Chapter 1: "What Are They Hiding?"

Sector Nihilus, Late 41st Millennium. Planet Drah’ven-4:
A rocky and barren world, where plants and animals barely managed to survive, giving it the appearance of an almost-dead rock. Its inhabitants took refuge in small underground settlements; in these systems, not drawing attention was the only guarantee of life.

A group of about twenty miners pushed their heavy carts loaded with the best of their haul. The metal wheels screeched against the rocky ground, breaking the oppressive silence.

Garrik Thane: "Alright, today we see old Drogvar. Prepare the best you have."

Another Miner: —Worried— "We could get a good sum for all this on the market."

Garrik Thane: "Or they could scam us again and give us a fraction of what it's worth. The local merchants have fixed prices for common ore, but they pay nothing for the rare stuff."

Another Miner: —Nervous and cautious— "I never liked this shit about dealing with pirates."

Garrik Thane: "I've known old Drogvar for a while. He's ruthless, but fair. At least, much more so than the market."

Far from the settlement, they maintained a prudent distance. Before them stood a half-ruined bunker, abandoned centuries ago. Three pirates waited for them. Further back, a cargo ship was accompanied by a light assault fighter. The miners took cover behind armor plates anchored to the ground. They wielded old, obsolete weapons, or homemade contraptions of dubious effectiveness. Their bodies were protected by remnants of worn military armor or simple metal plates strapped on with leather. Only Garrik walked toward the bunker as an emissary.

Drogvar, the oldest of the pirates, accompanied Garrik to the cargo ship and showed him the supplies: synthesized food, blocks of purified water, basic medicines, tools, spare parts, and other less common goods for leisure. Garrik meticulously noted the inventory, prices, and quantities, while glancing sideways at the pirates, heavily armed with modern ceramite equipment, grenades, and a heavy laser launcher.

The miners advanced one by one to the bunker, leaving their materials. Old Drogvar assigned a value to each one and added it up on a slate inside the shelter. The transaction lasted almost an hour without major issues. Finally, the miners withdrew with the supplies, while the pirates loaded their ship with the acquired ore.

Once alone, the tension broke. Kael Ruk, a silhouette of metal and scars where bionic prosthetics outweighed flesh, raised his only organic hand and made a series of quick, complex gestures to communicate.

Kael Ruk: —via hand signs— "That was a good exchange this time." — observing the full hold—
Drogvar: "Yes. I don't remember the last time we managed to load so much material, especially on a backwater shit-hole like this."

Klaad, the youngest of the pirates and Kael's brother, didn't seem convinced.

Klaad: "Too good. Did you notice anything strange about the emissary?"
Drogvar: "What do you mean?"
Klaad: "He doesn't ask for simple supplies. Some of the things he bought... shouldn't be useful to him on a world like this."
Drogvar: "As long as they pay the price, it doesn't matter what they buy. Don't burden yourself with hunches. Focus on the profits, Kael's implants aren't paid for with 'suspicions'."
Klaad: "I insist. I request permission to gather intelligence."
Drogvar: "Denied. We need you now for the auctions."
Klaad: "We could come back later. They wouldn't expect us back for weeks. Perhaps we'll stumble upon the secret of their abundance."
Kael Ruk: —stared intently at his younger brother and then at his mentor, waiting for a response—
Drogvar: —sighed resignedly— "Fine. We'll use the fighter to return tonight. Make sure you aren't seen."

The pirates departed for the markets of other planets and system-wide auction points to get the best price for the material. It was a trade route they repeated constantly: using the money to buy more provisions where they were cheap and maximize profits. But now, a new mission loomed over them.

Night covered Drah’ven-4 with a mantle of silence broken only by the whisper of wind dragging reddish sand through the mountains.
The pirates' light ship was hidden among crags, covered by a camouflage tarp that perfectly mimicked the dull tones of the rock. From the outside, it was just another shadow in the darkness.

Old Drogvar Ryn rested on his bunk, connected to a tangle of cables and tubes that kept his fragile body functioning. The soft hum of an artificial respirator mixed with his snores. Beside him, Kael Ruk meticulously reviewed a set of mechanical spare parts, similar to those that composed most of his own body, his single human eye fixed on his younger brother.

Klaad prepared. He slipped into a suit of light plastisteel, dyed with dark patches to blend into the night. He adjusted a tactical helmet equipped with heat sensors, night vision, audio enhancement, a stealth tracker, and proximity detectors. Everything was calibrated for a single goal: to move like a ghost.

Drogvar: —grunted— "At the slightest suspicion you've been seen, return. And set traps on the escape route, in case you have company."
Klaad: —checked his equipment: a silenced pistol, a sharp knife, a light bag with provisions, and some trap charges—
Kael: —raised his only intact hand and made a clear gesture— "Don't die."
Klaad: —nodded, activated the helmet's sensors, and began tracking—

Following the trail wasn't easy. The miners had been careful: they erased footprints, swept sand over the path, avoided leaving visible marks. But for Klaad, these precautions were a challenge, not a barrier. A slight groove here, a moved rock there… and the trail came alive under his gaze.

After an hour, he reached the edge of a mountain. The silence was broken by a subterranean roar that made the ground vibrate under his feet. A cloud of reddish dust escaped from a grate camouflaged among scrub and rocks. Klaad approached and, without hesitation, entered the mines.
His steps were light, calculated. He moved like a feline among the shadows. Another rumble echoed, closer, and guided him to a wide tunnel illuminated by hanging lamps. When he saw it, he stood still: it was a colossal passage, kilometers long, with incredibly high ceilings and machinery running as if it belonged to a rich world… something impossible for a mining settlement like this.

