“Never played Selk-Blades? Heh, don’t blame you, it’s an oldie but a goodie. Comes from back when Earth still had an atmosphere. Uses a mix of tokens and cards, mixed from old world games and the like. The main thing that separates it out from all the other games that emerged from that time is how despite starting with fewer pieces than say chess or xiangqi, far more are added very quickly as time goes on. People see the huge board at the start and are confused, but they quickly learn. Some individually weaker units, like the ‘King of Pentacles’ or the ‘Knight of Swords’ at the start can synergise together to outmanoeuvre the opponent, if played well. However, it’s the pieces that are either acquired through throughout the game or start weak but get better as more ground is taken – ‘The Emperor’, ‘The Magician, ‘The Hierophant’, ‘Justice’, ‘Death’, ‘The World’ – these major arcana tokens are where the real strategy of Selk-Blades lies. Except ‘The Fool’. He’s just overpowered, which is why you’ll never see that him allowed in competitive play. Fuck that piece. Absolute utter bullshit.” – Bennet Jesserit, gambler of the Titanlock ‘Snake Eyes’ casino, 2259. Recorded interview from ‘The Evolution of Vices’ article of ‘Titanlock Life’ Issue #889.

  Citra Vigino, head of the Greyalt clan, was wondering what her chances of survival would be if she ripped the head off the insipid crime lord in front of her. The dozens of guards surrounding the room would be challenging but she gave herself a decent chance, at least sixty percent, of at least clearing out the dingy building she found herself in the basement of. Leaving the colony of New Paris unscathed would be the main issue. Though the poorly lit room, buried in the heart of the colony’s slumtown region made for a poor hunting ground, the urge still brimmed within her.

  But unfortunately, she had to deal with Hal Dobermann, in all his boring glory, as well as the strange hacker self-dubbed as ‘Juno’ in order to sort out her obligations to Basilisk. She had been waiting for the well-dressed man, his features forgettable and plain, to finish scanning over the documents she had given him; details on her troop and ships numbers for the assault on Kral-Thul spread across numerous spreadsheets with subtle enough alterations from reality to pass by his investigative eye. However, whilst her mind should have been on the meeting, one she’d arranged in a rather impromptu fashion, Citra found herself daydreaming.

  She could already imagine herself deep in the heartland of her clan’s private reserve, crouched amidst the shrubbery and terraformed hills the previous clanlord had dedicated years to preparing and managing to create the perfect hunting environment. The itch to burn some xenos to dust was growing each day as the Symposium crept closer, and Citra knew she would have to take a hunting trip before the event to calm herself down. Ever since her last tour of Cambiar space, one that had given her plenty of trophies and captives, she had gotten a taste for the thrill of killing not just another human, but an alien being originating dozens of light years away. The adaptability and rational thinking of the Cambiar slaves made them extraordinary prey. During her first solo hunt featuring the xenos in the Greyalt hunting range had left her injured but overwhelmingly satisfied with the excitement of the chase.

  And now, Citra was certain that taking the life of her first Tylas would be something she would never forget. She was certain of it. Their beyond human durability and energy absorption made them near impervious to standard weaponry – bullets and most ranged projectiles would be ineffective, most melee weapons would be easily blocked and even explosives would have minimal effect. However, she had one of her personal hunt-maidens calculate that the tearing force of a powered exosuit or the raw energy of a Masslock Recoilless Rifle would be enough to put the jellyfish-like aliens down. Of course, hunting them en masse was currently unviable, a fact she had struggled to come to terms with initially, but Citra hoped that once Basilisk had succeeded, she would have a new form of prey to have some fun with.

  Unfortunately, the short term feeding of her habits was becoming unviable. The Jade Emperor, bless him, was already in a difficult enough situation with the civil war, and had recently put in place a decree to all the loyal clans to avoid antagonising the Cambiar affiliated with the Out-Han Alliance. Since their meteoric rise in power and size since the New Horizons incident, many of the scattered Cambiar nations had joined together under the loose banner of the group. As such, Citra was left with the dwindling stock of the quadrupedal freaks she already had. No matter, they would last some time still.

