“But Mr. Kitoshiro, the mines are infested with Redman Spiders. I lost a third of my men in the first excavation. We can’t afford to continue operations on Jorogumo.”

The frantic voice of Radden Horst cut through my transmitter. I couldn’t tell if the migraine brewing in my head was from his high-pitched complaints or lack of sleep. It didn’t help that the transmitter chip was wired into my brain, utilizing the organ’s neurons as conduits for its electric impulses.

“I will repeat it to you once more, master foreman. The operations on Jorogumo are of Priority Tier Two. Any loss of human life Rank C or lower is acceptable per company policy, provided an outpost is successfully established.” I replied. “You will not attempt to tell me what is affordable and what is not.”

“Of course, Mr. Kitoshiro, I meant no disrespect.” The foreman stammered over the comms.

He started to say something else but it came through distorted. The Lightholes, the microscopic wormholes tethered in space by Ophelia’s communications arrays, that allowed for faster than light transmissions had been unreliable lately. I’d have to speak with Jeffrey about this.

I took the opportunity to interrupt his babbling.

“Foreman Horst.” I cleared my throat. An image of an extensive roster visualized on my personalized HUD. Nobody could see me, but I raised my finger to point through the items as I spoke anyway.

“According to your most recent inventory and personnel charter you are still in possession of three Kestler transport-class vehicles, seven deployable industrial fusion drills, fourteen deployable habitation centers, three industrial materializers, as well as three hundred forty-two miners to man equipment and seventy five-heavily armed mercenaries to oversee the project.”

“Yes, but-”

“Quiet. This equipment is worth roughly fourteen billion credits, am I correct in this estimate?” I stated semi-rhetorically. I wanted him to respond but I already knew the answer. He needed to remember who was in charge.

“Correct, sir.” The foreman replied as expected.

“I am telling you the value of this moon is more than quadruple that amount in raw material alone - and that is just what my surveyors detected on the surface. I would risk three more of your expeditions for a foothold on this rusty planet. Am I clear?”

“Of course, sir.” His voice sounded robotic now. Compliant, but unhappy.

I ground the palm of my hand against the glossy surface of my mahogany desk. “Is that insubordination I detect in your voice, foreman?” I seethed.

“N-no, Mr. Kitoshiro! It will be done as you say!” His voice dripped in fear now. Far more palatable to me than indignant resignation.

“Very good. And if you require any further motivation, remember that the armed personnel onsite protect company interests first and foremost. As the District Executive Officer for Ophelia Corporation’s Northern sixth district, my will is the company’s interest. They will protect that interest with force, if necessary.”

“Good day, master foreman.” I ended the transmission with a single thought.

I sank back into my leather chair, expelling the leftover rage in my body with an exhale. Where did HR find this rabble? Radden Horst was an acclaimed foreman and colonist development expert - at least that’s what my hiring agents assured me. If he couldn’t handle a desert planet ridden with a few man-sized, armored spiders then he wasn’t worth anything to me.

But I wouldn’t worry myself about him any longer. He would succeed or be replaced. There was nothing more to consider.

I peered into the vanity mirror to the left of my desk. It stood on legs of amber-colored wood, shined to a satisfying luster. I had a fondness for the antiquated material, as impractical as it was. I paid top dollar to import the hardwood furniture into my office on Iapetus - the largest luxury world in the sixth district.

A patch of my neatly-combed black hair had fallen over the tawny skin of my forehead during the heated conversation. My eyes were bloodshot, wisps of red wrapping around the black of my iris. The slate-gray tie around my neck appeared a bit loose as well. And did my suit need to be refitted? The shoulder contours looked disproportionate to my frame.

I couldn’t tolerate looking a mess like this.

I rolled open the bottom drawer of my desk and reached for the container of oil I kept within. A gob of that in my hair should keep it in place.

The tie just took a bit of wriggling and tightening. My eyes, well, there wasn’t much I could do for that but more sleep - and that wasn’t an option. The responsibilities of a DEO were innumerable. Having been appointed to this position only a few months ago, I was still working tirelessly to solidify my rule of the district.

A knock on the door interrupted my thoughts.

“Yes?”

“It is Arlen, sir. I’m here upon your request?”

