The Admiral and the Assistant

Flander clambered across the exterior of the ship. His many arms allowed him to move quickly, but the Ocher Dawn was not easy to navigate from the outside. Many areas of the ship lacked shielding, so Flander could get a grip, but often the exterior was effectively the interior. Flander would carefully push off, sailing across missing hull panels to snag a grip on the far side, or he would climb inside, walk across the room, and climb out again. Sometimes navigation required wading through sphere-deep shielding, which was not too difficult as long as Flander moved carefully.

"We're matching vectors with the bloom," Brutus radioed. Flander could not radio acknowledgment, but still reflexively rapped the hull with one stump.

He continued to the cable room. He no longer jumped across gaps. If Brutus were to apply even a small vector shift at the wrong moment while Flander was not clinging to the ship, he could sail off into the depths of space, to wind through the years in ineffable boredom until his reactor ran down.

This slowed down Flander's progress.

After an interminable journey, he arrived at hull outside the cable room. He paused. He'd climbed far enough around the outside of the ship that he now had direct line of sight to the scrap bloom.

Most of the outside of the bloom was typical space trash: shred steel, frozen biological trash, and big bundles of random plastics. Within the junk lay the real prize of the bloom: a small interceptor, a small fast ship designed for fleet combat near planets or other gravity wells. The engines would be heavy lifters, to get into or out of a gravity well quickly. If it could be repaired, it would be an excellent towship.

Most of the exterior was covered with black carbon. Most likely the reactor ruptured after a hull breach. A few bits of the original paint had survived. One piece in particular still showed a partial insignia of the Imperium Navy.

Flander's impassive visual sensors scanned the vessel for a minute more, then he turned back to his work.

Sure enough, there was no shielding here. Probably, one of the shield generators had given out-- a side effect of the patchwork of castoff and refurbished shield generators that held the Ocher Dawn together. Flander skittered around, looking for a gap in the hull large enough for him to get into.

There was none. He was going to have to cut his way in.

Flander brought up one of his many arms and carefully held it just above the hull. This one had a laser cutter attached.

It activated with blinding actinic light, silent in the airless void. With careful slowness, Flander cut a small hole in the side of the ship, no larger than a man's fist. He took the thick little disc of steel and stuck it to the magnetic end of one of his arms.

Every shred of metal was worth saving.

Flander reached through the hole. He fired a grapnel into the dark interior. It trailed a slender cable, spooling out of Flander's arm.

The grapnel clunked into a pile of thick towing cable somewhere in the room. With a whirr, the grapnel closed, and Flander laboriously reeled the cable up to the hole. He reached in with the laser cutter and neatly snipped the cable. Reaching in with a powerful pincer, he began hauling cable out through the hole. Six other arms busily looped the cable as it came out, making a tidy spool.

After a few minutes, Flander snipped the cable again.

Now for the hard part.

Carefully towing the spool, Flander moved to the bow of the ship, where the crane was mounted. His travel was slowed by the valuable cable he carried. He had to be extra watchful not to snag it on an outcropping of scrap, not to let it unwind, not to let it drift off. Not to let himself drift off.

Flander kept an eye on the bloom as he traveled. Any mistake Brutus made at this point ran a decent risk of crushing Flander between the bloom and the Dawn. Or worse, scrape him off the side of the ship and send him hurtling away.

Brutus was deftly navigating the Ocher Dawn to match vectors with the bloom. He was good at what he did, but he was still only a biological.

Flander arrived at the crane and quickly threaded the new cable into the complex mechanism. He checked the tension, powered on the crane, then skittered away, making a beeline for the nearest airlock.

Fitz Lom's hat was in a bad state.

He'd been nervously wringing the poor thing even before he'd boarded the Oracle's ship, had tightened his grip as he'd entered the throne chamber, and now that the Oracle was speaking, he was nearly tearing it in half.

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"Speak... your... desire." the Oracle said in a voice like a bucket of angry wasps.

Fitz swallowed heavily. He opened his mouth to speak, but his throat was so dry that no sound came out. He cleared his throat, tried to get some moisture going, get his voice back.

The Oracle waited patiently, its round goggles gleaming deep within its hood.

"If you please, sir, it's about our business," Fitz said. He cleared his throat again. "My brother and I. We're starting a business, you see. Repairing reactor shielding for ships in Duskwind. On Ceon 12? We're putting the family savings into it. I want to know how to make sure it's a financial success." Another throat-clearing. "Uh, sir."

The Oracle leaned back.

"Financial... success." it said. "So... small... a... thing."

"Ah, yes, sir. It will be a good foundation for our family for generations to come, if we can make it work. Our kids will be able to take it over someday. I want to make sure our family is taken care of."