  Stifling a sigh at the thought of her dearest idol, she crossed her legs as Dobermann flipped to a new page. Ah, dear Yuan Xia. Her Emperor. One day he would recognise her efforts, all the blood and bullets she had spent to help him. And he was close to rewarding her, she was sure of it. Greyalt had attended a number of the Emperor’s official parades under the shared role of acting as the lord’s private guards alongside the Dragon Guard, and it would only be a little more time before Citra would be at his personal beck and call. A little more work, a small raid on the Tylas for new weapons and glory, and she would achieve her rightful place.

  Finally, Dobermann looked up and cleared his throat, the orange flecked irises of his done scanning the papers. He adjusted his tie and calmly placed the documents down on the table before them.

  “Thank you, Citra,” he said, cool as a cucumber. “I appreciate the forwardness of arranging this meeting, though having Doctrine warships landing on my private territory is a little rude. Perhaps a call in advance next time would suffice?”

  Damn it, his tone didn’t waver at all. She wanted him to be at least a little unnerved, like how that stupid cowboy had been when they first met. Fear was what made for good prey, and the dog in front of her would look very good with a much more terrified expression. Bark, you fucking dog.

  “Oh, dear Hal, I didn’t have any trouble finding you, so I thought I should just pop by,” Citra said, aloofly flicking her roughly hewn hair. “Is that so wrong? Surely you would hide yourself better if you didn’t want guests. That, and I must admit I was rather excited to see my fellow teammate’s stomping grounds. These men all yours?”

  “Indeed. Personally trained. All the men in this room are handpicked. Want to see them in action?”

  Citra smile split her face. Watching good combat was always fun, even in spite of the grimy environment she found herself in. With a nod to two of the men, Dobermann gave a few hand gestures as a small fighting ring was formed by the others. The two selected combatants, one a younger man with slim, ratty features and a much bulkier man with forearms marked with scars gave a quick nod before their dangerous dance began. Their attacks came quickly and with an emphasis on singular, powerful jabs.

  The heavier-set man was surprisingly quick for someone lacking major augmentations. Both men seemed to use movements and strikes from the same martial art style, though with different effort on the strength and speed of the attacks to account for their varying builds. Despite the weight difference, the slimmer man won by wearing the larger opponent down before using an arm lock. It was a surprising result to Citra; she would have bet a fortune on the larger man had the fight been part of the Doctrine’s Tournaments of Strength.

  In the end, she had to admit she was pleased with the skills of Dobermann’s men. Not quite as aggressive as her own warriors, but she assumed that most of these men were also trained in espionage and logistics. Had the skinny victor been one of her men, she would have given him a good rank. Shame about him being a man though, weak as they all were deep down. Weak as he had been.

  “Well, that was fun. But unfortunately, life isn’t all about playing with knives – we’ve actually got to get people where they need to be to use them. So, doggy, my ships gonna cut it?” Citra took the spreadsheets from the table and shuffled them back into her armour. She had hoped to get a rise out of Hal, but he appeared as unemotional as before.

  “I believe so. You have a suitable number of carrier ships for travel. There is always your Jaeger battleship, though I hope we won’t need it. Combined with what Mr Pike and the twins can provide, I finally feel confident this operation can proceed.”

  “Good, glad to hear that. God, I hate waiting. Why can’t this stupid conference happen already?”

  “If I may add something, associates,” Juno added, the speaker attached to the silently hovering drone crackling to life as the screen activated. “What are your thoughts on Adin Pike’s outline? Does it align with what you two require to achieve from this mission?”

