There are hundreds of billions of stars in the galaxy.
Millions of inhabited ones.
Trillions, quadrillions of people.
The scope of space is massive, the problems and the powers it yields near-infinite.
Ships rage in their thousands against one another, planets are invaded by armies defying comprehension, and weapons that could shatter planets into pieces are used as though they were nothing.
On the small world of Valeria, however, galactic events have long passed it by. It sits untouched by the great tradeships, unknown by the fleets of warships - it possesses no hyper-capable warships of its own, and only a few small patrol cutters to assist traders in and out of the system.
Despite it's poverty, it is a beautiful world - a gleaming frozen surface, and great cities of lights beneath the ice, suspended there in the waters of the planet. From there expeditions leave to farm what plants can be survive the harsh cold, hunt the great tresh, the whales of Valeria. They are powerful creatures, and the tiny submarines of the Talythiana who hunt them are no match for a single blow from their tails. They are tremendous, pale-white creatures, nearing a hundred metres long, with rows of 'eyes' along their left and right sides. There is no light down here, but they use some method to see. They swim slowly and without purpose, eating what nears them. Usually they swim in packs, but this one is alone.
They are gentle, and it is not without compassion that Arur Kenai shoots. A pressure-propelled harpoon, carving its way through the eyesocket of the tresh and into its brain. Not that Arur will eat it, he knows. But he will eat something, and that is good. He has been doing this since he was four - near-adulthood for a Talythian, and has known little else. They are gentle creatures, and there are less and less of them every year. They get harder to find, but he still survives. Six children rely on him, and he does not particularly want to be one of the criminals sold off-world as a slave. If he cannot find tresh, he will starve. Or turn to crime, he supposes. Not that it matters. He is nearing fifteen, and has few enough years left. If he can ensure his children live, that is enough. A few more years of this, he thinks. There are worse things.
He pulls up a radio handset.
"Kenai here. Got one. Send down the haulers."
Within a few hours more submarines return, larger ones this time. Their motors hum and they move far faster than Kenai, Talythians emerging in pressure suits to wrap cords of metal around the great corpse. They turn, and haul it back to the greater under-ice city of Yikatai. Nearly two hundred million Talythians live here, one-fifth of the planetary population. This, and four other cities like it around the equator farm massive quantities of engineered kelp and other tiny organisms to sustain their populations.
There were six cities, once.
Arur does not reach the city for some hours. His sub is tiny, and designed to be able to get within range of the tresh without alerting them, not for speed. But a single tresh contains great wealth. The meat is a delicacy, and the traders that ply the stars will pay a thousand thousand times its weight in pure calories. The brain is a potent aphrodisiac for some alien race or another, and sells for even more than the meat. The skin is tanned and sold as leather to those same traders, who take it to richer planets, those who delight in the peculiar artifacts of places like this world.
His children, well. He is not sure. Will they be able to hunt tresh? Arur is not educated, but he knows that the numbers must be going down. Yet the take remains the same, as more resources are poured into hunting tresh. This much he has reasoned out. Such a thing cannot be sustained for too long. A decade? Five? The competition has grown fierce these days, and men have been known to crack one another's subs or suits, letting them sink towards the core of the planet. He has not done such a thing yet, but he has considered it.
He is in a sub no larger than a small cupboard - an air recirculator, a set of pressure tanks, and three harpoons. The pressure tanks are used to collect oxygen as well as fire the harpoons. He checks his instruments. A good hunt this time. Firing two harpoons tends to mean risk, and three is desperation - few survive it. He sits back a little, his knees still jammed into his chest. They have been like that for days - there is no room to stretch his legs in the sub.
Eventually he reaches what other planets would call shore. A great city of lights built into the water,a massive translucent dome around the edge. A hole at the bottom to allow subs such as his to enter and leave. A great column of water reaches from underneath the city to the bottom of the ice, serving as transport for all who would travel through it. He enters the tube, and his radio crackles to life.
"Hunt sub, please identify."
"Arur Kenai. City hunter, ident 1303-CSC."
"Nightmare cane?"
"Vivid toll."
He waits for a moment, and a slight urge to panic rises in him. Identifying him should be instant - he should not be waiting at all! Another few seconds, and he closes his eyes, convinced he is about to die, killed by an overzealous security guard, and-
"..Acknowledged, 1303-CSC. You are to transit to the lowest, I repeat, the lowest entry point south-south-west, and dock there."
He is so relieved he doesn't even realise that he will be climbing through the entire city to get home.
"Understood. Proceeding to L1, south-south-west."
The sub rises, and he deftly maneuvers the door to click into the airlock. It sometimes leaks a little, but as it hisses open, he smiles. Perfect alignment.
He stretches, moving out his legs and arms fully for the first times in days. Aches and pains that feel like they have been part of him forever ease a little bit, and he cracks his neck, grinning at the prospect of seeing his children - and better than that, bringing home the money they need.
As he steps out, he is met by a hail of bullets.
- - - - - - - - -
A taller man looks down at the corpse, feeling through the pockets quickly.
"Got the key."
Two other Talythians unlock his sub, and one leans into it. He taps the old computer system for a moment, and it springs to life. No passwords, or security - just the data the subs need to co-ordinate their missions.
"Perfect. Tresh will be going skyborne next week."
He chuckles.
"Can't believe they still replicate the data across all the subs. Clean up the body, and tell the captain. We're going to make a killing."
