Chapter 13: Promises and Chains

The conference room aboard The Hope of Acer was designed to impress. Floor-to-ceiling viewports showed the endless expanse of space dotted with the lights of the flotilla's other ships, while the polished table and formal seating arrangement spoke of serious political business. Captain Korven sat across from Commander Gabriel Santos, flanked by his crew, all of them trying to project confidence despite feeling distinctly out of their element.

Santos himself was not what Korven had expected. The man was charismatic in a way that came naturally rather than being performed, handsome without trying to be, and possessed of the kind of easy confidence that made people want to follow him. He moved with genuine warmth, but something about his perfect composure made Korven's instincts prickle.

Korven had met men like Santos before, corporate executives who'd tried to lowball him on salvage contracts, military officers who'd wanted to commandeer his ship for "the greater good," Artificer bosses who'd spoken of brotherhood while planning to sell him out. They all had the same quality: the ability to make you feel like their interests aligned perfectly with yours, right up until the moment you realized you'd been played. 

Santos had that same smooth confidence, the practiced empathy of someone who'd learned to read people's needs and reflect them back as promises. The way he'd welcomed them felt too perfect, too tailored to what desperate refugees would want to hear. Korven had survived fifteen years in the salvage business by recognizing when someone was trying to manage him, and every instinct he'd developed was screaming that Gabriel Santos was very, very good at management. The kind of good that came from years of practice convincing people to give up things they couldn't afford to lose.

 The expensive coffee, the grand conference room, the carefully timed expressions of concern, it all felt like theater designed to make them feel grateful while Santos positioned himself to take what he wanted. Korven knew that dance. He'd seen it performed by experts who could smile while they robbed you blind.

"Captain Korven," Santos said, extending his hand across the table. "I can't tell you how relieved I am that you accepted our offer of sanctuary. When Jessikah told me about your situation with the Artificers..." He shook his head sadly. "Well, let's just say we know what it's like to be hunted by people with more resources than conscience."

"Appreciate the assistance," Korven replied, studying Santos's face. The concern seemed genuine, but there was something rehearsed about the phrasing.

"Please, sit," Santos gestured to the chairs. "I apologize for the formal setting. These rooms were designed back when we thought we'd be negotiating with corporate representatives and government officials." His smile carried just the right note of self-deprecating humor. "Funny how life changes your expectations."

Vel raised an eyebrow at the real coffee Santos had offered. "Must be doing well for yourselves out here."

"We've learned to take care of our people," Santos said, settling into his chair with the easy grace of someone comfortable with authority. "The flotilla isn't just about survival, it's about proving we can build something better than what we left behind."

Slade settled into his chair, his paranoid nature already cataloguing details. Santos was saying all the right things, but there was something too perfect about his responses. Like someone who'd had this conversation before.

"So," Boomer said, his natural directness cutting through the atmosphere, "what's this really about? In our experience, sanctuary comes with strings attached."

Santos's expression grew thoughtful, and for a moment he seemed genuinely sad. "You know, Mr. Volkov, that's exactly the kind of thinking that drives people apart. The assumption that everyone has an angle." He looked out at the flotilla through the viewports. "Out here, we've learned that sometimes people help each other simply because it's the right thing to do."

"And sometimes they don't," Slade said quietly.

Santos turned his attention to the engineer, his gaze sharp but not unfriendly. "You're suspicious. Good. Suspicion keeps people alive in this business." He leaned forward slightly. "The truth is, Captain, your cargo represents a significant concern for us."

"What kind of concern?" Korven asked.

"The kind that keeps me awake at night," Santos replied. "We've seen what happens when experimental technology falls into the wrong hands. Take Phantom, for instance."

At the mention of Phantom, the room went quiet. Santos had their attention now.

"You've heard of it, I'm sure. A single Titan Frame that's been terrorizing this entire sector. Moving faster than anything should, killing pilots who never even see it coming." Santos's voice carried genuine pain. "Do you know what it is, Captain? It's what happens when people stop seeing technology as a tool and start seeing it as a solution to all their problems."