  The moron cowboy’s plan of sneaking into the gas cluster and stealthily infiltrating through the bottom of the Nucleus compound was sensible, reasonable and highly uninteresting. Citra wanted the specialized tech of the floating xenos as much as the rest of the group, no doubt, but the hunt was what drew her to the group in the first place. The Tylas would be a quarry unlike no other and she was ready to slaughter. As such, she wanted to get right into the centre of the city of Urestior to take what she wanted from the xenos scum. Still, in the long run, she had to admit that partially following some of the corporate suit’s plan was fine. If there was a dedicated spot where data behind the Tylas technology was going to be accessed, it would be at the Nucleus Research Centre. Nevertheless, she felt the need to try and justify her wrathful desires, primitive as they were.

  “Eh, it’s good enough, I suppose,” Citra said. “Personally, I still think that going into Urestior itself is still more profitable than just going after this research compound. I’ve got a contact in the region who’s tied to the event who knows a lot about the situation there.”

  “Aren’t you afraid of stepping on the toes of Yuri and Roksana?” Juno said, his avatar onscreen leaning forwards. “My predictions calculate they will take a similar course of actions during the operation with an 87.28% probability.”

  “So? If they get in my way, I’ll deal with them. If I put most of my team forward for the Nucleus raid, that’ll be fine. Ain’t that right, doggy?” Citra focused her glare on Dobermann, who didn’t seem to register the insult. He simply pushed up his glasses before checking his watch.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Doberman said, “I think that such an adjustment should be fine, so long as you provide the allocated troops I’ve detailed in the digital notes I’ll send through. Be careful, however. Though the Tylas are slow to wake, their ships will cut through any Scar Field you try fielding against them, so keep that in mind before you charge into Urestior’s centre.”

  “Please, I’ve gone through worse. And as for the cowboy – won’t he care about a little diversion?”

  “Maybe. But, then again, there’s always the possibility he doesn’t find out at all. We can call it our… little secret, hmm?” Dobermann gave the faintest impression of a smile. Ah, so he could emote – though not without great effort apparently, based on the tensing along Hal’s cheeks.

  “Perhaps there is… another option,” Juno said. Citra and Doberman turned to look at the drone, the screen’s avatar moving slightly forward. “I must ask both of your opinions on whether Mr Pike is needed in his current role in the operation for the long term. Say, until the mission begins?”

  Hal’s brow creased an almost imperceptible amount. “What do you mean, Juno? Are you saying you don’t want him involved?”

  “How should I say it? What I mean is, would you feel there would be any strong objections for his removal from the project once we are certain it will succeed? A permanent removal, possibly?”

  Oh, that was what Citra liked to hear. She felt a tingle run through her spine and swell deep inside her as she imagined cutting off the corporate fuck’s head. If Juno and Doberman were up for disposing of the cowboy, that would be a delicious side dish for the banquet that would be the main operation.

  Hal considered the proposal for some time before answering, “I may be… agreeable, on certain circumstances. I want to ensure we have retrieved all the data we require from him before our arrival in the system, and only if a majority agrees.”

  “Count me in,” Citra said. “But why do you want the cowboy dead, net-jockey?”

  “I do not wish for his… removal, necessarily,” Juno said, drone lightly tilting downwards. “There are no emotions tied to my reasoning. It is simply that the risk of leakage based on his ties to the corporations is too high. There is already a large investment in this operation, and the risk of it being a trap is not one I wish to risk. My predictions estimate the likelihood of Pike’s confidence in the mission wavering at over fifty percent.”

  Whatever, Citra didn’t particularly care about the hacker’s motives as long as she got a personal bit of the bastard for her personal collection. That would be enough. A collarbone? A rib, maybe? Ooh, his skull would be a great addition to her collection. She had always wanted a board member’s head to go along with the collection of rival clanlord skulls she had gathered so far.

  “Fair enough,” Citra giggled. “We’ll see how things are closer to the time, but I am sure the sibling-fuckers will be fine for the most part. Right now, however, I’m more interested in Basilisk members we aren’t disposing of. What do you get out of this, hound? I can’t see this mission doing much for someone already so well connected such as yourself. That is, aside from the obvious attention. Whilst notoriety can serve someone like yourself well, I would think you would only want it in specific dosages. Too much heat, and the CCH will come down on you like a railcannon.”

