TWO YEARS AGO. SENELEC IV, RED SECTOR. A DISREPUTABLE QUARTER ON A STRUGGLING WORLD.

Walking through the brothel/private club, Captain Brevtok passed two groups of humanoids of varying color and height, two tight clusters of insects, and a mass of ... tentacular goo making slurping noises and unpleasant smells. A quiet night in Senelec IV’s seedier red-light district.

This was the meeting spot arranged by Brevtok’s weirdest client.

Brevtok was an Orc. His race had lost its planet ages ago, and made their living acting as mercenaries and muscle for other species. No homeland meant that they had a dispersed population, which meant very little political power. It was hard to coordinate things like elections, rallys, fund-raising, and social movements in a diaspora. There was no Empire, duchy, world, or even country where the Orc were in the majority. Of course, in the System, that didn’t matter so much.

Strength mattered.

So the Orcs fought. They pushed. They Leveled. They abided. Multiple births, usually quadruplets, helped. The System loved large populations. While constantly on someone’s front line, the race was always trying to gain strength. Individually.

Military formations helped. A bigger organization meant more resources and training for those deemed best likely to get strong. The service in wars and skirmishes always meant more XP and loot drops to build up units and soldiers. Some of these materials went to Orc artisans, who always had demand to supply weapons and armor. Ammo and vehicles.

And it was never enough.

The System was very generous to those who fought. And it took lives in equal measure. The fronts ground up most of those who joined in battle. The survivors found it more difficult to continue alone. Reinforcements were not endless.

The System was rigged, but it was the only game in town.

Brevtok’s race had been fulfilling this role for centuries and as such had entered the collective consciousness of the universe. Even new entries to the System recognized their green skin, heavy build, and toothy appearance. Big green muscle, willing to do dirty jobs as mercenaries.

Without a central government, the Orcs took the jobs they could and made the best of it. They might not have a thriving society, but they survived. That was more than most races the System encountered could say. And credits meant surviving.

This client had provided short-term work for Brevtok and his soldiers off and on for more than four decades. He paid well and on-time. His contracts always included a generous bonus for casualties, and he had paid those out even in disasters. In a lot of ways, he was Brevtok’s best customer.

But, he was creepy.

Brevtok’s unit had a reputation for a certain kind of work. Work that included enhanced interrogation, population subjugation, and assassination. Even purges. They did not follow any creed but adherence to the contract. They did not shirk from dirty jobs. They did not let the screams work their way into their nightmares. Mostly.

But, this client made the hairs on Brevtok’s neck stand up.

Most of the jobs had followed the same pattern. The client would board their military transport and travel to a border world, somewhere, to pick up sentients. Sometimes a group of the same species, sometimes a mix. These were usually refugees from conflicts, survivors of overrun settlements, or down-on-their-luck individuals. Sometimes as few as ten, sometimes as many as a hundred. They were herded into spaces with adequate sanitary provisions and food. They were cramped, but tolerable. And they did not open until the transport reached its destination.

While the planet they traveled to was always different, it was much the same for the Orc. They were always Lost worlds. Worlds that had lost their battle to the System. Places where mana ran amok and any semblance of normalcy was lost. This was the reason that the client paid so well.

The client would provide a prefabricated dome just large enough for about three rooms, and pack it full of equipment and strange devices. There was a circular airlock/receiving station attached to the dome as the only opening. A strong door irised open and closed to admit the sentients.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Brevtok’s team had two missions. First, they set up powerful and expensive defenses around the camp. These were put into constant use fighting off the monster spawns that inevitably swarmed the quickly built site. This could involve giant kaiju, or swarms of vicious, smaller beasts that seemingly never ended. All of the material outside, offloaded from the ship, was never to go back onboard. This included the “passenger” containers.

Brevtok’s team had provided these sites to the client and defended them as long as they could. During these times, the unit’s strategist constantly manned all of the sensors, looking at the chaos around them. It was her job to determine when the camp would fall, and in time to sound the evacuation alarm. The mercenaries prepared the ship and made ready to leave. The longest time they had taken to evacuate once the alarm had sounded had been six minutes. Shortly after the alarm, the client would bolt from the dome with a variety of data-storage devices and board the ship for an emergency burn away from the planet. These missions had lasted from two hours to three nightmarish days. The client did not complain about the first, and the last one provided the team a hefty bonus.

The team’s second mission was to take the sentients from their containers and deliver them to the dome’s iris in shackles.

Only the client ever came out of the dome.

