Dez bristled his mustache as he stood at the crosswalk, staring at the entrance to the Expeditioners Union’s main headquarters, a clash of emotions in his gut. Ever since his teens he’d trusted the Union to have his back, only now he couldn’t shake the rotten feeling that something had changed. It was Union leadership, after all, who’d let Verloren Industries storm the docks and take over his ship. But Dez was sure there must be some kind of misunderstanding. If he could just reach his representative, then they could get it all sorted out…

  Though, first he had to actually get inside the building, which he realized might be trickier than he’d expected. Amassing at the headquarters from all directions was a steady stream of expeditioners, easy to spot at a distance by their colorful display of armor and weapons. They marched in a furor, cramming their way through the lobby doors. Dez wasn’t exactly surprised to see the uproar—Union folks were guaranteed to raise a stink whenever one of the corporations got out of line. Still, he’d hoped the building would be more on the empty side, and not swarming with people who could easily recognize him at any turn.

  It was still hard for Dez to say just how much of a wanted man he really was. He had yet to see any corporate bounty bulletins posted about the city, so to the public he was still anonymous. But if Union leadership had specifically allowed Verloren to seize the Redland Runner, then they had to know that Dez—and his team—were involved somehow. What the rest of the Union rank and file knew remained to be seen. Dez just hoped that the tale about him purposefully sabotaging Verloren and inciting them to strongarm the docks hadn’t gotten out yet. If it had, well… he shuddered to think what his colleagues might do to him then. As the traffic cleared, he took a deep breath and casually strolled across the street, praying that the trilby hat he’d borrowed from Tycho would be enough to disguise him at a glance.

  Dez pushed aside the sturdy glass and copper door guarding the headquarters. He braced himself as he walked inside, pulling his hat down tighter, trying to act as inconspicuous as possible as the stream of outraged expeditioners fluttered around him. To his great relief, no one gave him a second look. They appeared to be so incensed by the situation on the docks that they couldn’t be bothered to focus on anything else. With Dez’s simple disguise doing its duty, it was almost as if he were invisible.

  Drifting away from the crowd, Dez slid behind the rows of geometric pillars skirting the edges of the spartan limestone atrium. The lobby of the Union building was a frugal space despite its impressive scale, exuding strength without extravagance. Colorful streamers, draped over the walls and pillars and wrapped in pro-union slogans, were the only things breaking up the otherwise austere architecture. As Dez passed under the flags, he spied on the impassioned crowd that gathered at the base of the central staircase, huddled under the lofty banner that bore the motto of the Union written in its original Angelic language.

  Drawn in by curiosity, Dez paused and leaned casually against a pillar, watching coyly as the mob grew larger and shouted over each other in heated displeasure. Dez couldn’t help but smile—he’d always loved a good protest. The crowd was directing their fury towards a solitary man standing on the stairs, his arms raised in an attempt to quell their passion. If Dez wasn’t currently incognito, he would be standing shoulder to shoulder with his comrades, loudly voicing his mind as well. After all, as the President of the Expeditioners Union, it was this man who was to blame for all this.

  President Kastilon Grietz was a glossy, annoyingly handsome fellow on the wrong side of forty, with dark features and smirking eyes. His custom-tailored adventuring attire, untouched by even the smallest fleck of dirt, shone brightly in the light of the atrium window. As the roar of the crowd continued on, Kastilon threw out his arms wider, a suave smile on his face.

  “Ladies and gentlemen! Ladies and gentlemen, please!” he called, his powerful voice carrying over the crowd. Slowly he tamped down the unrest.

  A single figure stepped forward from the pack: an absurdly muscular tank of a man, a head taller than those around him, draped in plate steel with a tower shield slung over his back. A silence fell over the crowd as all eyes looked towards him. Dez pleasantly nodded to himself from the shadows, thanking the Angels that Siegmar was in town.

  Siegmar ‘The Tower’ Volff had long been a titan among the Expeditioners Union. For two dozen years he'd been building his way up the ranks, demonstrating unwavering strength and deft leadership at every turn, eventually becoming owner of his own company and his own ship: the Lost Harmony, a beautifully restored Ziedler Meserra, the largest landship in the Union fleet. And as the Sergeant-at-arms for nearing on a decade now, he understood the complexities of the system better than most. If anyone should be the voice of the people, it was him.

  “Ah, Siegmar. I didn’t see you there,” cracked Kastilon with a charming grin.

  “Stuff it, Grietz,” said Siegmar. He pointed at the president with an accusatory finger. “I thought this organization was supposed to fight for our rights! Why are we lettin’ these slickers crawl all over our ships?” The other expeditioners rattled in agreement.

