The red digital clock on the wall of Blood-Tax Toll Station #12 clicked from 07:59 to 08:00.
Station Manager Malor leaned back in his faux-leather swivel chair, kicked his polished boots up onto the control desk, and took a loud slurp of imported chicory coffee.
[Target: Station Manager Malor | Blood-Tax Regional Gatekeeper | Goodness Score: 14/100 — Petty Extortionist]
For fifteen years, eight in the morning had been the golden hour.
Under normal circumstances, eight o’clock meant the arrival of the morning freight rush from Grain-Star #12. Tens of thousands of heavy cargo transports would queue up in low orbit, stretching across forty kilometers of vacuum.
Each ship was forced to idle its engines, burning expensive fuel while Malor’s automated scanners extracted five thousand coins per vessel in basic transit tariffs, plus docking fees, fuel inspection surcharges, and breathing taxes.
Malor would watch his daily commission counter spin into six figures before ten in the morning.
He set down his coffee mug, cracked his knuckles, and glanced at the primary long-range radar screen.
