Planet: Echelon
District 16: Biogardens
Tag:
Liin Terallo
Old cooling towers hissed like dying extractor lungs, exhaling artificial winter into a district that hungered for more. Vertical farms ran high with low-budget hopes, wheat lit in neon, vat-grown fungus towers, cylindrical nutrient columns, all crammed into the endless dark like someone had tried to plant a forest inside skyscrapers and just given up halfway through. Budget Cuts.
Under escort, Black stepped out of an Apex armored hoverlimo, adjusting the cuffs of his suit, his ritual preparation. Dark sleek armorweave, tailored enough to hide cybernetics, expressive enough to make you think he owned the place, or at least rented it under the guns of Apex's legal team, a far more dangerous behemoth than any Star Destroyer.
Behind him, Broca carried Black's other briefcase, the heavy one that resonated faintly, one nobody on Echelon liked seeing opened unless there was a profit in it, because sure as the stars, there was always a bill to start with. "Current biomass allocation?" Black asked, scrolling through projections on his holopad.
Annasun, his white-haired hapan assistant, didn't look up from her own datapad. "Failing, again. Imports from the Outer Belts stalled, our core world supply lines are in chaos with the alliance collapse, and District 6 is rationing nutrient grade five."
"Five?" Black sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "That's not food; that's beige paste with barely a calorie to count."
Walking under suspended nets, thick tangles of hydroponic veins supported by carbon pillars. A dozen drones whirred overhead, spraying recycled moisture vapor like perfume in a place perpetually dying of thirst. Between aisles, corporate agri-staff shovelled their slurry, feeding processors, and pretending the entire district wasn't balanced balanced on a cliff edge to collapse.
And then the number hit him again. Echelon's Projected population in under seven years... 1,000,000,000,000. One trillion mouths to feed.
Balen Var Black, who had once restructured half a planetary budget over lunch, let out a low quiet whistle. "Echelon," he remarked, "you beautiful, miserable overachiever." At the central control platform, the Bio-Gardens' 'Board Room,' which was really just a partially cracked transparisteel mezzanine overlooking leagues of artificial mushy green, Black exhaled to a dead stop next to the chairs.
Broca his large olive-tanned assistant set the briefcase down beside him, Black glanced toward the secured access corridor where Ms Liin Terallo would be arriving under ASF security escort. A former director, a collapsed world behind her. A scientist with a mind sharp enough to cut durasteel and enough biomolecule expertise to rewrite a nutritional economy, if the galaxy hadn't already failed her enough first.
"Alright," he said quietly, straightening his jacket to readiness. "Let's make sure she sees the problem before she hears our pitch." Tag her interest before discussing terms or chasing her off. A large holo-display came to life in front of him, mega spirals of consumption charts and loss curves into decaying forecasts, painting the Bio Gardens in grim light.
He gestured to Annasun, his white-haired Hapanese assistant. "When she arrives, bring her up. And try not to spook her with the statistics. Ease her into the pending apocalypse." Black took a step closer to the rail overlooking the district: vertical farms processing like dim, wounded organs of a giant trying to stay alive.
"Time to see if a brilliant scientist and one a very tired executive can keep a trillion people fed…" He smirked, talking under his breath, lowering his reflective glasses down his nose. "Or at least postpone the food riots till after the quarter-end." He clasped his hands in front of himself, his posture confident and theatrical as ever.
District 16: Biogardens
Tag:
Liin Terallo
Old cooling towers hissed like dying extractor lungs, exhaling artificial winter into a district that hungered for more. Vertical farms ran high with low-budget hopes, wheat lit in neon, vat-grown fungus towers, cylindrical nutrient columns, all crammed into the endless dark like someone had tried to plant a forest inside skyscrapers and just given up halfway through. Budget Cuts.
Under escort, Black stepped out of an Apex armored hoverlimo, adjusting the cuffs of his suit, his ritual preparation. Dark sleek armorweave, tailored enough to hide cybernetics, expressive enough to make you think he owned the place, or at least rented it under the guns of Apex's legal team, a far more dangerous behemoth than any Star Destroyer.
Behind him, Broca carried Black's other briefcase, the heavy one that resonated faintly, one nobody on Echelon liked seeing opened unless there was a profit in it, because sure as the stars, there was always a bill to start with. "Current biomass allocation?" Black asked, scrolling through projections on his holopad.
Annasun, his white-haired hapan assistant, didn't look up from her own datapad. "Failing, again. Imports from the Outer Belts stalled, our core world supply lines are in chaos with the alliance collapse, and District 6 is rationing nutrient grade five."
"Five?" Black sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "That's not food; that's beige paste with barely a calorie to count."
Walking under suspended nets, thick tangles of hydroponic veins supported by carbon pillars. A dozen drones whirred overhead, spraying recycled moisture vapor like perfume in a place perpetually dying of thirst. Between aisles, corporate agri-staff shovelled their slurry, feeding processors, and pretending the entire district wasn't balanced balanced on a cliff edge to collapse.
And then the number hit him again. Echelon's Projected population in under seven years... 1,000,000,000,000. One trillion mouths to feed.
Balen Var Black, who had once restructured half a planetary budget over lunch, let out a low quiet whistle. "Echelon," he remarked, "you beautiful, miserable overachiever." At the central control platform, the Bio-Gardens' 'Board Room,' which was really just a partially cracked transparisteel mezzanine overlooking leagues of artificial mushy green, Black exhaled to a dead stop next to the chairs.
Broca his large olive-tanned assistant set the briefcase down beside him, Black glanced toward the secured access corridor where Ms Liin Terallo would be arriving under ASF security escort. A former director, a collapsed world behind her. A scientist with a mind sharp enough to cut durasteel and enough biomolecule expertise to rewrite a nutritional economy, if the galaxy hadn't already failed her enough first.
"Alright," he said quietly, straightening his jacket to readiness. "Let's make sure she sees the problem before she hears our pitch." Tag her interest before discussing terms or chasing her off. A large holo-display came to life in front of him, mega spirals of consumption charts and loss curves into decaying forecasts, painting the Bio Gardens in grim light.
He gestured to Annasun, his white-haired Hapanese assistant. "When she arrives, bring her up. And try not to spook her with the statistics. Ease her into the pending apocalypse." Black took a step closer to the rail overlooking the district: vertical farms processing like dim, wounded organs of a giant trying to stay alive.
"Time to see if a brilliant scientist and one a very tired executive can keep a trillion people fed…" He smirked, talking under his breath, lowering his reflective glasses down his nose. "Or at least postpone the food riots till after the quarter-end." He clasped his hands in front of himself, his posture confident and theatrical as ever.
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