  Naila Scheier, a sturdy, battle-hardened woman with deep scars over her brow and cheek, stepped from the throng of adventurers and stood beside her captain. “I didn’t expect the Union to jump into bed with Verloren so easily!” she added. The crowd offered a fresh round of aggressive chattering.

  “We had a run canceled because of this!” said Siegmar. “How am I supposed to make up for that loss? I got a crew to provide for!”

  “We’ve fended off the corps for decades!” hollered Frann Noorden, an elderly woman in faded armor who’d seemed impossibly old even back when Dez had first joined the Union. She took a spry step forward. “And now we just bend over whenever they come askin’? And for what? I want answers!” The mob roared, throwing their fists into the air.

  Kastilon opened his arms, once again casting a soothing spell over the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, you have nothing to fear,” he said as the room simmered to a gentle quiet. “Verloren Industries and the Union have reached a simple understanding, nothing more. In exchange for a brief freeze of the docks, Verloren will allow us to be a part of a historic opportunity.”

  “Is that so?!” shouted Ari Berelean, the highborn first officer of the Dusk Reaver, whose long features and overzealous mohawk made him look like the ass that he was. “And what opportunity might that be?!”

  “I’m sure you all heard the news this morning,” Kastilon soothed, taking a step down the stairs. “Verloren Industries is forging a path to Ama-Lasria itself. And in exchange for our cooperation in providing them with some… simple information, we are invited to travel alongside them. Not as rivals, but as fellow explorers, navigating the road of limitless discovery.” He took another step closer to the crowd. “What is this temporary inconvenience compared to the greatest expedition our world has ever known?”

  Dez felt his stomach drop. ‘Information’ said Kastilon. He wasn’t talking about selling out the Red, was he? No, he couldn’t be—the Union would never give up one of their own. Dez pressed himself flush with the pillar and watched on, hoping his comrades would push back against this disturbing turn of events.

  “We don’t need Verloren,” scoffed Siegmar, folding up his mammoth arms. “Let them have the Dead City. We can make our own way.”

  Kastillon took another step, arriving on the ground floor, face to face with his fellow expeditioners. “I’m surprised to hear you say that. I thought you couldn’t take the mercenary out of Siegmar ‘The Tower’.”

  Siegmar glared at him. “I’ve learned some things.”

  “Well then at least think of your crew. Imagine the wealth an expedition like this might bring them.” Kastilon turned and looked Naila in the eyes. “How much it might provide for their families.”

  Naila averted her gaze and bit her lip, plainly thinking to her two young sons that she somehow managed to sprinkle into every conversation. She glanced up at Siegmar with raised brows, considering the president’s point. The captain gripped his fingers around his arms and breathed a sharp sigh from his nose.

  “But you know we can’t trust the corps!” argued Frann.

  “Come now, Frann, these old antagonisms have no place in this modern world,” said Kastilon. “Times are changing, and unless we adapt we risk being left behind. You must know first hand how rapidly the march of progress can turn, you’ve been at the Union since the very beginning after all.”

  “I have not!”

  “And if Verloren concerns you, then consider this: would you allow them to reap the spoils of this expedition without challenge? Would you allow them to return with riches and technology beyond imagination while we sit idly on the side? No, as independents, it is our duty to escort them. We cannot let them hoard this world’s treasures for themselves.” The crowd’s anger gradually quelled with Kastilon’s words. They whispered among each other in subdued accordance.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  Kastilon grinned. He took a step back onto the stairs and raised his arms once more, pontificating to the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, my dear friends—we have in the palm of our hands the greatest opportunity of the century, but we must remain as one. Remember our creed, in the words of the Angels themselves: ‘Batasura Zhe Kaiev Diarra’—‘Through unity are our shackles riven’. This is a great day for all of us. Our Union will seize this moment, conquer the Primordial City, and emerge stronger than ever!”

  The bulk of the expeditioners murmured agreeably, bewitched by their president’s flashy words.

  “Now, let us venture forth,” Kastilon trumpeted, an impassioned look on his face. “Return to your ships and prepare to launch. We will forge a path to boundless glory, together!”

  A majority of the crowd began to disband, their outrage snuffed out. They shuffled towards the exits to go prepare for the journey ahead. Smugly satisfied, Kastilon swiveled around and ascended back up the stairs, disappearing from view.

  Siegmar and a handful of others were not so quick to leave. They stood by, unconvinced and unsatisfied, glaring at their president with distrustful eyes. In time, with no recourse available, they reluctantly dispersed along with the pack.

