Star Realms: Rescue Run

by Jon Del Arroz

  With a single thought, his vision field changed back to the fully-immersed virtual reality world of Champions of the Apocalypse. His father always told him games like this were for the masses below, to lull them into a sense of passivity, and ensure only the people with real energy and drive rose to the heights of the megacorporations. It sounded callous, but his father hadn’t meant it that way. It was only to warn Dario not to waste his time or get addicted; not to spend his real credits on armor or weapon upgrades in a phony world. He noted his player costume’s purple-spiked shoulder plates. So much for that advice.

  Dario wasn’t stupid. He didn’t overspend on the premium upgrades. He’d heard stories of people who dropped their whole life’s savings into the game to be the best out there. He could be competitive as well, but not to that degree. At the end of the day he knew he had to close the window and return to his very real job scanning a percentage of the handtabs, oculars, auditory enhancers, and other bodymods that Regency BioTech mass-produced. How could anyone say he didn’t need games after a full day of that?

  Someone had to do it, and according to the quarterly performance report that the system spat, he did a more than adequate job. Though with his implants scanning, how could he do less than adequate? Half of his job was done for him by his oculars. And why beyond adequate? Why not good? Or exceptional? He’d never understand some of the corporate phrasing.

  The door chime sounded, breaking his reverie. Dario turned from the window toward his apartment living room and all of its chic modern furniture and the door itself. “Come in.”

  The door whooshed open to reveal his father, Vice President of Corporate Operations, Kostas Anazao himself. When people heard that last name, even when Dario had been down at Mars University, their demeanors changed. The name garnered respect, fear, awe, envy, and any combination of them. Sometimes Dario would conveniently forget to tell people his last name to stop them from treating him differently than they would anyone else. It didn’t help that he was a spitting image of the man in front of him.

  Mr. Anazao had the same toned build, face somewhat more aged but that even was dulled by the company’s rejuvenation cream. Even his hair was the same: that gelled style everywhere within the company these days. He always kept his suit on, whether on off hours or not. For better or worse, Vice President Kostas Anazao was a face of the company. “Dario,” his father said.

  “Mr. Anazao,” Dario said, having become used to referring to his father by his proper name in the last year. They’d both agreed that calling him ‘father’ or ‘dad’ would look odd in staff meetings. Everyone knew their relationship. It was moot. This, at least, gave an illusion of non-favoritism. Though, most of the time, Dario was sure that his father was harder on him because of their relationship.

  Mr. Anazao walked through the apartment like he owned the place, smoothing down his suit jacket and taking a moment to give it a scan with his natural eyes. It was the same look Dario had seen since he was a child. His father never said anything abusive, but the look contained judgment of stylistic choices and cleanliness. Dario had kept his place almost spotless because of it, something he took pride in. His tastes weren’t that far off from his father’s either. That look still started off a tone of a meeting to get under Dario’s skin. “I’ve come to talk to you about the latest Q.P.R.,” Mr. Anazao said with the corporate short hand for the quarterly performance report.

  “Was there a problem?” Dario asked as casually as he could, unable to stop the slight tinge of defensiveness that crept into his voice. He leaned against his coffee table.

  Mr. Anazao didn’t answer, but helped himself to a seat at Dario’s table. “Three quarters in a row of a ‘beyond adequate’ score. You only received ‘adequate’ on your first training period, but that’s moot now.”

  Was that supposed to be a compliment? An insult? Dario looked at his father with confusion. “Okay?” It was hard not to manage to sound like a kid around him.

  “Well, with a track record of beyond adequate, our algorithms have increased your personnel credits-above-replacement score. The Directors have had a discussion and we believe it’s time for you to be promoted.”

  Dario’s heart leapt from his chest. He was going to get out of performing quality control scans? Maybe do something that was worthwhile? “Yes?” He asked, voice filled with anticipation.

