least 30 years. If we're not unlucky, this will still make your grandchildren money."
Honor is a big part of our class culture. So much so that just with this verbal agreement, we would have justification for war with this woman if she ever started mining overly aggressively, trying to exhaust the mines in a few years to save on our cut.
"Fine, 16% to 25%. When do you plan to start mining? Or rather, when do you need the first ships?"
"You should have plenty of time. The operations will start in three months at the soonest—likely more in the neighborhood of four to five months, depending on how the other preparations go," she explained.
And just like that, he was back to nodding again, having casually made a deal that would earn us more than thousands, or even tens of thousands, of Eozarithians would in a lifetime.
"You're finally done. Took you long enough..." came the opinion from another person seated at the same table.
"Yeah, you think you're the only one that has some business?" another one said, though both of them were clearly joking. If I had to guess, I would say they knew each other better than they let on.
Our new business partner took it with humor as well, casually laughing it off.
This meeting was a rare opportunity—one of the few where the majority of the rich and powerful gathered and had the chance to discuss all kinds of matters.
Deals were struck, conflicts settled, and allies gained. An overwhelmingly positive event—nobody would want to cause trouble at what could well be considered a civilizational holiday, after all, so those who had only negative things to say just kept their mouths shut.
...
Three days later
"Xirion, take another one!" an overenthusiastic burly man said to my father as he handed over the 15th drink of the night. Interestingly enough, he was missing parts of two of his fingers, which was odd for a man of his rank.
"Here's one for you too, Elrin!" the man said in his usual loud voice as he slid the crystal glass over the table toward me with his other hand, which was also missing half a finger.
This was one of my father's oldest friends—and, of course, a Rank 9 Crowned. They rarely had the chance to meet, as this friend lived on the prison world Ceengel, solely responsible for all those prisoners unfit to be sold into slavery. A world that would not appear on any starmap, completely hidden.
This usually meant supers, traitors, and those with sensitive information in their minds—in addition, of course, to those who would rather be locked up with the other three kinds than be sold as slaves.
He was the keeper of the Republic's most dangerous individuals, as well as the supplier for the biological research division.
But back to the problem at hand—he was also way too resistant to alcohol. I was lucky compared to my father, only having to drink with him nine times, but even that was too much for me.
I could only think of one solution. Forgive me, Father.
Thud
I let my head fall onto the table, pretending to pass out.
"Hahahaha... look at your son, no resistance," my father's friend said proudly.
"Yeah, the youth of..."
Hic
"...today," my father answered.
As my head lay on the table, I wondered how long this would—or even could—go on. Meetings for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. An absolute mountain of food each time, with alcohol more often than I would have preferred.
I just yearned to feel even a little bit hungry again, though that would likely take a few days. Or even to feel sober again. But most of all, I yearned for the peace, quiet, and predictability of Greenharbour.
But my thoughts were quickly interrupted as my father spoke again. I might have just imagined it, but I could swear he sounded less drunk.
"So how'd you become a damn cripple?" he asked.
"Hmm... do you remember The Sunshine Butcher?"
"Yes. I don't think you can find an Eozarithian who doesn't..." my father answered calmly.
That was true. The Sunshine Massacre was the most tragic terrorist attack in our species' history. This so-called Sunshine Butcher was a pirate—an A-Grade Super—who made his way into our territory, slaughtering and pillaging through dozens of worlds.
This culminated in the total extermination of a core world, nicknamed Sunshine. Three billion deaths—an absolute tragedy and failure on the part of our civilization's governor and military leadership at the time.
"At the time, it was publicized that he was ambushed and killed by three of our own Grade-A Supers. That was a lie."
"That they killed him, that is," he clarified.
Sip
The revelation did not surprise me at all. Our civilization had a habit of using prisoners as experimental material, after all.
"So, how'd you lose the fingers? Are you trying to tell me an A-Grade did that?" my father asked in disbelief. His friend might have been muscular, but he was not a Super. Or in other words, an attack from an A-Grade Super obviously wouldn't just take off a few fingers.
"No, he didn't. He's still sedated in the deepest parts of Ceengel," he answered calmly.
"But let's just say, he's not a pirate—and we learned that the hard way when his partners attacked Ceengel."
"That bastard himself is a Psycher. We couldn't crack his mind, and you can honestly forget about torture too, with these kinds."
"Their attempt to free him failed, revealing themselves to be expendable pawns of the Elmkin Association."
"...That doesn't sound good..." my father said, almost ironically.
Sip
"Yeah."
"So you didn't visit the last few years..." my father asked.
"Because we had to find out how they found the prison. And most importantly, we had to move the prison out of Ceengel," he explained.
"And?"
"What else? It was that damn bastard. Our own Psychers couldn't figure out the exact technique he used, especially because he should have been unconscious the whole time."
"Good news is, he's taken off my hands now," he said.
I, for one—still heavily intoxicated—was growing tired of listening in on their conversation. Just what I wanted to hear about before going to sleep: a genocidal, state-sponsored demi-god who nearly escaped imprisonment, presumably to exterminate all life on a few more planets.
With that said—good night. I wish myself a restful sleep...