Chapter 163: Negotiations of Kynara’s Future 2

The large hall's air scrubbers cycled with a low mechanical thrum, but no amount of artificial freshness could wash away the weight of what was about to be discussed.

Governor Tallis Krell stood from the large obsidian table, framed by a massive panoramic window showing Kynara's fractured skyline, silhouetted against a burnt-orange sky. He clasped his hands behind his back, voice a measured resonance that cut through the hall like a blade.

"The Federation offers more than security," Krell began, pacing slowly. "We offer rebirth."

As if on cue, an aid of his unfolded a holographic map of Kynara midair, glowing neon-blue lines tracing the planet's war-torn cities, settlements, outposts, barren industrial zones, and crumbling starports. The map rippled, and those same zones transformed: sleek medical domes, mag-lev transport rails, and solar-powered refineries flickered to life in shimmering projections.

"Our revitalization plan includes immediate infrastructure reconstruction: biopharma clinics, vertical agriculture hubs, and quantum relay towers to integrate Kynara into the Ashen Sector trade grid."

The map zoomed into one of Kynara's broken cities, Ettemakse, lights flickering to life in the ruins.

"We'll create employment programs to reintegrate displaced civilians and ex-Resistance fighters into productive sectors. Industrial automation can streamline production, while surplus resources fund public welfare."

Krell let the image linger before he shut it down with a swipe of his hand.

"But progress," he continued, voice dipping, "requires sacrifice."

A new projection appeared: ore extraction sites, energy collection arrays, and vast resource convoys, all marked with the insignias of Federation-affiliated megacorps.

"In exchange for our investment, the Federation requires operational control over Kynara's energy and mineral resources. All raw materials will be processed through Federation trade fleets, and profits will be redistributed to sustain stability."

The room chilled once more.

Marik Vos shot to his feet, the legs of his chair scraping against the polished alloy floor with a sharp, grating screech. Everyone in the hall turned their gaze to him as his hands slammed down on the table. His voice, raw with fatigue and anger, reverberated through like a war drum.

"This is extortion," he spat, his chest rising and falling with each breath. "You want to turn Kynara into a glorified resource colony. Strip it bare, and leave us with scraps!"

Governor Krell remained perfectly still, his expression changed to a mask of cold indifference. Slowly, almost deliberately, he tilted his head, as if studying an unruly child throwing a tantrum. The corner of his mouth twitched, just enough to suggest something close to amusement.

"It's strategic stewardship," he corrected, his voice low and measured, cutting through the room like a scalpel. "Your planet's resources aren't very valuable, but they're dangerous. Left unchecked, they could destabilize entire sectors. We ensure sustainable extraction, prevent black market siphoning, and most importantly, make sure those materials are never used for... destructive purposes."

He leaned forward slightly, the dim light catching the sharp edges of his features. "Stabilizing prices," he added, "is a side benefit."

The words hit like a hammer. Vos opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Lirien Vossel, seated across the table, slouched back, pressing her fingers to her temples as though trying to crush a migraine into submission. Her skin, already pale under the lighting, seemed almost translucent now, and her voice barely rose above a whisper.

"Without development, we collapse," she muttered, her tone stripped of fight. "Cities are running out of clean water. Refugee camps are one malfunction away from disease outbreaks."

She lifted her gaze, eyes rimmed with fatigue and something close to despair. "If we refuse, we lose Kynara anyway... just slower."

For a moment, no one spoke. The hum of the holo-projector filled the silence, a relentless, buzzing reminder of the ticking clock.

Darrik Voss finally broke the quiet, leaning forward with slow, deliberate movement, his forearms resting heavily on the table. His face was carved from stone, every line hardened by years of mercenary work. The light glinted off the thin scar that ran from his cheek to his jawline, a souvenir from the final war Kynara barely survived.

"The Guild can reinforce security," he said, voice low and steady, like distant thunder. "We can lock down transport routes, protect convoys, even crack down on rogue mining factions." His fingers tapped against the metal surface of the table, a slow, deliberate rhythm. "But full-scale planetary logistics? That's your job."

He turned his gaze to Krell, and the temperature in the hall seemed to drop. "Push too far, though, and you won't just face protests," he warned. "Entire mining outposts will rise up. And this time, they'll know exactly where to strike."

For the first time, something flickered in Krell's expression. Not fear, but recognition. He understood the threat wasn't empty. Kynara's people had waged war for survival once; they could do it again.

But he didn't blink.

Instead, Krell allowed the silence to stretch, letting the weight of the moment sink in. And then, with the precision of a predator closing its jaws, he leaned back in his chair, fingers interlocking as he rested them on the table.

"Then we'll make sure to push just enough," he replied, voice like ice.

The words lingered in the air like smoke, impossible to clear.

The negotiations devolved into a brutal endurance test, less a dialogue and more a war of attrition.

The ornate chandeliers overhead dimmed as the hours dragged on, their glow fading to a muted pulse. The air grew stale, heavy with recycled oxygen and the faint metallic tang of exhaustion. Coalition analysts and Federation diplomats exchanged data in relentless cycles, holo-displays flickering as endless streams of calculations adjusted in real time. Models expanded and collapsed, projected futures branching like fractal webs, only to be pruned by Federation algorithms.

Above it all, Ashen Prime's AI advisor, a disembodied voice with a synthetic, echoing timbre, punctuated the debate with emotionless precision.

"Projected planetary GDP increase: 68% over 15 cycles," the AI reported, its voice devoid of empathy. "Conditional upon full Federation trade oversight and exclusive merchant conglomerate access."

The coalition leaders fought through it, their determination slowly wearing thin like fraying cable.

Marik Vos's voice grew hoarse from shouting, his words losing their sharpness as fatigue dulled his edges. He slammed his hand on the table more than once, each strike echoing louder in the increasingly empty-feeling hall. Lirien Vossel, once a steadying presence, fell into long stretches of brooding silence, staring at the holo-data as if sheer will could bend the numbers in their favor.

Darrik Voss barely moved, save to sip from his crystal glass. His eyes never left Krell, watching, analyzing, waiting for a crack that never came.

Krell, for his part, remained unnervingly composed. His posture remained perfect, fingers steepled before him, his expression a carefully sculpted mask of patient authority. He didn't sweat, didn't fidget. Every question hurled at him, every accusation, he absorbed without flinching, deflecting arguments like an armored cruiser shrugging off debris.

When Marik accused the Federation of economic colonization, Krell didn't deny it. He just reframed the narrative.

"Autonomy is an illusion," he said, his voice smooth as polished glass. "Even an independent Kynara would be subject to interstellar market fluctuations, piracy, and sector-wide political instability. The Federation doesn't strip you of control, we buffer you from more chaos."

He gestured to the floating holographic projections: rising GDP curves, stabilized inflation models, reduced mortality rates.

"We reduce your exposure to risk and speed up the rebuilding process," he continued, his gaze steady and unwavering. "In exchange, we take a fair share for our efforts. Isn't that preferable to watching your people starve?"

The coalition's resistance didn't break all at once... it fractured, splintering under the relentless pressure of logic, exhaustion, and grim reality.

By the fourteenth hour, Marik slumped in his chair, eyes bloodshot and voice a distant rasp. Lirien rubbed her eyes, her shoulders sagging. Darrik Voss clenched his jaw so tightly his teeth might crack, but he no longer argued.

They still hated the deal. But they hated watching Kynara die more.

And Krell? He simply waited, patient as gravity.

He knew they would surrender to necessity eventually.

They always did.