  “Yes. Arthur Miello has been transferred to procurement at the Io Trading Post. His position has subsequently opened up and we’ve decided to create a new title of Corporate Quality Control Manager. You’ll still be responsible for some of the same duties, as we don’t have many personnel who have your particular skill set. Your oculars are an expensive modification, you understand.”

  “I know.” Years after receiving them, Dario still felt guilty over the credits his parents had spent on those implants. His excitement waned considerably when he heard his duties wouldn’t be changing much. A change of pace was most of the appeal of being promoted. And overseeing other people performing the same rote tasks? There was nothing to do. But Mr. Anazao, representing the corporation, was here to give him an honor. That was the point. Dario had to remember that. “Thanks. I really appreciate it.”

  “This will result in an increase in responsibility. Yes, you’ll be working in your department, but you’ll be overseeing the early quality control stages on the manufacturing side as well, you understand?”

  Dario raised a brow, his interest in the promotion returning. “Would I have to travel?” he asked, trying not to sound too eager.

  “In time, likely,” Mr. Anazao said, his tone dismissive of Dario’s desires. A managerial position wouldn’t change the dynamics of their relationship. Dario would still remain below his father in every regard.

  “That’ll be a lifestyle change. I’ll have to get ready,” Dario said, hoping that he could visit some of the other facilities sooner rather than later.

  “Yes, you will.” Mr. Anazao patted the table three times. “To help with the transition I’ve assigned you a new assistant. We’ve gone through resumes from the corporate sector and found a person who best matches your personality needs according to our psych profiles and also is someone who can pick up the slack where you have deficiencies.”

  Every compliment paired with an insult. Dario shook his head to himself to try to ignore that aspect of this conversation. His own assistant! Twenty-six years old and only a year out of the business master’s program. That was a huge honor, backhanded insults or not. On the other hand, his father and whoever else had been involved in making this hiring decision hadn’t consulted him. Should he be offended? Part of him wanted to fight having an assistant because that decision had been stolen from him when he was supposed to be management material. Then again, he was supposed to be overjoyed with the prospect of this promotion. Wasn’t he? Dario put on a smile. “What’s the guy’s name?”

  “Jake Dylan, he comes over from the accounting department. He’s very organized, very sharp,” his father said.

  Did that imply that he wasn’t? This was becoming too much, he over-thought everything. His father had just promoted him. That didn’t warrant resentment. “Okay, when do I meet him?”

  “He’s standing by in the hallway, if you have the time.”

  As if that left Dario any choice. His father had set him up with this intention. Dario kept reminding himself he’d been promoted. More responsibility, more credits, more reputation that he could use to get out of his father’s shadow. He should be happy. Most people never made it this far. “All right, tell him to come in.”

  Mr. Anazao stood and made his way to the door. He tapped the controls for it to slide open, revealing another man, about Dario’s age with an oblong scalp-mod. He had deep blue hair, frozen as a wave crashing against the shore and wore a proper suit as Dario’s father had. The oddest part about him was that he didn’t have oculars, but an antiquated pair of glasses that rested on his nose. “Mr. Anazao,” Jake Dylan said, stepping past the threshol
d and offering his hand.

  “That’s my father, here,” Dario said with the motion of his thumb toward the elder Anazao. “Call me Dario,” he said. “You must be Jake?”

  Jake nodded to Dario and gave a glance over at his father. “Yes sir. I recently transferred from corporate accounting, the outer system office. I’m honored to be invited to HQ itself. The station here is massive.”

  “You’ll get used to it over time,” Mr. Anazao said. “I’ll leave you two to get acquainted. Mr. Dylan has your next week’s agenda and is ready to brief you.” With that, he clasped Dario on the shoulder. “Good work, Dario. This wasn’t my doing, but your achievement scores. Remember that.”

  Before Dario could say another word, shocked by the sense of pride that instilled in him, his father strode out the door.

  “Shall we begin then?” Jake Dylan asked with an eager smile. He pushed the frame of his glasses up on his nose.

