Private Tetron Centrex

[Prex Oda Duun]

TETRON CENTREX HQ BUILDING, MAXIMUM SECURITY EXEC BOARDROOM, BONADAN
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The hum of the sealed boardroom was broken only by the soft whir of the holographic projector as it flickered to life. The blue light washed over the circular table, filling the center with a dynamic rendering of resource maps, profit margins, and projected expansion zones. Oda Duun sat rigidly at his place, his yellow cybernetic eyes unblinking as they caught the light in a faint, metallic gleam. The gray texture of his synthetic skin seemed all the more austere under the glow, the face of a man who had shed flesh for permanence. His hands rested flat against the polished table, posture precise — the kind of stillness that unsettled those unused to his presence. Around the room, the display panels cycled through Tetron's past projects: terraformed planetoids, strip-mined asteroids, colonies wrapped in sprawling industrial complexes. All of it was Tetron's pitch, compressed into data and spectacle.

Across from him, Hadin Ralg leaned back into the high-backed chair, one hand rubbing thoughtfully at his chin as he watched the display. He had been in countless meetings like this before — supplicants parading figures, overpromising, underestimating the cost of influence within the Corporate Sector Authority. Yet Tetron was different. The numbers were hard to ignore. Profitability was undeniable. But the Authority's standards weren't merely numbers; they were structure, hierarchy, and tribute. And Tetron, for all its ruthlessness, lacked the scaffolding that reassured long-term stability. "Your figures are… impressive, Prex Duun," Ralg finally said, voice clipped but not dismissive. "But numbers do not build trust. You seek recognition as a micro-sector custodian — and yet, you present yourself alone. No viceprex. No layers of command to weather transition. Why should the Authority grant a development zone to a company run at the whim of a single mind?"

Oda's yellow eyes fixed on him with mechanical calm, their glow reflecting faintly on the polished surface of the table. When he spoke, his voice carried the faint rasp of synthetic modulation, steady but edged with something that felt more like calculation than emotion. "Because no one understands Tetron better than I do," he said. "And because the Corporate Sector was built on profit. I have delivered profit where your peers hesitated. While others chase markets bloated with competition, I have carved industry from dead rock and waste. You see the dividends now. With CSA backing, I will multiply them." He gestured toward the holographic map, where shaded red outlines marked proposed borders of the Corporate Development Zone. "These are not dreams. They are inevitabilities — if you permit it."

Ralg's eyes narrowed slightly, betraying the faintest flicker of interest. He tapped at the table, pulling a slice of data into his private terminal, scanning the resource projections. "You make it sound inevitable," he said slowly, almost musing. "But inevitability in this sector often has a price. The Authority does not give recognition lightly, Prex Duun. Palm-greasing, as some might crudely call it, ensures stability. Your company lacks the… proper channels." His gaze lifted, meeting Oda's artificial stare. "You ask for a seat at the table, but seats are bought, not earned."

Oda inclined his head slightly, the faintest mechanical whine issuing from his servos. "Then let us dispense with euphemisms," he said, voice firm. "Name your price. Tetron will pay it — in credits, in ore, in whatever form the Authority deems most valuable. Because we both know this sector has neglected terraforming. And when war sweeps across the stars again, the Authority will require worlds that produce, not rot." His words hung in the sterile air of the boardroom, equal parts promise and threat, as the hologram of Tetron's proposed zone revolved slowly between them.