The trading hall of Az-Rath Station buzzed like a 21st-century marketplace. Aliens of all kinds haggled, bargained, shouted, and bartered over wares from across the stars—spice-bundles from cropworlds, weapon crates, pulsating eggs sealed in temperature-controlled cases, and mechanical components of uncertain legality.
"Scanning items," chirped the teller drone, a four-eyed floating orb with a cheerful voice and a bank logo stamped across its side. "Origin: unauthorized. Salvage declaration received. Calculating resale value…"
Kael tapped his foot impatiently as various digits flickered across the screen.
"Total value: 7,380 station credits. Would you like to proceed with the sale?"
"Yes," he said.
The drone emitted a happy chime. "Transaction complete. Thank you for your contribution to Az-Rath's economic future. Please consider not exploding in a docking bay."
The haul consisted of leftover junk from the nomad ship, plus some salvage from the recent pirate raid. It wasn't much—just over seven thousand credits—but here on Az-Rath Station, that could stretch surprisingly far.
Kael moved to a nearby stall and began spending.
First came the necessities: rations. Real food that wouldn't squirm in his stomach or regenerate midway through chewing. He didn't care what it looked like anymore—so long as it was safe for human consumption. A few weeks' worth of freeze-sealed meal packs, dense protein bars, and mineral supplements were loaded into a lockbox labeled *PERSONAL - DO NOT ORK*.
Then came the big purchase.
Scrap. Crates of it. Busted servos. Engine casings. Wiring spools. Gutted drones. Ship-grade conduits. Rotting mechanical limbs. Fuel cells that "probably still worked." Half a disassembled exo-suit.
"You sure you want to buy this?" the vendor asked—a chitin-plated merchant who blinked vertically. "This is broken junk."
Kael smirked.
"Perfect. I've got some maniacs who'll love it."
---
Hauling it all back to the dock took time. Kael ignored the wary glances from station security as they eyed the towering crates of discarded gear. The Orks, thankfully, were out of sight—still confined to restricted zones aboard the ship, obeying him for now.
He locked up the supplies, tossed the food crate into his quarters, and turned toward his final stop of the day:
The Mercenary Hall.
Compared to the rest of the station, it felt like an ancient gladiator arena. Screens displayed job offers while mercs milled around—some armored, others casually armed with weapons the size of motorcycles. Job brokers took applications from hardened veterans, cybernetic enforcers, and even a pair of mechanical dogs with sentience licenses.
The listings covered everything from exploration to defense, transport to private security. Kael studied the board.
Most had one thing in common: brute work.
Escort duties through asteroid belts. Riot suppression in mining colonies. Creature extermination on failed terraforming projects. Security augmentation on frontier outposts.
Jobs the Orks could smash through without overthinking it.
But there was a catch.
Kael couldn't just throw them into any mission. Something like a creature extermination gig sounded ideal—until the cleanup crew realized the Orks were the bigger threat. He needed to be careful. Strategic.
'I can't expose their full capabilities yet. Not until I'm strong enough. Who knows what these aliens would do if they realized what the Orks can really do?'
His internal debate stopped cold when his eyes landed on a listing:
---
**Mission: Data Retrieval – Mobile Warforge "Bellwether" \[S-Class]**
**Commissioner:** Leth Industries
**Reward:** 500,000 credits upon successful retrieval of core data.
**Additional Terms:** Full salvage rights to the structure and remaining systems.
**Details:** The *Bellwether* was a mobile warship manufacturing facility operated by Leth Industries before it was overrun by a Class-3 Hive-type xeno infestation. Life signs ceased five standard years ago. The onboard AI is believed to contain valuable encrypted blueprints, prototype data, and weapons design logs.
Due to extreme internal damage and bio-contamination, recovery crews have failed all entry attempts. The derelict now drifts in slow decaying orbit near a collapsed mining sector.
Client has forfeited reclamation rights. Retrieval of data is the sole objective. All salvage, scrap, and hull assets may be retained by successful contractors.
**Note:** Risk Level – *HIGH*. Xeno activity remains unpredictable. 12 previous mission teams failed.
> > **Accept Mission**
---
Kael stared.
Half a million credits.
But that wasn't what hooked him.
"A mobile warship factory?"
If even part of it was intact, the mekboyz would go feral with excitement. They could repair it. Rebuild it. Make it their own.
And the best thing? No body cares even if he destroyed the place as long as the objective was fulfiled. He can also hide the ork's abilities as there's no other individuals in that place. And not to forget the growth orks would receive from such a dangerous battle.
This wasn't just a job. It was a fortress. A stronghold. A new home.
He slammed the Confirm button.
---
"Mission accepted," the terminal chimed. "Contacting Commissioner for briefing. Good luck."
---
Varm Leth's Liaison
In a luxurious, office located in the inner area of the space station , Jhoren rubbed his temples and stared at the updated mission log.
> **#G-9845-VL: Claimed.**
> **Assigned to: 'Kael' – Independent Operator**
> **Species: Human. Crew Status: Unverified.**
> **Visual Profile: Attached – Armor condition moderate. Species cohesion: Unknown.**
He tapped the image on his monitor, frowning at the messy-haired, tired-looking human who'd just signed up to reclaim the *Bellwether*.
"Huh," Jhoren grunted. "Another dead man."
He leaned back, chair automatically reclining beneath his weight. The room was surrounded by displays of alien specimen and ancient relics signifying that he was no regular man.
Jhoren flipped through the list of failed missions—five mercenary teams, two security firms, one heavily armed salvage crew. All gone. No signals. No pings. Just… vanished.
"If it was possible to clear it then we would have already took that item" he muttered.
He brought up Kael's purchase logs—cheap food, rations, scrap metal. No high-grade weapons. No military backup. And only one flagged crew entry under his ship's manifest:
> "Misc: xeno workforce – Unspecified, brutish."
Jhoren snorted.
"Brutish? Probably bought himself a bunch of labor mutants or jungle-bred mercs on discount."
Still… the man hadn't flinched at the payout, the risk level, or the location. That was… something.
Jhoren clicked on the mic and leaned forward.
"Hey. Operator Kael, this is mission handler Jhoren. Just patching in a final note before deployment."
The screen on Kael's end blinked to life.
"If you make it past the outer hull and reach the factory's Core Black Archive look for a restricted node behind the mainframe. Transmit the encryption key I just sent to your datapad and you'll trigger… a secondary offer. Private contract. No questions, Higher payout."
He paused, then added:
"Assuming you're still alive by then."
A crackle of static.
Kael didn't speak. He just stared into the camera with that tired, faintly amused expression.
Jhoren ended the call.
"Hope you're more than another corpse, Kael. That place doesn't need another one."
He leaned back, thinking not of encrypted data, but of the real prize hidden in the ship's core. A relic. An item everyone would kill for—if they knew it existed.
[AN: is the pace fast or just enough?]