  “Sure. Can I get you water or something?” Dario pulled out a chair for Jake Dylan to have a seat. His new assistant seemed like a nice enough man, though something was off about him.

  “Sounds good.” Jake took a seat in the chair, folding his hands properly over the table.

  Dario canted his head at him to get a better look. That was it. His modern hair and bodymod mixed with classic mannerisms—and those odd glasses—they didn’t match. Perhaps his appearance was intended to unsettle people and give him the upper hand. Dario had learned enough about subtle body language tactics to dominate business in his master’s program. But Jake said he came from accounting, hardly a cutthroat department. He wondered what this man’s gambit was. Plenty of time for that later.

  Instead of grilling Jake, he handed him a glass of water and opened with small talk. For the next hour, he and Jake sat at the table and discussed their future business endeavors.

  Chapter 3

  A New Mission

  Location Unknown

  Local Date 1137.467

  Joan’s eyes fluttered open. Her body ached everywhere and her stomach churned. The aftereffects of a plasma pistol stun—two plasma pistol stuns. As if one weren’t enough to take out a woman her size. Better safe than sorry, she supposed. Military redundancy. Something she wished she could have in her own operation.

  She sat up and glanced around to get her bearings. Four walls surrounded her, one with a door and no handle, sealed from the outside with no terminal access. The ceiling grid had small ventilation ducts for air, and bright lights that shone down on her. Other than that, there was a bench extending from the back wall with the mattress where she sat. All of it was painted a pale metallic grey. Nothing to help her escape.

  Her handtab had been disabled, leaving a blank film protruding from the back of her hand. She was helpless. Joan scrambled to her feet despite the protests of the muscles from her thighs down to her calves from the electrical jolt they had received earlier. She rushed the door and tried to dig her fingers into the crack. The door didn’t budge.

  “I would recommend against exerting yourself,” G.O.D. said. “The effects of imprisonment on the human anatomy can be most taxing, adding to it could cause permanent harm. A cursory scan indicates that the probability of escape is less than one percent, leaving current efforts futile.”

  They hadn’t found her ear implant. At least there was that. Joan let her hands fall back to her side. Whoever had captured her probably had cameras or at the very least audio recordings of her. She shouldn’t give away too much information about her small advantage. Joan tried to look like she was talking to herself. “Where am I?” she asked.

  “Based on the inertia of the thrust, despite the gravitational dampeners, I estimate we are five light-seconds from Balibran Station. Which direction, I would need more… more… more…”

  Joan instinctively rubbed her ear with her palm. “What’s the matter?”

  In a sudden, bizarre change, G.O.D. erupted into song:

  “What ought we to do

  Gentle sisters say?

  Propriety we know

  Says we ought to stay

  While sympathy exclaims

  Freedom from your tether

  Play it on our gains

  Leave them here together!”

  Afterward, a series of beeps flooded into Joan’s ear. “Standby, rebooting,” G.O.D. said. Several moments passed, the dull hum of space engines through the vents the only noise in the cell. “Ms. Shengtu, I regret to inform you my file has been corrupted. It appears the incident occurred when my core functions were uploaded into Balibran Station’s archives. My program must sync with the makers in order to restore and function again as proper.”

  “Leaving’s not exactly an option right now.” Joan looked at the door. If G.O.D. was malfunctioning, that could be big trouble for her. Not as if he could help her escape from this cell. If only she could have her handtab back online, she could figure out where they were held.

  The door opened without warning, revealing a woman who could have been her grandmother. Purple ocular implants and white hair, she wore modest, professional attire. She was flanked by two soldiers carrying the same plasma pistols Joan had seen before.

  “Bring her,” the older woman said.

  Joan scanned the two guards as they approached to either side of her. She could easily take down one, but the second would likely hit her with yet another plasma pistol beam. Even if she managed to handle both, she wouldn’t be able to get to the older woman before she could sound the alarm. There had to be another way out of here.

