"They say the Rail was built on technological advancement. On science so powerful it could be considered magic. That may be so.
But one cannot discount the brutal necessity of slavery. It is the way of things, however unpalatable. Some dispute this, claiming that our own Trade Fleets are the result of ingenuity, or entrepreneurial perseverance. They forget their history.
Every great Empire has been built on the biting sting of the lash, and the sweat of the lesser. Consider: what would the High Merchant be, without the contribution of the tireless crewmen?
For the Golden Lords, the Grineer were no different. Gene-stock, mass produced by the fleshsmiths and bred for brute strength and endurance above all else. There was no regard for aesthetics here; no obsessive symmetry or golden garnishing. Simply numbers, and the ability to replenish those numbers once their simple clone bodies broke down; rotting away from toil or intentionally programmed decay.
They were never intended to last, or think. Only to serve. The Orokin lost sight of this, and today the entire Origin System pays the price.
We Corpus would do well to learn from our ancestors' folly."
- A History of the Latter Orokin Empire, Collected Essays by E.M. Saronal
They waded through the coolant, sloshing as they advanced beneath a dense vine-work of intestinal piping. Single file, their hooded heads bowed and silent as they trudged onward. A series of drones had been deployed about the column, shimmering over the coolant-lake like fireflies; their spotlights picking over the sea of coolant and marking a path for those without suit-lamps to follow.
Occasionally the lamps would catch movement in the lake; as metallic scales of small fish flitted and jinked beneath the surface; drawn to the luminescent glow by some programmed instinct.
Vanger Hosk kept pace with Sara, seemingly unintimidated by Mirage's alien appearance. If the effort of wading through the syrupy coolant affected the older man in any way, he did not show it.
"Where are we headed?" Sara asked; her voice emanating from around the Warframe like an ethereal echo.
"East." Hosk replied, pointing ahead. "More allies await."
Sara craned her neck around, taking in the streams of fighters all bound in the same direction.
They were of all shapes and sizes; men, women; even children barely older than Sara had been before that fateful event on the Zariman an eon ago. Few were as well armed or armoured as Hosk's guard, who stood apart both in their training and their discipline. The rest were volunteers, local resistance fighters of no fixed affiliation beyond a combined hatred of the Board.
Sara watched a young boy put a foot wrong; sliding beneath the coolant with a strangled yelp. Stronger hands hauled him back above the surface, spluttering; eliciting a chorus of chuckles throughout the rank and file.
He was twelve, at a push.
Sara looked at Hosk.
"You're sending kids into battle?"
"Volunteers, Tenno." Hosk corrected insistently, "Nobody here is under duress. Solaris United sounded the call, and these brave few answered. Each have lost loved ones to the Board; mothers and fathers, lovers and friends; husbands and wives, even children. Security sweeps, malnutrition; the list of the Board's atrocities are endless."
"And that justifies it?"
Hosk looked up at the Warframe, expression grave.
"What age were you Tenno; when you first went to war?"
For once, Sara had no answer.
"It's a question of justice. The price for it. I struggle with it daily. Then I consider our enemy. The Board could run their operation solely through proxies. They have the auto-manufactories, the means to design better and more sophisticated automatons."
Hosk gestured to the vast colony above them.
"Instead slavery. Mandatory sentencing. Indentured Contract Work. Targeted food shortages avoiding starvation, but only narrowly so. Control by any other definition; through systematic brutalisation of the populace. No longer."
Sara could make out vast silhouettes in the distance. Boxy shapes on the horizon.
Hosk continued, relentless.
"Tell me this, Tenno. Have you ever seen a new crewman, up close? The process the Board inflicts; to those who do not willingly flock to their temples, and swallow their scripture?"
"No."
"I'll tell you what happens. Their bodies are shorn of hair; stripped of dignity and self; their bodies stencilled; their minds and personalities erased. Forced into a servile existence, destined to die on some far flung hole at the end of the Rail. All in the name of Profit."
"No." Vanger Hosk shook his head, speaking to himself now. "Better to die standing. To die free."
"That's a nice speech. Well-rehearsed. Why do I get to hear it?"
"Because our paths lay in the same direction, Tenno. You're here looking for a boy, one of your own. The same boy that left six men broken in The Mangled Moa; and led an army of thugs, miscreants to certain death at your hands."
"You're well informed." Sara sniffed.
Hosk eyes twinkled mischievously in the dark.
"I am an interstellar terrorist and an enemy of the Board, Tenno. I would be a disappointment if I weren't."
Sara smiled inwardly despite herself. Her Warframe rolled its neck, a subconscious tic from the Transference Link.
"There's a proposal coming here. Let's hear it."
"Very well. The fight in the Market. A girl was taken alongside your friend. My niece, Neera. I would have you find her, rescue her. This is our fight, not hers; and she has lost so much already."
"What makes you think I'll help you?"