"You're saying someone built Phantom using experimental tech?" Vel asked.

"I'm saying Phantom is the nightmare scenario we all hoped would never happen. Someone, somewhere, decided that the rules didn't apply to them. That winning was more important than remaining human." Santos was quiet for a moment. "The technology you're carrying could create a dozen more Phantoms. Or worse."

Korven glanced at his crew. Boomer looked thoughtful, Vel seemed convinced, and even Slade appeared to be considering Santos's words.

"What exactly are you proposing?" Korven asked.

"Partnership," Santos said simply. "Let us secure that technology properly. Keep it from being used to create more weapons like Phantom. In return, you'll have the protection of the Liberation Front and a place in our community for as long as you want it."

"And you get experimental neural interface technology," Slade pointed out.

"We get peace of mind," Santos corrected. "And the satisfaction of knowing we've prevented another atrocity."

The emotional appeal was skillfully done. Korven could see it working on his crew, the idea that they could be part of something larger, something meaningful.

"Does this sound reasonable to you?" Santos asked.

Korven looked at his crew again. Vel nodded. Boomer shrugged his acceptance. Even Slade gave a reluctant nod.

"Yeah," Korven said. "I think we can work with that."

Santos's smile was immediate and brilliant. "Excellent! I'm so glad we understand each other." He activated a control panel on the conference table, bringing up a monitor that showed a view of the Carrion's Prize's cargo bay. "My teams are already beginning the secure transfer. Given the sensitive nature of the technology, we wanted to ensure proper handling protocols immediately."

Korven felt his stomach drop. On the screen, he could see Santos's personnel methodically removing the equipment from their ship. "You could have mentioned you were already moving our cargo."

"Time is always a factor with dangerous technology," Santos said smoothly. "The sooner it's properly secured, the safer everyone will be. I hope you understand."

Before Korven could respond, Santos's comm unit chimed softly. He glanced at the display with what appeared to be mild surprise.

"Excuse me one moment," he said, activating the comm. "Yes, Jessikah?"

"We have a UNSC vessel requesting docking clearance. The Meridian. They're claiming diplomatic immunity and requesting asylum."

Santos's eyebrows rose. "UNSC defectors? That's... interesting timing. Grant them clearance, standard asylum processing. I'll deal with them when time permits."

He ended the call and returned his attention to them, but something had shifted in his demeanor. The warmth was still there, but now it felt more perfunctory. "I'm afraid duty calls. Military defectors require immediate processing, security concerns, you understand."

Santos stood, moving toward the exit with the kind of purposeful energy that suggested their usefulness to him had just expired. "My people will escort you back to your ship and help you get oriented to life aboard the flotilla. You'll find we take very good care of our friends."

"Hold on," Korven said, standing up. "We need to talk about compensation. That tech was worth serious money, and we took significant risks getting it here."

"Of course," Santos said without missing a beat. "Full accommodation aboard the flotilla, protection from your enemies, access to all our resources. You'll be very comfortable here, I assure you."

"That's not what I meant," Korven started, but Santos was already signaling to someone outside the conference room.

"I really do need to attend to these new arrivals," Santos said as guards appeared in the doorway. "Military situations require immediate attention. But please, make yourselves at home. My people will take excellent care of you."

The guards weren't threatening, but their presence made it clear the meeting was over. Korven found himself being politely but firmly guided from the room, his protests about compensation falling on deaf ears.

As they walked through the ship's corridors toward their docking bay, Korven got another look at The Hope of Acer's interior architecture. The passages were wide and imposing, with soaring ceilings that made individual people feel small and insignificant. The walls were lined with displays showing the flotilla's achievements, rescue operations, successful settlements, grateful families reunited with their homes. 

Between the inspirational imagery were subtle reminders of hierarchy: Santos giving speeches, Santos meeting with grateful colonists, Santos making decisions that affected thousands of lives. 

