Spotlights flared across the velvet stage like the sunrise over The Bloodfields of Celios IV. The heraldic shield of The Union shimmered at Justin Dal's back. Glorious, proud, and dark blue. The image of the common worker stood to the left, a soldier center, and a scientist at its right. Three essential roles that kept the Union people happy, safe, and well-fed.

  Justin was a famous comedian of sorts, center-stage with a mic tight in hand, smug smile cocked like a pistol.

  “Evening my fellow patriots!”

  His shrill voice cut through the excited embers of retreating applause.

  “Glad to be here tonight, damn glad, folks. Tier 1 planets are always a joy to visit, you've got the best amenities of the bunch." Justin slowly paced, sweat on his brow. "Been in The Heartland the past few years. Nice place, if not a bit detrimental to your health. Crowds tend to open fire when jokes don't land, might duck now and then—pay it no mind."

  The crowd laughed. More polite than boisterous. A myriad of well-dressed citizens from every corner of Union space, happy and attentive.

  "How about that Mayoral Adjutant, huh? Trenton Millison, and his immaculate hairline? Probably spends more time in the barbershop than the Grand Assembly. Explains our shit taxes of late, huh?”

  The crowd was gradually warming to him, amused with his testers. A volley of jokes meant to gauge the room.

  He grinned wider. “Speaking of our beloved leader, he recently announced a new transparency policy. A live-feed to Consul hearings. To see the old fossils that make decisions for us in action. The consequences of which they won't even live to see. An odd move, if I say so myself. The last guy who motioned for transparency disappeared faster than talks for a budget audit. Politicians and corruption go together like peanut butter and jelly, am I right?”

  A noticeable hush slithered between sporadic and distant chuckles. Someone awkwardly coughed. Another few people slyly glanced at the exits on either side. His grin fought to keep its place, the appearance of mirth was as important as what was said. Justin simply needed to wrangle them back in with a zinger.

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  "Uh, excuse me? Mr. Dal?

  A young woman in the front row spoke up, her hand precariously raised.

  "What can I do for you, sweetheart?"

  "I was at your last show. It was good, really. But shouldn't you maybe ease away from the government jokes? After the Union Oversight warnings? Just a bit?"

  Justin leaned on one foot, lazy, deliberate. “I'm only kidding! The Adjutant has a sense of humor, look at his wife! And The Union is a democracy, sorta. It doesn’t disappear people, it just...helps them adjust their visibility settings. Permanently. ”

  The back wall exploded—a durtanium flower that bloomed out in petals of burning shrapnel. White dust choked out the light over Justin's head. His ears rang, and his teeth ached. The audience gasped and ducked for cover, wary, but not yet in a full-fledged panic.

  The cameras panned over in a flash, in time to see four Oversight commandos storm through the breach, armor black as a devil's heart, proud shoulders gleaming with the very same Union shield.

  Justin blinked, stunned and almost speechless. “Ah, my adoring public, I suppose?”

  They hit him fast. No wasted motion. His body crumpled to the floor, the mic whined like a fork against a chalkboard. A hail of boots and rifle butts cracked into his skull, ribs, legs. Rhythmic and precise, peppering him with enthusiastic cracks of agony. His mouth filled with blood, bile, and the mozzarella sticks he'd had for dinner. Vision fuzzy and out of focus.

  When he could no longer squirm or flail his arms, the lead commando leaned down, enclosed helmet humming.

  “Your past service to public morale is appreciated. But this is your last polite warning.”

  The commandos started off at a slow pace, laughing, more than satisfied with a job well-done.

  “Can I?” Justin wheezed, spitting the taste of iron from between his now missing front teeth. "Get that in writing?”

  The lead man straightened, and turned back with a crisp about-face. The canopy of his visored helmet whirred open, revealing the textbook face of a hardened and trained killer. Expression half-amused, and completely deadly.

  "Sure thing, pal." He lifted up a grimy and bloody boot, revealing a manufacturer label imprinted in the rubber.

  Made on New China.

  Then Justin painfully and abruptly took an unscheduled nap.