Monday evening, 4‑Week, 500 AF

Two names remain on Isthmus Isako’s list of wagemen to dismiss from the Company.

Only two, thank all the gods of old Earth that Isako doesn’t believe in. She’s sick of handing out notices, of being the bad guy, even though it’s part of her job, the part that people know and hate her for. At this stage in her career, she ought to be settling into some sort of comfortable wise-elder role, one that affords undisputed respect yet pleasant anonymity.

Things didn’t work out that way.

She finds both men drinking in quiet dread together in a dive bar at the north end of Tenacity Cityhab, where none of their former colleagues in Astrocommunications might recognize them. The stench of stale beer and leafsmoke assaults her nostrils as soon as she walks through the doors of the Oxygn Bar. She does a quick, instinctive threat assessment, but there’s no ambush lying in wait. Just a couple dozen wagefolk huddled in small groups over muted conversation and mugs of heated ale. They lift faces bland with disinterest until they catch sight of the triggersheath strapped to her thigh.

Contractor.

Isako doesn’t need to hear the word on their lips to sense the nervous hostility. If these were better times, she’d be met with nods of respect. If she were in an Astrocom neighborhood, if this were a year of peace and expansion, she’d be greeted by name and they’d make room for her at the bar and someone would offer to buy her a drink, angling to get on her good side, maybe have her put in a word for them with the boss.

Now they turn their eyes away. War’s over. They know why she’s here.