The command cabin of Mercer’s Class-IV heavy carrier was lined with polished dark wood veneers, soft calfskin leather chairs, and racks of expensive vintage brandies from the southern provinces.
It was a fancy, heat-controlled sanctum of high-born luxury, built atop twelve tons of hardened military steel.
Now, that luxury was desecrated by mud-stained boots. It smelled of peat smoke, sulfur grease, and bitter antiseptic.
Keith Mercer sat bound to one of his own high-backed leather chairs, his hands secured behind him by heavy steel zip-cuffs, his officer’s exoskeleton stripped down to the unpowered chassis. His head hung low, a dark bruise forming along his cheekbone where he had struck the dark rock terrace.
Across the dark wood conference table, Toby Mallow was in a state of total, manic financial ecstasy.
The young clerk had connected his portable brass test end-post directly into Mercer’s private military-spec black-box computer. Toby’s glasses had slipped down to the very tip of his nose, his ink-stained fingers flying across the keys with the speed of an angry woodpecker:
“Two billion, four hundred and fifty million credits!” Toby shrieked, slamming both hands down on the dark wood table with enough force to rattle Mercer’s crystal brandy decanter. “Look at this ledger, Arthur! Look at these transactions! It’s not just a military crushing weight budget! It’s an illegal corporate cartel!”