  Dez watched as the crowd broke away, furiously rubbing his mustache with concern. Once again he found himself wary of the effectiveness of Kastilon’s rhetoric. How could people be okay with this? A corporation making deals with the Union—it was insane, unheard of. Dangerous. And what could drive them to make such a deal in the first place? Dez needed to get to the bottom of it, and fast. With the building now sparsely populated, he swiftly slinked out of the lobby and into a less traveled corridor.

  Making his way through the maze of cream colored halls and stairways, Dez eventually came to a modest office door nestled in the middle of the building’s loneliest wing. The name ‘BRANICH KAISER: VOYAGER-CLASS REPRESENTATIVE’ was painted onto the foggy window in chipped, faded lettering—a monument to his many years of tireless service. Dez walked up to the door and gently wrapped his knuckles on the glass.

  “Just a minute!” called a nervous voice from the other side. The door swung open. Staring Dez in the face was a frazzled, wizened-looking man with a thick black mustache fading into an even thicker white beard. He quickly covered his mouth, stifling a gasp.

  “Heya, Branich,” said Dez.

  “Angels above!” Branich softly cried upon seeing Dez standing in his doorway. He stuck his head into the hall and looked swiftly in both directions. The corridor was empty, much to his relief. “Come in. Quick,” he said, grabbing Dez by the arm and pulling him into his office. Branich fastidiously locked the bolt on his door. “What are you doing here?”

  “Doubtless you ain’t heard, but my crew and I are in a spot of trouble,” Dez answered, removing his paltry disguise.

  “You can say that again!” Branich ran a frazzled hand across his shaved head. “Verloren told us everythin’: conspiring with a broker, stealing their haul. I ain’t never seen ‘em so steamed. They had violence on the mind, I could feel it. If they catch you… well, I shudder to think what might happen. You need to get out of the city—now.”

  “Listen, this is all a big misunderstandin’,” Dez began, going through his planned statement. “Sheah Ziedler, she’s a good kid. She got in a bit over her head, took a bad tip without knowin’ better. But that’s all it were—a tip. That site were unclaimed, we didn’t steal nothin’ from no one. Now, all we need is a meeting with Verloren on neutral ground. If we can just explain the situation, I’m sure we can all be friends here. Nobody needs to get hurt.”

  Branich frowned. “That’s not gonna happen.”

  “Ah, c’mon, can’t we just—”

  “It ain’t so simple,” said Branich. “Do you have any idea what kind of mess you’re in?”

  Dez creased his brow and pursed his lips. “Well, I… thought I did. What don’t I know?”

  “Look—things have gotten real complicated ‘round here,” Branich grimaced. “You hear about Verloren’s Ama-Lasria expedition, right?”

  “Yeah, it’s all over the news. Also saw Kastilon make a big speech about it in the lobby.” Dez couldn’t hide his displeasure. “He said Verloren is lettin’ folks tag along to the Dead City. Also mentioned somethin’ about helping them out with some sorta ‘information’. But I’m sure it’s got nothin’ to do with my thing, yeah? …Right?”

  Branich stared at the floor. “Look… I don’t know how to say this…” he mumbled.

  “…What did you do?” whispered Dez, his heart sinking.

  Branich took a deep breath. “Yesterday the Verloren Operations Director herself came into the office. She… she demanded we give up the file on the Redland Runner—its specs, its personnel. Everything.”

  “But you turned her down, right?” said Dez. “You told her to shove off?”

  “I would have, but Kastilon… In his wisdom, he saw this as his opportunity to leave his mark on the Union,” Branich revealed with a heavy heart. “We give up one of our own, no questions asked, and in exchange Verloren agrees to escort us through the high north, shield us through the Storm, and give us first claim on all the treasure Ama-Lasria has to offer. And so… he cut a deal.”

  Dez shut his eyes. So it was true: the Union had sold his team out. And for what? The chance to ride in the dust of the most two-timing corp of them all? The idea was completely flabbergasting.

  “It’s shameful. Disgusting,” hissed Branich, looking as though he could spit. “I’ve never seen such backhanded dealings in all my life.”

  Dez peered at his friend in dismay. “So what, yer just gonna throw us under the ship? I thought the Union was here to protect its members from this kinda harassment!”

  “I’m sorry, I really am. But them’s the orders from up top.”

  “And you didn’t protest?”

  “I didn’t have a choice!” Branich yelled, thrusting his hand into his chest. “When the President of the Union and Lilith Vogel herself are breathing down your neck, there ain’t much you can do.”

  “What, so that’s it, is it? We’re on our own now?” Dez shook his head. “Branich, ya don’t get it—Verloren ain’t above hurtin’ people! You think the broker took his own life? They butchered him!”

  “…B-butchered?”

  “They cut his throat in the night! And whadya think’s gonna happen to us now, huh? Buddy, you gotta help me out here.”