Ah, right. Arlen. The yes-man I designated as Chief Attendant to the DEO. He was an earnest young man, eager to please if not a bit juvenile. He would do anything I asked and keep his mouth shut about it. That’s why he was my closest employee at the age of only twenty-five galactic standard years.

“Yes, you may enter.” I forgot I had summoned him, as flustered as I had been about the incompetent foreman.

The diminutive man entered with a bow. His brown hair was neatly combed in a fashion similar to my own. His entire outfit seemed borrowed from my wardrobe, for that matter. A gray tie matched a slightly darker suit and pants combination, all set over a stark white button-up finished off with brown loafers. I supposed imitation was a form of flattery.

He even looked a bit like me, before my genetic therapy that is. I once stood in the shadow of taller men. Now I towered over even the most vertically gifted humans.

“You look a bit tired, sir. Not to denigrate you in any way. I simply mean to offer my assistance if required.”

“You are mistaken, Arlen. I have never felt better in my life.” Despite my current state of exhaustion, that was the truth. The wrinkles, fatigue, and atrophy of my old body reversed under the effects of a refreshed genomic sequence. At age sixty I felt just as spry as Arlen; I was certainly more athletic than him, the chubby-faced boy. One of the perks of the job.

“Great to hear, Mr. Kitoshiro!” He beamed.

“Though I did summon you for your assistance. On an important matter.”

His brown eyes widened at this. I motioned for him to come forward and take a seat at the visitors' table situated in front of my desk.

As he settled into a chair I took some time to admire the backdrop. My office took up most of the front side of the Terrell building’s top floor. A sheet of bulletproof-glass ran along the entire back wall of the office. To the outside viewer, it looked like solid stone, lending me privacy. From here I could see the nightlife of Rion in its full splendor.

This city never slept. Nor did the three full moons above, which persisted in their fullness well past dawn. Between their luminance and the flashing of neon signs, digital billboards, and venue spotlights, the night shined as bright as day on the capital of Iapetus. This was the heart of Ophelia’s sixth district - the world of “Getting Things Done!”

LiteRails zoomed over the web way of roads, pulsing with yellow energy. Most of the vehicles on the main motorway were designated for commercial enterprises. Massive freighters tugged along tons of raw material, organic goods, and business supply. Metal-plated military vehicles transported personnel and equipment from one outpost to the next.

The more elite of the city could afford personal luxury vehicles - jet black Corsairs, purple Vangretti’s, bright Taurus model show cars. All of them came equipped with self-piloting AI to use when necessary, such as from a particularly inebriating trip from the club. But what was the fun of having a private vehicle if you never drove it? Autonomy was a commodity all its own in Rion.

“What do you require of me, Mr. Kitoshiro?” Arlen’s voice disrupted my examination of the world below.

“Deliver me your full report on this ‘Organization’ you were investigating on Pollux IV. The folks that involved themselves in LimeLight?”

The young man nodded earnestly. He brought up the information on the digital pad he always kept on his hip.

“They’re simply referred to as ‘The Organization,’ both by locals and themselves. Our branch on Pollux IV initially hired them as security to uphold order on the planet when the miner riots first broke out nearly two decades ago. Since then they’ve built up a rapport as…”

I waved him along. I didn’t need a history lesson.

He turned a bright shade of pink. “Sorry. Anywho, the kingpin of The Organization’s operations on Pollux IV is an enhanced war veteran who goes by Scar. We couldn’t get a verifiable identity on him.” He added apologetically.

“Kingpin on Pollux IV? They are interplanetary?” I brought a finger to my chin in thought. Based on their file, they were assumed to be a band of violently inclined locals.

“Very much so, Mr. Kitoshiro. Our operatives traced calls from known members to systems as far as the Southern 23rd district of the galaxy. The contents were intricately encrypted; far too difficult for our AI to crack in a reasonable amount of time. We do know that a transmission was sent to an embassy on the planet Karnak, one to a military installation on Gorn, and several to commercial convoys. At the very least, they have connections in high places.” Arlen said gravely.

“Keep tabs on them.” I reached into the top drawer for my crystal decanter of whiskey and drinking glass. Pouring myself a nip, I lowered the decanter and raised the golden liquid to my lips.

It seemed my week was only going to get busier.