"You... speak... of... family. Yet... ask... for... money."

"Y-yes, sir?" The felt of Fitz' hat began to shred in his grip as his eyes darted around. "Isn't... isn't that right? Money makes us secure? Is that okay to ask for?"

The Oracle leaned forward suddenly, its heavy crimson robe swaying with the sudden movement.

"All... requests... are... accepted," it said. "None... are... denied."

"Ah. Okay. Right." Fitz' gaze searched out the corners of the room. The assistants were no help, they were clearly only enforcers. They didn't even look at him. "So if that's okay, uh, sir, then that's what I want."

The Oracle leaned back and began speaking. Fitz Lom's eyes widened as the Oracle spoke of plans, marketing, location, positioning, and business contingencies. It was all so simple: wise yet direct.

"Oh! That makes so much sense! Yes, yes sir! Thank you!"

"Now... for... payment."

"Ah, payment, sir? I already gave the fellows back there the money--"

"The... favor."

"Oh! Oh, right, yes sir. Of course."

"Two... months... from... now. Send... the... full... financial... report... to... your... brother's... wife."

Fitz' brow wrinkled in confusion.

"Is... is that it?" he asked. "Sure, I guess. I don't know that she'd be interested, but if that's all you want..."

"Do... not... forget."

The Oracle gestured to the exit, and Fitz Lom was only too happy to flee from its presence.

Chief Roeder of the Techterra Protection Force sat at his desk, sifting through reports. The more he read, the more dire his expression became.

Initially, the shattering of the Electroveil Collective had been a tremendous boost to his image. As the biggest gang in Techterra, their removal had surged the popularity of the TPF. Their disappearance left a power vacuum. Dozens of gangs had begun vying for a slice of the EVC's corpse, and it was all too easy for the TPF to keep them disrupted, fighting each other.

His job had never been so easy.

Now, though, the Riftborn gang were making big moves, unifying the smaller gangs, consolidating their hold on power in the underworld.

The Riftborn gang had been a problem for years. Grift, neurotrodes, theft, and violence had been their hallmark for his entire career.

This new move had him disturbed. Rumor was that Riftborn had new leadership. If this new leadership was able to hammer the patchwork of gangs and loyalties into a cohesive unit, if it got them working together instead of against each other, then Roeder was in trouble. His easy popularity and low workload would vanish.

Roeder was, above all, a pragmatic, political creature. His position was highly public, and his ability to lead was heavily dependent on the faith his officers had in him. The public saw him as a stolid, reliable column of safety, keeping the swirling dangers of Techterra at bay. The officers under him thought he was hard-nosed and picky, but they trusted him to get things done.

Problem was, things were coming undone.

Crime itself didn't make Roeder angry-- it was only on the other side of the coin he found himself on. Crime would have been a good career for him, as well. As a criminal, the danger would have been higher, but the stress would have been lower. And honest money was more reliable than ill-gotten gains. Overall, the balance had tipped him in favor of a career as a police chief.

With reports on days like today, though, he wondered if he'd made the right choice all those years ago. It was a temptation, sometimes, to go full scorched-earth on these gangs. The citizens would forgive the brutality, eventually. But he had to be cautious-- such indiscretion could permanently stain his legacy.

There was a sudden swirl of activity from the booking station. Shattering glass, yelling, and high-energy activity. With a frown, he stuck his head out of his office.

"What's going on out here?"

"Firebomb attack, sir!" said an officer, rushing by.

"What fire?" Aside from a lingering stench of cordite, there was no evident fire.

"Riftborn gang members threw an incendiary grenade into the office, chief! But it didn't go off!"

"Get bomb squad on it! Clear booking! Evac the citizens!"

Roeder reddened. Crime itself didn't upset him, but this was a personal attack on his image and his career.

"And get me Herin Kasra!" he shrieked. The he slammed his office door shut.

If Riftborn was so anxious to go scorched-earth, Roeder would have to oblige.

Race Ozan loped away from the boiling Techterra Protection Force station.

He'd assumed that when he accomplished the Oracle's favor, he'd understand what it meant, but it still didn't make any sense whatsoever. He'd thrown the dud incendiary grenade into the TPF station, as instructed.

As Race had expected, the whole station looked like a kicked anthill, with officers rushing around, cordoning off the street, and generally trying to figure out what had happened.

He'd got them good and wound up, but hadn't really accomplished anything. He was still mystified as to the purpose of the Oracle's favor.

Race shrugged.

He'd paid the rest of the Oracle's price for the advice. The debt was closed. Now he could enjoy building his empire.