The message was clear: this was Gabriel Santos's domain, and everyone else was a guest who existed at his sufferance. Even the lighting seemed designed to create the impression of vast spaces and distant authority, making visitors feel like supplicants approaching a throne. 

Korven realized that every step of their journey through the ship had been calculated to reinforce their position as dependent refugees rather than equal partners.

Slade moved closer to Korven as they walked. "That was complete bullshit," he said quietly.

"What do you mean?" Vel asked.

"Guy's a politician. Professional level. Every answer was too smooth, too perfect." Slade glanced around nervously at the propaganda displays. "And did you notice how he talked about Phantom? Like he was reading from a script."

Slade had learned to distrust authority figures the hard way. Growing up on Kepler Station, he'd watched his father work double shifts in the mining operations, believing the company's promises about profit-sharing and advancement opportunities. The old man had died in a preventable accident caused by corporate cost-cutting, and the company had refused to pay death benefits because of a clause buried in page forty-seven of his employment contract. 

Slade had been seventeen when he'd sat across from the company representative, a smooth-talking executive who'd expressed deep sympathy while explaining why the family deserved nothing. 

The man had used the same tone Santos had just used, concerned, reasonable, regretful about circumstances beyond his control. That executive had probably gone home to his family that night feeling good about handling a difficult situation professionally, while Slade's mother worked three jobs to keep them fed.

Ever since then, Slade had learned to recognize the particular brand of charm that people in power used when they were screwing you over. Gabriel Santos had that same quality: the ability to make theft sound like generosity.

"Maybe," Korven said grimly. "But what choice do we have now?"

They reached their ship to find guards stationed near the airlock. Not threatening, just... present.

"Excuse me," Korven approached one of them. "This is our ship."

"Yes, sir," the guard replied politely. "Just maintaining security while the technology transfer is completed. You'll have full access once the appropriate documentation is processed."

"What documentation?" Boomer demanded, his usual cheerfulness fading.

"Standard departure protocols, sir. Available through the Flotilla Administration Office."

"And where exactly is that?" Vel asked.

The guard gave them directions that involved taking three different transport tubes and navigating through multiple district levels. The complexity of the route felt deliberate, designed to make simple tasks feel like expeditions.

"This is starting to feel like a runaround," Boomer muttered as they made their way through the ship's transport system.

"It's probably just bureaucracy," Vel said, though her tone suggested she was trying to convince herself as much as anyone else.

"Bureaucracy is just another word for institutional control," Slade said darkly. "Make simple things complicated enough, and people stop trying to do them."

An hour later, Korven stood in what could only be described as an office work themed hell. The Flotilla Administration Office was a maze of cubicles and service windows designed to make simple tasks feel impossible. The fluorescent lighting was harsh enough to give everyone headaches, and the constant buzz of conversation created a background of frustrated voices that set everyone's nerves on edge.

"Next!" called a clerk from behind a reinforced window.

Korven approached with his crew trailing behind. "We need departure clearance for our ship."

The clerk, a thin man who looked like he'd given up on life years ago, barely glanced up from his tablet. "Citizenship status?"

"We're not citizens."

"Can't process departure requests for non-citizens. You'll need to apply for citizenship first." He pointed vaguely down a corridor. "Immigration Office. Tuesdays and Thursdays only."

"It's Wednesday," Vel pointed out.

The clerk shrugged like this was somehow their fault.

Boomer exploded. "This is fucking ridiculous! We just want to leave!"

The outburst had been building since they'd first been shuttled through the ship's transport maze. Boomer had grown up in the outer colonies, where government paperwork was usually a sign that someone was about to get screwed. 

His family had lost their mining claim because of paperwork filed in the wrong office, on the wrong day, in the wrong color ink. He'd watched his parents spend years fighting a system designed to exhaust people into giving up. 

The casual indifference of the clerk, the deliberately complicated procedures, the pointless delays, it all brought back memories of watching his mother cry over forms that might as well have been written in an alien language. The rules weren't neutral. They were designed as a weapon to be used by people with power against people without it.

"Language, sir," the clerk said without looking up. "Next!"