  The guards grabbed Joan by either arm and pulled her to her toes. Their grips twisted her skin, burning. Joan attempted to jerk her arms free, only to be met by the resistance of a tighter hold on her arms.

  “I’m coming! Don’t touch me! What’s this about anyway? I’m a private citizen and I know my rights. I want to speak with a legal defender.”

  The older woman led the way out of the room. “Quiet, or I will have the guards silence you for me.”

  Joan opened her mouth to protest, but thought better of it. She followed along with the guards as her captor led them down a corridor. This corridor was thinner than Balibran Station’s, as typical from her experience on vessels. Ships needed to preserve space. Along the walls, every fifty paces or so, hung a bright yellow banner with a black star on it, the flag of the Martine Star Empire, or just “Star Empire” as people tended to call it.

  This was a military vessel. But the woman walking in front of her was no officer, not even a high ranking one. It was easy to tell she was a civilian by the way she walked, although she was no stranger to command. The woman had ordered the soldiers around, after all. What was the military doing capturing thieves on mining stations and then deferring to civilians?

  Security in the colonies wasn’t typically as tight as the Terran Trade Federation, part of the appeal of being in the colony worlds. She’d heard that it wasn’t uncommon in central Trade Federation systems to utilize their military against alleged corporate crimes that could range from petty theft to fraudulent transfers. Frightening. None of that happened in the Star Empire, at least as far as Joan was aware. This didn’t make sense.

  The older woman stopped in front of a door marked Level 2 Conference Chamber and tapped its terminal to open it. She held her arm out to signify Joan and the guards to continue through.

  Joan entered the room with tables set in a horseshoe shape, filled with at least thirty different older people of all genders, races and creeds. All wore formal wear. A holoprojection on the back wall displayed a rotating screen saver of the Star Empire symbol. The guard shoved her to the center of the horseshoe. The people surrounding her mumbled. She felt small as she saw someone pointing, cupping a hand over her lips to cast whatever judgment about Joan to her colleague.

  A bald man with a prickly white beard at the head of the horseshoe table banged a gavel. “Order! Order! Everyone settle down. Minister Jaileen, this is the subject?” He inclined his head toward Joan.


  The woman who ushered Joan in nodded, looking down to her hand tab. “Fellow Ministers, before you is Joan Shengtu. Twenty-two years old, five feet six inches in height, one hundred and fifteen pounds. Eyes brown, hair black. Daughter of Yong Su and Amy Shengtu, who prior to their demise ten years ago, were independent cargo transport operators. Ms. Shengtu’s aunt was her legal guardian from that point forward and she finished her remedial education on Mercene before joining the Star Empire Navy. After training, she was assigned to the S.E.S. Destiny as an operational diagnostic technician. She was dishonorably discharged and taken to Rayknii Military Prison after being convicted of theft and illegal resale of military supplies. After her sentence—”

  A man with oversized memory chip implant on his skull cleared his throat. “Theft of military supplies? Dishonorable discharge? This is your grand plan, Minister Jaileen?” He laughed. “This is insanity. I think we’ve heard enough.”

  “Minister Ethani,” the bearded man with the gavel said. “You are out of order.”

  Ministers? Confused, Joan glanced around the room once more. This couldn’t be the actual Council of Ministers? Emperor Lucien’s advisors wouldn’t get involved with petty theft. Even if the information she was supposed to obtain on Balibran station was important, it couldn’t be that level of important. A mining station could hardly be a place of national secrets. Besides, the Council of Ministers had to deal with war and rebellion and raids from the Lly’bra.

  “The only thing out of order is this fool-hearty idea. We have a military. We should use them.”

  “This has been discussed ad nauseam,” Minister Jaileen said, glancing at Joan before turning her attention to the bearded man. “Also, it’s been voted on already, might I remind you. A military expedition into Terran Trade Federation space would be disastrous. The casualties according to all simulations would not be worth the cost of extraction. This plan has the best possibility of success with the least possibility of blowback.”