Chapter 3

Misar continued with his work as he did every day. Nevertheless, that proposal kept echoing in his head. Even though he was not an ambitious person, the mere thought of a remote possibility of securing a promising future through a “simple” mission was something he could not ignore.

While he pulverized layers of rocky gravel, he listened to the whispering of his fellow block miners. They spoke about the elegant Imperial visitors whose arrival had been broadcast by the region’s local media. They mentioned the spectacle of witnessing the march of the General and his entourage, the mysterious escorts who rose from the ground and hovered like specters—so many things that made the miners speak of them as if they were gods rather than figures of authority.

Misar wished with all his heart—no, not only with his heart, but with his entire soul—to see all of that. He longed to touch, even from afar, the glory of the Empire; the glory of those divine beings to whom his father had devoted his entire life.

He finished his shift earlier than usual, and his curiosity was suddenly calmed the moment he had to prepare his mining tools and the basalt loads. He gathered his things and headed to the station to wait for the next train that would take him back to his residential complex.

When the train arrived, instead of sleeping as he usually did, his mind wandered again and again over what had happened, over the opportunity that had been presented to him. Right there, within his reach, was the chance to escape that filthy mining pit—to give his life, and his mother’s life, a value beyond being just another number in the endless lists of mining personnel.

Even knowing that the cost of that freedom might be his life did not slow Misar’s growing determination. Without a doubt, what he had at that moment could hardly be called a life.

His dilemma, which was close to ending in the decision to accept Bar’s proposal, resolved itself the moment the train reached his residential complex.

“It’s nonsense,” he told himself. He knew it was not the first time he had fantasized about leaving that place. In an attempt to protect the little hope he had left, he concluded that the promising job was nothing more than a trick from a swindler who surely had some hidden motive. That seemingly firm determination—disguised as pessimistic skepticism—actually concealed the heart of a child who did not want to fill his mind with false promises of a future he believed would never arrive, a future in which he was free from his chains.

After arriving home and announcing his presence, Misar was met with the unsettling surprise that Gala was not there.

Usually, whenever Misar came home, the first thing that greeted him was the low rhythm of the techno-jazz his mother loved, along with the enthusiastic greeting he had grown so accustomed to. But this time it was different. When he arrived, there was nothing but silence.

Misar quickly concluded that the strange absence was simply a routine delay caused by some unexpected issue with her sales. He knew better than anyone that Gala’s work schedule often fluctuated and that it would not be the first time she was late for dinner.

Still, a bad feeling crept through his body.

He decided not to give that “bad feeling” much importance. He thawed two of the encapsulated food rations he hated so much but resigned himself to eating out of exhaustion. While waiting for the prefabricated dinner to finish heating, he idly browsed Gallior—the massive social network intended for non-cordonants—through his intercommunicator.

Just as Misar walked toward the oven to silence the alarm announcing that the thawing process was complete, the sound of keys in the lock of the front door signaled that Gala had arrived home.

However, she was not alone.

— Good evening, Mom. Dinner is alre—

— Misar, dear, I need you to stay calm and do what they say. — Gala said in a weak voice as she walked gently, escorted by two masked figures.

— What the hell is going on? Who the hell are you people? — He immediately dropped what he was holding.

— You, brat. I need you to sit on the couch and put these restraints on your hands and feet. — The figure not holding Gala tossed a restraint onto the floor. — And by the way, any fucking move and I snap this bitch’s трахea. — threatened the figure behind Gala.

— Honey, please… — she whispered through sobs.

Knowing it was foolish even to consider the possibility of disarming the threatening figures, Misar took the restraints and placed them on his hands, feet, and mouth exactly as they ordered.

— Now then, tell us where the warehouse access keys are.

— Alright… they’re this way. — Gala began to walk unsteadily through the house while one of the criminals—the larger of the two—followed her.

— By the way, just so you don’t try anything with the gun you’re obviously looking for next to the safe, I want you to know that if you try even the slightest thing, no matter how small, we’ll blow your son’s fucking head off. Got it? — warned the other figure, whose voice was female, as she pressed the barrel of her pistol against Misar’s head.

— As you say… — Gala replied.

Gala removed the family portrait hanging on the wall, revealing a small metal box embedded in it. She typed a code, scanned her right and left corneas, and then recited six words for voice verification.

The box opened smoothly, revealing four metallic pieces.

— Those are the keys. Please leave and let—

Just before finishing her plea, Gala was knocked unconscious with a heavy blow to the head.

Seeing this, Misar began struggling against the gag and managed to free his mouth. Curses and threats spilled from him toward the mysterious figures.

— Oh, don’t be dramatic. She’s only knocked out. But we will do more than that to you if you don’t shut the fuck up.