Outside the office, Slade was pacing angrily. "I told you! We're trapped. Santos played us like a god damn fiddle."

"So what do we do?" Vel asked, though her analytical mind was already working through their limited options.

"We find someone who can actually help us," Korven said grimly. "Someone who might have reasons to work against Santos."

"Like who?" Boomer asked, still fuming from their runaround.

"His daughter," Slade said. "Something about her seemed... different. Like she wasn't completely buying into her father's performance either."

Slade couldn't put his finger on exactly what had bothered him about Jessikah Santos during their brief encounter, but his paranoid instincts had picked up on something In Slade's experience, people who worked closely with manipulative authority figures either became true believers or developed subtle signs of resistance. Jessikah had seemed more like the latter.

They spent the next hour searching The Hope of Acer's corridors, trying to locate Jessikah Santos without drawing attention. The ship was vast, and finding one person in its maze of districts and sections felt increasingly hopeless.

Their first attempt was asking at the reception desk in the administrative district. The receptionist, a middle-aged woman with the harried look of someone managing too many schedules, barely looked up from her screen.

"Jessikah Santos? She could be anywhere. Diplomatic quarters, processing centers, engineering sections. She handles multiple departments." The woman's tone suggested this was not her problem to solve.

"Could you page her?" Vel asked.

"Not without knowing the nature of your business. Security protocols." The receptionist returned to her screen, effectively dismissing them.

Their next stop was a maintenance supervisor who was overseeing repairs to a transport hub. The man was more helpful but equally unhelpful.

"Ms. Santos? Sure, I know her. Good administrator, fair to the technical staff. But she keeps a busy schedule." He wiped his hands on a rag, considering. "Try the refugee processing centers. She spends a lot of time there, especially when new arrivals come in."

"Any idea which processing center?" Korven asked.

"Could be any of them. We've got six different facilities handling different types of asylum cases." The supervisor shrugged apologetically. "Sorry I can't be more specific."

At the third processing center they tried, they encountered a young clerk who actually seemed to want to help.

"Jessikah Santos? Oh, she was here earlier, but she left to handle some new UNSC arrivals. Big deal, apparently, military defectors don't come through very often." The clerk checked his schedule tablet. "She's probably in the security briefing rooms. But that area requires special clearance."

"How do we get special clearance?" Boomer asked.

"You'd need to file a request with..." The clerk paused, looking embarrassed. "The Flotilla Administration Office."

The circular logic of it made Vel laugh despite their frustration. "So we need clearance to talk to the person who might help us get the clearance we need to leave."

"Pretty much," the clerk said sympathetically. "Welcome to the flotilla."

By the time they'd exhausted their official options, all four of them were frustrated and increasingly suspicious that the bureaucratic maze was deliberately designed to prevent people from accomplishing anything quickly.

That's when Korven's comm unit chimed.

He looked at the message, frowning. "Someone knows we're looking for Jessikah Santos. Says they can help." He showed them the message. "Someone who calls themselves 'a friend from your ship.'"

"Impossible," Boomer said. "We don't know anyone here."

Slade read over Korven's shoulder. "'Your ship,' not 'our ship.' Like someone who was aboard the Carrion's Prize but isn't crew."

"That doesn't make sense," Vel said.

"None of this makes sense," Korven replied. "But whoever this is wants to meet at Maintenance Bay 3. Just me and Slade."

Slade's paranoid instincts were screaming, but something about the message felt familiar. "Could be a trap."

"Everything here could be a damn trap," Boomer said. "But sitting around waiting for the bureaucrats to solve our problems isn't going to work either."

As they split up, they had no way of knowing that their mysterious contact was someone who had been planning this outreach for hours. Deep in the ship's networks, Naomi had been coordinating with Jessikah Santos, waiting for the right moment to reveal themselves to potential allies. The crew of the Carrion's Prize had already proven they were willing to risk everything for people they cared about. Now it was time to see if they were willing to do the same for strangers in need.

Now it was time to change the rules.