The obsidian boardroom of the Blood-Tax Star Citadel sat three miles above the magma oceans of Planet One Hundred.
The walls were carved from jagged volcanic basalt, weeping veins of smoldering brimstone. Heat waves shimmered in the dry air, carrying the sharp sulfurous stench of molten iron.
At the head of a fifty-meter conference table sat Chairman Sovereign Harkon. His skin was the color of dried blood, and six curled horns protruded from his skull. His heavy, spiked battle-gauntlets were clenched so tightly that volcanic sparks leaped from his knuckles.
Boom!
Harkon slammed both gauntlets onto the obsidian table. The impact cracked the stone slab from end to end.
“Seventy planets!” Harkon roared, his voice rattling the heavy brass chandeliers. “Seventy planets have torn up our contracts in forty-eight hours! The spirit-coal monopoly is gone! The defense shield monopoly is gone! The medical prosthetic guild has collapsed! What are our liquid losses?”
A trembling fleet admiral stepped forward, his eyes fixed on the floor.
“Chairman, it is even worse,” the admiral stammered. “Our local garrison commanders on forty planets refuse to fire on Taichu’s installations. The soldiers’ own parents were given free Clean-Spirit Reactors, and their crippled brothers received free jade limbs! If we order an attack, our own regiments might mutiny!”