A third blast resonated, different from the others. It wasn't a conventional explosive. There was applause, cheering. Klaad slipped into an advantageous position behind some rocks, at the edge of a spotlight's beam. He waited... When the fourth detonation came, he shot the spotlight, using the roar as cover, and moved quickly into the newly created shadow.

From there, he saw everything. More than eighty miners working with modified tools and machinery unknown to him. But amidst all the bustle, something stood out: a small, female figure placing strange artifacts in hollows of the rock.
A green blast illuminated her face for an instant before the smoke dissipated amid the applause.

Klaad waited a while, until the shift ended. The girl stored the explosives in a bag and headed alone towards a secondary exit. Just as she turned a corner, a strong arm immobilized her. A rough cloth soaked in a pungent chemical covered her nose and mouth. Nyra struggled, but her strength faded in seconds, plunging her into a cold darkness.

She woke tied to a metal chair in an old, abandoned warehouse where the smell of rust and dust was thick. Her mouth was covered by a strip of cloth and her heart hammered against her ribs. Before her, silhouetted against the gloom by the faint light of a portable lamp, was Klaad.

Klaad: "Listen carefully." —his voice was deep, controlled— "Don't scream. You will answer everything I ask you."
Klaad: —He removed the gag from her mouth with a quick movement— "Your name?"
Nyra: "My name is Nyra Korr." —she spat with contained rage—
Klaad: "I saw you using those explosives. Where did you get them?"
Nyra: "I can't tell you that."
Klaad: —he didn't need to move his pistol, his gaze was warning enough— "You have no choice."
Nyra: "I made them!" —she blurted out, defiant—
Klaad: —arched a skeptical eyebrow— "You're lying. You're barely an adolescent…"

He opened Nyra's bag and reviewed the contents. He recognized materials he had seen traded in previous visits.

Nyra: "I'm not lying." —she insisted, staring him down—
Klaad: "I see very special parts here… do you know Garrik?"
Nyra: "Yes. He's my father."
Klaad: "Does he get the parts for you?"
Nyra: "I use them to make the bombs. To blast the rock better and get more ore."
Klaad: "And the miners' modified tools? Are they your doing too?"
Nyra: "Yes. We needed better tools to earn enough. To survive."

Klaad: —observed her in silence for a long moment, evaluating every word, every nuance of her expression— "I still don't entirely believe you." —he conceded finally— "But we're going to do this... if you know how to build these bombs, you know how to disarm them. If you manage to disarm two without blowing yourself to bits… let's say I'll believe you."

Klaad: —untied her but kept the weapon in his hand, pointed at the floor but ready— "Just disarm these two bombs. And don't try anything stupid."

The first, a mechanical pressure bomb, was a tangle of tense springs. Nyra worked with agile but firm fingers, holding her breath. Four minutes later, with a dull, harmless click, the bomb was deactivated. The second, however, took her barely fifteen seconds of quick, precise movements. Klaad observed the result. It was just a bunch of shrapnel and stones wrapped in a dirty rag, with a rope hanging from it.

Klaad: —"This thing doesn't even look like a bomb. You weren't careful. This rope isn't a fuse."

Nyra: "It's a chemical bomb. As it is now, it's harmless. You have to soak it with that acid." —she pointed with her chin towards a bottle with a viscous green liquid in her backpack— "When it reacts, it emits black smoke for a few seconds, then a steady white smoke. At that moment it's ready, and any disturbance makes it explode. The rope is for agitating it then. It's more powerful than the other one, but the acid is slow to synthesize."

Klaad: —held the deactivated pressure bomb, thoughtful— "If you didn't have to worry about materials... you could make many more of these, right? I know people who would pay well for them. Much better than for the mine's ore."

Nyra: "I won't make bombs for pirates!"
Klaad: —With a cold, pragmatic tone— "Do you prefer to wait for a warp storm and everyone starves... or for raiders to come and kill you because you can't defend yourselves? Think of all you could buy with that money. Medicines. Food. Real protection."

Nyra: —looked at him, conflict crossing her face— "How many will you need?"
Klaad: "I need two hundred. Within fifteen days. Write down everything you need here." —he handed her a notebook and a piece of charcoal.
Nyra: "That's a lot of bombs..." —she murmured, writing— "Will it be worth it?"
Klaad: "Don't doubt it. It will be worth it. This will be our meeting point. Here you will receive the materials tomorrow. Here you will leave the bombs. Here I will pay you."

After the agreement, he released her. Nyra ran toward her home, her mind racing. Klaad vanished into the darkness of the tunnels, emerging far away and returning to his ship stealthily. Hours later, the fighter's hatch closed behind him. Drogvar, still connected to his machines, read the list Klaad handed him.
Drogvar: —Skeptical— "What are we supposed to do with all this?"
Klaad: "Bombs." —he replied confidently— "Much more powerful than market ones and at an absurdly low cost."
Drogvar: "They manufacture bombs? Hmm... I'm starting to understand how they gathered so much ore. You want to put them to work for us?"
Klaad: "Exactly. A share of the profits will be more than they'd get from mining. It's a good deal."
Drogvar: —smiled, a strange expression on his scarred face— "Worth a try."

The ship took off in silence, bound for other systems to obtain the strange cargo.