  “Sometimes, the risks for such attentiveness are worth it,” Dobermann said. “If no one ever decided to step out from the shadows of mediocrity for fear of attention, I doubt either of us would be having this conversation. Besides, there are plenty of things a man like myself can do with such vital information, especially of the sort the CCH’s constituents would kill each other for. Now, I would ask a favour from yourself. If only to keep each other on our toes, of course.”

  She liked the sound of that. Life was too boring for every job having a simple quid-pro-quo contracts. Mid-operation favours were a nice pinch of spice to a good mission

  Citra flashed a wide smile, ready for Dobermann’s fee, “Name your price. Let me guess - got a rival you want removed? Some pain in the ass fuzz smuggler who won’t pay his dues? I can fix that today if you want, make an example out of him. He can be in more pieces than you can count before the sun goes down.”

  Dobermann held up his hands in appeasement, “Nothing so violent, Miss Vigino. I simply ask that you attempt to… redistribute your future attacks on the conglomerates following the success of the mission, especially military infrastructure. Choose some less vital targets going forward, if you would. Additionally, for the mission, do what Pike’s plan deems necessary as a distraction at Birkdale, but minimize the causalities there and leave it at that. Nothing overly excessive. That is all I ask.”

  A strange request, but one she agreed to; she could always renege later if she wanted to. Moreover, she was interested in the ‘why’ more than the favour itself. Why on earth would the crime lord, one who had previously cheated, undermined and stolen from the corporate scum for so long, now want to avoid spilling their rotten blood? Was he secretly some agent of the megacompanies, leaking all the details of this group in private? Perhaps the whole venture was a honeypot, a trap? Maybe the cowboy was the obvious false flag to draw attention away from the real mole? Dead men told no secrets.

  A familiar urge had built up within her before she could even take a breath. Citra felt her hand unconsciously moving towards the sheathed blade on her hip before she stopped out of the motion with great restraint. No, she couldn’t kill him. Not here. Maybe later. Until the time was right, she had to pretend to believe that the dog’s deal was some ploy to gain power. If it came down to it, she would kill the others when they dealt with Pike. Butcher the corporate pig, cripple the incestuous traitors, run through the hound of a crime-lord and… break the hacker’s screen, she supposed. Gods, she hated how distant Juno had made himself. Why couldn’t he show his face so Citra could know who to kill later? Only once all of them were dealt with would her fears be finally subdued.

  She disguised the near-deadly motion with a scratch of the leg before looking towards the drone. “You fine with that, Juno? Don’t care if I take some of those annoying alien freaks down if I try to leave the money counters alone for a bit?”

  The drone remained stationary as the on-screen avatar shrugged. “As long as you can get me into the Nucleus’ computer systems, then I have no qualms with any of your intentions. Just be mindful of your silver haired friends.”

  The abominable twins were not her friends. No, even if she didn’t encounter them during the mission, she would hunt them down long before they got back to Separatist space, that was for certain. The most wretched example of humanity, Mikhail, was their kin, and the twins’ shared blood may as well be made of mud. For the crime of disrespecting the honour of the Jade Emperor, their bloodline had been tainted forevermore. Even if she wouldn’t get her hands on the man who laid a soma-curse on her glorious Emperor, the heads of his repulsive siblings would do.

