There’s one rule on Tomin Kora – Don’t cross the Boss. What happens when the rule is violated? Saiidyr finds out…
Conference Room
A brightly lit room with slit windows overlooking the city of Shadowheart. Taking up most of the room is an oval mahogany table surrounded by a dozen black leather chairs. Holographic emitters mounted on the ceiling are aimed at the center of the table. A stylized C gleams in steel on one wall. Guards stand on either side of the door.
The Tomin Nebula shimmers through the transparent dome overhead.
Falkenberg walks in to the conference room a bit warily. He limps a bit, his peg leg thumping on the floor.
Neidermeyer stands, staring out the angled window. A chill breeze hisses past the slightly open pane as he stares down at the city. His hands are clasped behind his back. Two human guards flank him, eyes locked on the doorway. As Falkenberg enters, they bring the guns up. Neidermeyer hears the sound, then looks up, seeing the reflection in the glass. “Ah, Johnny boy. Good evening.”
Falkenberg’s face tightens a bit at the word “Johnny.” But he forces a smile and nods. “Mr. Neidermeyer. I have just now returned to Tomin Kora from Nephthys, which I must say is a singularly boring place these days. Not like it once was.”
Neidermeyer arches an eyebrow. Slowly, he turns to face Falkenberg. “Can’t say I’d know anything about that. Never spent any time offworld – well, besides the usual patrols or journeys to Mars – before the revolution.” He curls a wry smile. “But enough ancient history. Let’s talk about right now. You’ve heard about these fiends in the CHPMF, I assume?”
Falkenberg nods. “I read the news regularly, Mr. Niedermeyer. I must say it seems to me they misnamed the organization. CHUMP sounds more like it.”