On the first several jobs, this had not mattered to Brevtok. Business was business and the client had his reasons. Or at least had credits, which was more important to Brevtok. He silenced the mutters of his crew and told them to concentrate on the immediate job. Eventually, even Brevtok began to wonder what happened to all those who entered the dome. Whatever it was was none of his business, and he had no intention of breaching the contract for a bunch of worthless street trash. But still... it was creepy.

Brevtok arrived at the specified door in the darkly lit room and signaled his arrival with a press of the elaborate doorbell. The door opened and he entered a well-lit room with a small conference table in the center. The walls were tastefully decorated and there was a pleasant floral smell in the air. The contrast to the dark, loud, tacky entrance was pronounced. It was very similar to every meeting with the client and no longer relaxed Brevtok as it once had.

At the side of the table sat the client.

The client, Narell the Grobbin, was slightly taller than three feet, and had red furry skin and a long nose. His ears were swept back and pointed, with furry tufts. He was dressed in a purple and gray robe with subdued runes stitched in gold threads. He wore slightly more gadgetry than was chic, with an extravagant computer-bracer covering his entire left forearm, and rings, bracelets, necklaces and other jewelry covered with tech symbols nearly everywhere he could place them. He sat in a chair designed to put him at the eye level of the person across from him at the table.

“Welcome, Captain”, said Narell. “Have some tea.”

“Greetings, Researcher Narell”, replied Brevtok. He picked up a small cup as he sat down across the table from Narell. He sipped politely and complemented the brew, receiving several small health buffs. His poison and curse detectors revealed nothing. This was also part of the process they had followed in the past.

They lightly conversed for nearly twenty minutes about the news, the weather, and the state of the local and non-local businesses. A few small plates of hors d'oeuvres rose from the surface of the table, to sit mostly undisturbed. Standard Galactic chit-chat over tea.

Narell patted his lips with a napkin and sat forward. “Captain, I would like to talk about an expedition I’m planning.”

Brevtok nodded. He opened a small case that displayed a screen to take notes and recordings. “We stand ready to assist you in your journey to the Lost Zone, Researcher. Shall we start with our last contract to nail down the details?”

Narell’s eyes and mouth went wide; wider than normal for most bipeds. It gave him a deranged, toothy grin. “Oh, Captain. This will be a much more exciting and profitable trip than any to the Lost Zone!”

The Grobbin started to talk.

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THE DISCUSSION WITH THE RESEARCHER

TWO YEARS AGO, SENELEC IV. PRIVATE MEETING ROOM.

Narell sat for over an hour with the Captain in the small conference room. He showed him video. He showed him charts. He showed him projections and papers.

Brevtok had a decent Intelligence, though he was specced for Constitution and Strength. No one could get to his level through narrow specialization. Not without a huge organization providing for you.

He didn’t understand any of what Narrel tried to explain.

Instead, he focused on what the small alien said, and how he said it. He watched Narell’s eyes, which vacillated from intense to crazed. He watched the three most important videos on repeat.

Finally, he stopped Narrel’s constant flow of speech. He had to give the Grobbin credit. He never sounded deranged. He was methodical and patient, like a good professor. Or a psych nurse calming down a patient before jabbing him with sedatives.

“I will have to explain this to my team. Please say this in simple, clear terms that I can pass on.”

Narrel’s eyes narrowed. “You cannot. Our NDA is binding. You must not tell anyone about our purpose. And the more that are involved, the more diffuse the reward, no? You, and I.”

Brevtok leaned forward. “This cannot be done by less than eight people, who all know the mission. The environment will not allow it. And something like this cannot be sprung as a surprise.”

Narell made a face. “Four, including yourself.”

Brevtok kept his face impassive. “Eight. We don’t have the levels. For all that matters...”

The Grabbin smiled. “I know what you are thinking, Captain. This is a hoax. This is insane. This is a trap...”

Brevtok held up a hand. “Researcher, your patronage has been steadfast, and you honor your commitments, even when they are not to your advantage. For all that I doubt what you are saying is true, I do not doubt that YOU believe it. I have to talk to my crew and see if WE believe it.”

Narell laughed. “Then I have one more thing to show you. Now this is not a threat, but if you tell anyone this we will probably both die.”

Brevtok almost rolled his eyes at the melodrama. He sat back as the status above the Researcher changed. That was not a surprise. There were ways to obfuscate the status to a certain extent. He read the new information and blinked. Then read it again. His mind felt like he’d taken a stun blast. Making a fake like this would have cost millions in the Shop.

“Captain, I swear to you on my levels that this is my true status.” There was a swirl of half-visible light around the Grobbin. He had invoked a contract putting himself at great risk if what he said was not true.

After several minutes of silence the Captain slowly said, “I think I would like to hear more.”