  Twins. Family. Brothers. Mothers. When was the last time she had paid a visit to mother? A few weeks ago at the most, but perhaps it was longer. Time moved strangely for her sometimes. Citra had been busy with the Emperor’s requests during the civil war, and finding the right moment to see dear Marsale had become difficult. Though her mother had been the one to deliver Citra to her new life after her father had died a fittingly pathetic death in a mining accident, the matriarch Vigino had not taken well to clan values. By the time Citra had become the vice-clanhead of Greyalt, her mother had attempted to escape numerous times. But that wouldn’t happen, not on Citra’s watch. She was determined to keep the last family she had safe. Marsale was now in Citra’s caring hands – secured away from the world within the boundaries of her own private cell. Good money had been spent on keeping her mother healthy and supplied with everything she could want. Well, everything except the freedom she begged for. But no, Citra knew that her mother was just unwell, sickened by the unfortunate years she had spent as part of the corporations and from the mere presence of Citra’s weak father. She had made good progress after the latest renovation of her cell; she had even stopped hurting herself over the last year.

  One day, she would see the light, come to terms with reality. Citra’s father was dead, long gone, and that was the best thing that had ever happened. In her mind, the loss of Angelo had secured the weakness of the lesser sex in her mind, a value that had never been shaken since. No, her mother was not weak, just broken. It was people like her first clan squad, a group of men who had died screaming for mercy, as well as every new group of superiors she served under whilst she rose the ranks of Greyalt. Their sin was that of pitiful acceptance for lesser circumstances; to accept a suitable life instead of the best one possible. It was for that simple notion that those weaker men had died in the way they had. It was why her father had always been weak.

  But what about him? What about the one man who she wasn’t certain she would kill or hug or capture or disembowel when she saw them next? The one who she wasn’t even sure if he was alive. Did she even want to know? She had purposely never dared to look up his name on any archive.

  No, she couldn’t think of him, not here, not now, not ever. Citra was strong enough to forget him, to move on. She had to think of something new, anything. Dobermann, that’s right. She could ask him something.

  “Say, Dobermann, as someone well versed in the trade of blood for power, what do you think the Doctrine taking on Paradise once this mission is over? Want to get in on supporting the Eternal War’s second go around? There’s plenty of money to be made for someone like you helping the Emperor, glory be to him.”

  Dobermann had stood and was preparing for Citra to leave when he heard her. Nothing they had discussed so far, either in the original meeting on Titanlock or there in his home territory had produced much of an expression from the crime lord. Yet, simply saying the name of Doctrine’s rival nation wrenched a look of mild shock onto his face. Ah, and there it was – the chink in his fa?ade. Citra knew everyone had a weak point, it was just a matter of digging around until it was found. Whether the dog was just afraid of Paradise or maybe working for them could be anyone’s guess, but seeing any sort of reaction from Dobermann was a win in Citra’s books.

  “Ah, guess not,” Citra mused. “Let me know if you’re ever interested in working with Doctrine; we can be very profitable. See you around.”

  However, it was as she herself began to leave, Dobermann still glaring at her back silently, that she was the one who became unbalanced. Juno had repositioned his drone in front of the door, blocking her path. His screen was off, yet she could help but sense that something was looking straight at her. Through her.

  “Have a good day, Citra. Tell Marsale I give her my best wishes. I hope we have another meeting soon,” Juno said, voice cold and detached before the drone floated to the side, granting her passage.

  No, how did he know about her mother? That was impossible. Before she could dwell on the matter, Citra forced a neutral expression before walking past the droid and out the exit of the room. Ascending through the dim underground building and back into the filthy streets of the foundling metropolis, she couldn’t help but feel that cutting her way through Hal’s men would have been an easy matter compared to handling that small, unarmed drone. Who the hell was Juno?

  The sudden attack on her defences, a vulnerability she thought she had permanently sealed away in a prison cell unknown to all but a few caretakers, was enough to draw a cold sweat from her in spite of New-Paris’ noon-sun overhead. The fear that one name brought about was a primal one, the fear of a primitive human facing an unknown predator in the dark. She promised to herself that before the operation was finished, she would find what childish hacker laid on the other side of that screen and hack him to pieces.

  Hurrying back towards the spaceport, she told herself to be strong. No, she couldn’t be afraid of anything, not of anyone.

  Not like he had been all those years ago, back when he had refused to join their mother’s relocation to Heaven’s Doctrine.

  Not like him.

  Not like Salvador.