Audit-Lord Vaelen stood on the open flight bridge of his ten-mile platinum flagship. His pale eyes widened in sheer disbelief, his slender fingers tightening around his scepter.
“Customer service?” Vaelen spat, his voice trembling with icy indignation. “You address an envoy of the Central Milky-Way Exchange Ring as a customer? I am an Audit-Lord! I do not buy goods! I repossess civilizations!”
Behind Vaelen, the thirty junior credit analysts stood in two immaculate rows. They wore pristine white silk tunics embroidered with silver olive branches and golden lettering that read: CENTRAL EXCHANGE PHILANTHROPIC DEVELOPMENT FUND. Each analyst carried a crystal slate bound in velvet, projecting an aura of lofty moral superiority.
“Lord Vaelen,” Analyst Kael whispered, stepping forward with his glowing tablet. “The local commander seems confused. Outer-spiral barbarians often mistake foreclosure decrees for trade negotiations. Shall I read him the standard liquidation penalties again?”
Lin Mo floated a few hundred yards off the prow of the Sovereign Aurora. His hands rested casually in his coat pockets. The cold stratosphere wind blew his hair, but his stance was as relaxed as if he were waiting for a morning bus.
“I understood the penalties perfectly,” Lin Mo said, his voice carrying clearly across the void. “You want five hundred billion years of lifespan, fifty suns, and all our planets. The problem is not my comprehension. The problem is your credit rating.”