  Branich glowered anxiously, glancing aside. “…I’m sorry, Dez. I… I can’t…”

  Dez rubbed his eyes, barely able to process this betrayal. He strained to focus, racking his brain for a new way out. “No. No. This is all crazy,” he sputtered, spiraling. “There’s gotta be a peaceful way to resolve this. There’s gotta be. We got the thing they want. Can’t we make a deal? Can’t we just tell ‘em it was a mistake, and that we can all go our separate ways? This don’t have to end in violence!”

  “That ain’t how this is gonna go.”

  “But we can—!”

  “You’re not gettin’ it!” Branich shouted. “These people can’t be reasoned with! If they’re out for blood like you say, then there ain’t gonna be no stoppin’ ‘em! And Kastilon and his cronies don’t see it as a problem as long as they get theirs.”

  Dez drooped his shoulders, crestfallen, shattered. He couldn’t believe his ears. Had his world been a lie this whole time?

  “I… I been a member of this union since I was sixteen,” he choked. “I pay my dues on time. Heck, sometimes I throw in extra. I’ve bled for this institution.” He looked Branich pleadingly in the eye. “How can you just abandon us like this? I thought I could count on you…”

  Branich stared back at his friend, putting on a defiant face. “I did what I could, truly. I was able to buy you some time.” He marched over to a lockbox under his desk and pulled out three thin manila folders. “I had to give up the file for your ship and your boss, but I been draggin’ my feet on sending over the info on you and your crewmates—spun a story about havin’ to go diggin’ through the archives.”

  Dez picked up his dossier and opened it to the first page. His distress was momentarily cooled as he looked at his old file photo—he still had hair back then.

  “For ten more hours you’re a ghost,” said Branich. “Ain’t nobody know who you are or what you mighta done.” Branich leaned in soberly. “But I can’t delay no more. Tomorrow the bounty goes out. Every member of the Redland Runner is to be officially excommunicated from the Expeditioners Union and your files turned over to Verloren. Any Union member or cutthroat that turns you in is set to make a tidy sum.” Branich approached Dez and grabbed him by the shoulders. “Leave the city, make for the inland. Give up this life, there ain’t no shame in it. Please, I beg you.”

  Dez stared at his friend, dumbstruck. Technically he should be thanking him—Branich was saving his life, in a way. If he hurried he could waltz into the nearest shuttle port and take the next ship to Twin Lakes. Sure, he’d have to lay low for the next decade or so, change names, change looks, but he’d survive. But Jira and the others, they were resolved to head to Ama-Lasria—without him, if they had to. He couldn’t just desert them. He couldn’t let Verloren win. He wouldn’t let them win.

  Dez raised his head. “No,” he said, brushing Branich’s hand from his shoulder. “I’ll take my chances in the wastes.”

  “Please, Dez, be reasonable!”

  Dez stood up straight, a fire burning in his heart, the last fragments of yesterday’s fears melting away. “We got what Verloren wants. Without it they’re nothin’. Me and Jira, the rest of the crew—we’ll beat everyone to the Dead City. Hell or high water, we’ll make it.” Dez collected his hat and made his way towards the door. “Damn the Union…”

  “Dez, wait.”

  As Dez reached for the handle, Branich scrambled ahead of him. He threw his palm against the wood, blocking Dez from leaving.

  “Hold on,” Branich implored, throwing his friend an impassioned look. “This ain’t over yet. If you’re gonna go north, do it, but just remember you ain’t without allies.” Branich lowered his voice and leaned in close. “Look, I been talkin’ to Siegmar and some of the other captains. We all agree—what we’re in need of is some new leadership. Kastilon Grietz has done nothing in his three terms but let the corporations weasel their way into our ranks.”

  Branich puffed up and spoke with spirit. Clearly he’d been planning this for some time. “I won’t stand idly by and watch our union sacrifice its own for profit. The general election is comin’ up soon, I aim to be on the ticket. Please, stay safe until then. It’ll be tricky with so many gone on this expedition, but if I can convince enough folk to side with me, I’ll do my best to make things right.”

  Dez looked into Branich’s eyes. There was a boldness in them the likes of which he’d never seen before—an indomitable confidence, a belief in something beyond himself. Dez’s dismay slightly softened. He gave Branich the best smile he could muster.

  “Thank you, Branich,” he whispered, putting a warm hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I know you’ll pull it off.”

  Branich nodded and stepped aside. “Please, be careful, my friend. And good luck.”

  “And to you,” said Dez. “Until we meet again.” With that, Dez quietly exited the room and made his way out of the building, leaving the Expeditioners Union behind him.