“From what our operatives could trace, they placed four contestants into LimeLight this year. May I?” Arlen paused.

I nodded in approval.

Four dossiers appeared on my HUD.

“Arman”

Contestant #4,648:

Arman was a bald ruffian with winding sleeves of tattoos. His description noted a militaristic background and a lengthy career as an enforcer with The Organization, having a reputation for lethal efficiency in the underworld of Pollux IV. That combined with loyalty to the cause had made him Scar’s chief lieutenant.

“Puck Mallory”

Contestant #45,590:

A sandy-brown haired man with a shifty look in his green eyes filled the screen. A single lock of golden hair nested among its dingy brethren. This image showed him sitting at the bar of a casino, but he worked as a tech specialist for the local Ophelia communications hub full-time. He went missing a few weeks ago. Street rabble entered under a debtor contract.

“Contestant #13,708”:

No name, or even nickname, was associated with this one, nor was a face assigned to the entity. A grainy image of a shadowy figure wearing a full-face ballistic helmet with a green visor was the best this dossier had. According to the file, he was an elite assassin that recently joined the Organization. Not even they knew much about him, but his mission success rate was too good to pass up.

“Lily”

Contestant #18,324:

AKA Katerina Dupont. In her profile, she wore a purple dress with a low-cut bosom. A black girdle bound the loose fabric of her dress close to her torso. White hair draped down to her shoulders, ending in lavender curls - the same color as her eyes. She was dangerous. The file indicated she underwent extensive telepathic genetic augmentation. Her greatest weapon was quite literally her mind. The full extent of her affiliation with The Organization was unknown.

The sting of the pungent libation tickled the back of my throat as I downed the rest of the glass.

“Quite a lineup,” I said. It seemed Scar had invested some of his best players into the competition this season, after years of hiatus.

Arlen agreed.

“Arman. He is the greatest threat. He needs to be dealt with.”

“Pardon, sir?”

I didn’t bother to repeat myself. “Scar must have an ulterior motive for entering his closest follower into the competition this season. Based on a few building reports I acquired from the city planners of Pollux IV I know that several genetic sequencing labs are under The Organization’s control.” Arlen nodded, he had been the one who “found” those reports for me.

“The extensive and highly illegal genetic research LimeLight has conducted is a well-guarded secret that few know of and even less have evidence of. Most of it happens outside of the competition, but they have gotten away with a few such experiments on live video. Even so, it’s possible he caught wind of it.” It might be a stretch, but I didn’t want to leave anything to chance. If anything disturbed the valuable research exchange between Ophelia and LimeLight it would set us back decades.

“If Scar suspects there is valuable genetic research to lift from LimeLight, it’s only natural that he would send his most trusted to do it. The rest are a smokescreen.” I waved my hand and closed the dossiers.

“What about this Puck character, sir? He worked for us. He never made it past Rank D personnel, but he may know someth-” Arlen started.

“That street rabble?” I interrupted with a chuckle. “He might be able to tell them how to change a light fixture, or perhaps correct a faulty array configuration. He’s on a debtor contract, The Organization is just sending a message to other wanton gamblers with his sacrifice. He is no threat.”

I continued before Arlen could waste any more of my time.

“You will take my private shuttle to Tovar X. There you will meet with a ‘Mr. Legrande.’ Inform him that Arman, Contestant #4,648, is an existential threat to our efforts and must be expunged from the competition. I’m sure he will find a reason to agree with me, once you present him with the information you’ve found.”

“Right away, Mr. Kitoshiro.”

Arlen jumped up from his seat. In his eagerness, he nearly toppled the potted bonsai I kept on the guest table. He looked back at me sheepishly.

“Carefully now, Arlen. I expect my shuttle to return in one piece.”

“Of course, sir.” He hastily made for the door, embarrassment written on his red cheeks.

What Arlen didn’t know was that my vessel would self-destruct if its integrity were compromised. That was, of course, to prevent any prying parties from tracing it back to me. I hoped I added his neural chip to the user whitelist. Oh well.

I leaned back and started to pour myself another drink. Outside, the bustle of the night intensified. It was midnight now - the climax of the evening. The youth enjoyed their abundance of time; the rich enjoyed their opulence.

I enjoyed the meticulous stacking of bricks that would one day form my empire.