In the depths of E3 Sector, Jela was locked in a heated argument with a bald, hard-eyed superior.
"This is insanity! The training period was already criminally short, and now you're cutting it further? You're sending them to die!"
The old man's voice brooked no argument. "They knew the risks when they signed up. This mining operation must proceed—our last few resource runs were disastrous. We've finally located a massive glacial deposit on Planet V42-52. If we miss this window, who knows when we'll find another? The original plan to resupply at Belock Star is dead."
"That planet's atmosphere scrambles 60% of our scans! We're blind to what's down there. Rushing in—"
"Enough. Combat Division is providing elite escorts. Your job is execution, not debate."
A uniformed aide hurried over with a datapad. "The conscripts have arrived at the hangar. Deployment protocol: Three-person teams—two veterans, one rookie. Total 300 squads. Three mega-class resource ships, ten large-class. Escort detail includes 120 mechs: 100 Mark I lights, 17 Mark II heavies, and 3 Mark III high-output units."
"Good. Stronger than last time," the old man grunted.
Qianlong stood in the cavernous E3 hangar, staring up at an 800-meter-long "Reaver" resource ship. Stripped of non-essentials, its hull was plated with alloy armor, studded with 120 robotic mining arms. Four T-type fusion engines could haul 400,000 tons—though today's target, a 6,100-square-meter iceberg, would push that limit.
"Quit gawking, kid."
He turned to see his new team:
-Aina, a golden-haired woman in a gray tank top, cigarette dangling from her lips.
-Jones, a disheveled drunk reeking of alcohol.
"Our shiny new burden," Jones yawned.
"Shut it, Jones." Aina sized up Qianlong. "Not thrilled to babysit, but stick close and you might survive."
"Understood." Qianlong didn't take offense. To them, he was dead weight.
As they boarded their assigned "Fat Fish" Reaver, a grinning pilot intercepted them.
"Aina! Fancy meeting—"
"Quark. Shouldn't you be prepping for launch?"
"Come on, have a drink post-mission!"
"Pass."
Jones chuckled. "Give up, Quark. Unless you want your balls crushed."
The pilot's smile faltered as he noticed Qianlong. "A rookie? Godspeed."
Before leaving, a mechanic named Camille swung down on a cable, her yellow cap askew.
"Be careful out there," she urged Aina. "Rumors say this run's hot."
"Since when aren't they?" Aina brushed past into the ship's hold.
Inside, two rows of Reaper Mechs stood locked in their cradles—24 in total, waiting to harvest or die.