"Because you are Tenno. The Board call you Betrayers; cold mercenaries and phantom butchers, but I have walked the Rail, have witnessed the feats of the Tenno first-hand. You stand for justice; a justice so sorely lacking here on Venus."
Sara said nothing for a moment. The Warframe strode on, before her voice eventually emanated once more.
"You can get me to my friend?"
"I can get you into the Upper Tier. The rest is up to you."
"Deal." Sara said, without even the barest hesitation."
Hosk blinked. Even he couldn't contain his surprise.
"Really?" He spluttered "That's it?"
"You seem surprised."
"I… no, it's just that I thought it would take some convincing!" Hosk admitted.
Mirage shrugged.
"I've done a lot of crazy things in my time, Hosk. Killed a whole lot of people. Saving one doesn't seem like such a bad idea. You get me to my friend, I'll get your niece back."
"You have my word." Hosk promised solemnly.
They had come to a small clearing. Before them were a fleet of scavenger fliers; cargo haulers and junk-ships for the most part, salvaged from the surface and lovingly repaired over the years. The transports uniformly bore the trademark boxy shape of Corpus craft, albeit stencilled in the livery of Prospect 141's Resistance.
The smaller escort craft were more ramshackle, spindly things altogether; all swooping lines and custom recurve wings. Some hand had been disassembled off-world, and shipped here; piece by piece. These fliers were two man craft; each as vibrantly coloured as they were uniquely styled - an utter rejection of the Corpus dogma.
Engines began to keen and whine as they powered up.
All around them, the Resistance flooded in, clambering into the transports; dripping with coolant.
Sara projected her voice louder, to be heard over the din.
"Even with all this, you're still vastly outnumbered. They have auto-manufactories, orbital support; an entire army in the City Watch. You're outnumbered a thousand to one."
Vanger Hosk uttered a dark chuckle as he mounted up.
"We don't need numbers, Tenno. We have you."
In the Upper Tier, life continued as it always did. The streets were calm, civilised. Traders went about their day, attended by armed escort and swirling shoals of drone assistants. The rectangular Trade Temples dominated the horizon, where good Corpus came to venerate the Guilds and give thanks to the Void.
Also prominent was Watch Control: an onyx ziggurat bristling with communications towers, landing pads and defence turrets. It served as the central control point for all Corpus operations in Prospect 141. Beyond, vast data stacks rose up like sky-scrapers; harnessing the vast computational power necessary to facilitate the Bee-Cloud network.
None of these places was their destination.
Vern's shuttle headed for the comparatively subtle tower known as The Commission Bureau; the local seat of The Exchange in Prospect 141. An ivory structure, it lacked the stylised iconography of the temples, or the brutalist menace of Watch Control. Yet there was something distressingly sinister in its simple bureaucratic presentation. Fronted by a wide plaza lined with polished grey steps, it seemed unnaturally quiet, for a place that attracted all manner of hired guns from across the sector.
The shuttle kissed down on the plaza. Brakarr rose to his feet, squatting to avoid bumping his head against the low ceiling as he departed. Parson-Luk pulled Neera to her feet, hustling her down the loading ramp. Neera's face was ashen, the fight all but gone from her face. She had played her trump card, and Bravic had laughed in her face.
Vern didn't blame her. The Exchange's reputation preceded it.
Isolde lingered behind. Vern noticed immediately.
"Something the matter, kid?"
"It is nothing." Isolde shook her head brusquely.
She went to push past. Vern's hand landed on her shoulder; servos whirring.
"If it were nothing you would be first out that door. Let's hear it."
"This girl. This is not her fight. We never took the contract, never knew she was involved."
"She's a mark, same as any. A valid contract, certified by the Exchange. We don't make the rules-"
"—'We enforce them.'" Isolde finished for him. She sighed, plucked his hand from her shoulder and sat down in one of the benches. "It does not make it sit any easier."
Vern stepped back into the shuttle, occupying the seat across from her.
"When we first met, I told you two things. You remember?"
Isolde nodded. She quoted him from memory.
"'I'm not a Tenno, or Orokin, or any other sort of label beyond what I choose to be. That I wouldn't have to fight for anyone but myself.'"
"And the second?"
Isolde looked up at him, meeting his eye with a hardened stare.
"That nobody in this galaxy looks out for us. Only us."
"That's right." Vern nodded encouragingly. He leaned forward.
"Consider this. The cut from her mark is going to extend Brakarr's life by another three years. It gets medicine for Luk's family, and us passage off this rock. No more small squabbles or petty ice feuds. Only big hunts. Just like you wanted."
Isolde said nothing. Vern pressed again, cajoling her as if she were his own.
"Look, I know it's not pretty. But that's the job. That's the life we chose. Have I ever lied to you?"
Isolde shook her head vehemently.
"Never."
"Then trust me on this: we're gonna do this job, we're gonna get our cut and never look back. I promise."