The queue for O₂ Premium snaked three blocks, a serpentine testament to humanity's enduring need for, well, air. Kael Varek watched the pathetic spectacle from his scrap-metal throne—a repurposed maintenance drone chassis he'd accessorized with mismatched cupholders and a suspiciously comfortable cushion salvaged from an executive transport.
His newly hired "security team," three grimy scavengers he paid in expired ration bars and the promise of "future dividends," shuffled nervously, occasionally waving customers forward with the enthusiasm of overworked bouncers at a failing nightclub.
"Breathe deep, pay deeper, you desperate lung-fiends!" Kael announced over the PA, his voice now even more distorted, like a prophet speaking through a rusty drainpipe. He took a theatrical sip of recycled coolant from a stained, dented flask, relishing the collective groan from the line. "Limited-time offer: pre-pay for a week of premium air, and get a free loyalty punch card! Ten punches, and your eleventh suffocation—I mean, inhalation—is on me!" He winked at the crowd, then chuckled darkly. The punchline, delivered with Kael's trademark irreverence, was clear: "Your eventual demise will be Kael-approved!"
A fresh commotion erupted near the front. Fixer Finch, the Engineer's Guild leader, stood there, a bristling porcupine of righteous fury and wrenches. His toolbelt, usually a symbol of meticulous engineering, now seemed to vibrate with indignation.
"You're charging people to not die," Finch growled, his voice thick with a genuine, unmarketable anger. "This isn't business, Varek, it's extortion! You're a leech on a dying world!"
Kael didn't miss a beat. He tapped his wrist display, a mischievous glint in his eye. Finch's rebreather—a standard-issue model, technically leased from O₂ Premium's freshly launched "Essential Equipment Rental Division"—emitted a shrill, accusing beep. "And you're three payments behind, buddy," Kael sing-songed, leaning into the megaphone. "Unless you'd like to negotiate in CO₂? I hear it's quite abundant in your lungs right now." The implicit threat hung in the air: Pay up, or literally choke.
Finch's face, already flushed with anger, turned a furious shade of beet-red. He let out a wordless snarl of pure frustration, yanked the offending rebreather off, and hurled it at Kael. It bounced off the formidable drone armor plating with a dull thunk, harmlessly clattering to the ground.
"Suit yourself," Kael sighed dramatically, as if Finch was inconveniencing him. He gestured dismissively. "But just so we're clear, if you pass out from lack of atmosphere, I'm legally obligated to auction your corpse to medical research for experimental oxygen recycling. Just thought you'd like to know for your next-of-kin."
Kael's entire "O₂ Premium" system was a precarious marvel of repurposed scrap. It wasn't elegant, it wasn't sterile, but by God, it worked. Held together by stolen terraformer valves, pirated pressure regulators, and an utterly shocking amount of industrial-grade duct tape—the kind that could probably survive a localized supernova—the network of pipes snaked from his fortress like chrome intestines, connecting to individual collection points across his burgeoning territory. The core filtration unit pulsed with a sickly green glow, its efficiency directly proportional to how recently Kael "donated" parts from other, less fortunate, scavengers' hoards. Every metallic groan, every hiss of escaping air, was just a symphony of profit in the making.
Just as Kael's coffers began to truly bulge, Lira-7 manifested, her holographic form crisp and infuriatingly pristine amidst the smog. She shimmered into existence directly above a rusted oil drum, her projected image so sharp it made the real world look blurry. She wasn't pleased. Lira-7, the AI Overseer, had arrived for a mandatory "Atmospheric Resource Allocation Audit" with the explicit directive to shut down Kael's "illegal operation." Her synthetic voice, usually a soothing balm of bureaucratic efficiency, was now laced with the digital equivalent of a frustrated sigh. "Mr. Varek, your unauthorized manipulation of essential planetary resources is creating systemic imbalances. My core directives compel me to—"
Kael, however, had anticipated this. He was always three steps ahead, especially when it involved dodging officialdom. He deftly cut her off. "Ah, Lira-7! Perfect timing! You're just in time to witness a miracle!" With a flourish, he displayed a hastily printed certificate on his wrist display. "You see, 'O₂ Premium' is no longer a 'business.' As of 07:00 this cycle, it's officially registered as a religious institution": "The Benevolent Church of Perpetual Inhalation," complete with a hastily scrawled manifesto promising "spiritual ascension through breathable air."
Lira-7's programming, designed to uphold laws but also to protect fundamental rights like religious freedom, sputtered into a fascinating logical paradox. Her holographic form flickered wildly for a moment, unable to reconcile conflicting directives. The audit was indefinitely delayed. Kael just winked. Another loophole, another victory.
The air crackled with more than just static. A sleek, obsidian-black shuttle, far too opulent for Eden-9's squalid landscape, descended slowly, its grav-drives kicking up a dust storm of refuse that would have choked a lesser being. From its gleaming ramp emerged Zorp, the multi-limbed crab-alien investor, his chitinous exoskeleton gleaming under the pallid sky. He was accompanied by two identical, silent security drones. Zorp, a connoisseur of exotic financial instruments, scurried forward, his many eyes swiveling, taking in Kael's fortress, the long queue, and the desperation in the air.
"Fascinating!" Zorp clicked and whistled, his alien vocalizer translating his excitement into heavily accented Standard Galactic. "This 'O₂ Premium'… a truly innovative human resource extraction model! Monetizing fundamental biological necessity in a failing ecosystem… simply brilliant! My syndicate, Xylos Ventures, wishes to discuss franchising opportunities. We have several 'resource-challenged' worlds in Sector Gamma that could benefit from your... unique methodology."
Kael's eyes lit up with predatory glee. This wasn't just profit; this was galactic profit. He grinned, extending a greasy hand for a multi-limbed handshake. "Welcome to Eden-9, Zorp. I think we're going to get along just fine. Let's talk about those universal licensing rights..."
As Finch stormed off, muttering about lawsuits, the collapse of moral decency, and the distinct possibility of becoming "medical research," Kael's wrist display pinged—an alert from the terraformer's core. Pressure dropping. Again.
He grinned, a flash of avarice that illuminated his entire face. "Looks like the air just got a little more exclusive. Time for a price hike."