Chapter 742: Initial Contact in the Bar
After several hours of low-profile sub-orbital flight, the Thunderhawk gunship, emblazoned with the abstract stellar orbit crest of "Far Star United," broke through Mar Sara's thin atmosphere—tinged with rust-colored dust—and descended toward the frontier settlement known as "Backwater Station."
Looking out the viewport, the scene Valerie witnessed differed from the signs of reconstruction vitality initially recorded by Maine's squad.
An invisible tension permeated the air.
The defensive walls on the settlement's perimeter appeared hastily reinforced, and figures moved frequently in the watchtowers.
On the sparse streets, pedestrians walked with hurried steps, and many shops had closed early. Conversely, the traffic of transport convoys seemed unusually busy, mostly loaded with construction materials, weapon crates, and barrels of fuel.
Occasionally, old transport planes or modified spacecraft streaked across the sky, their engine noises hoarse and urgent.
The planet felt like an ancient tree that had sensed the sudden drop in atmospheric pressure before a storm, drawing its branches and leaves tight.
The Thunderhawk landed on a relatively flat patch of hard ground on the outskirts of the settlement, marked as a temporary landing pad.
The engines cut out, and before the hatch was even fully open, ten "Security Consultants" in dark gray power armor filed out. They swiftly and silently occupied advantageous positions around the hatch, forming an airtight defensive perimeter.
Their movements were uniform, possessing a precision forged through countless trials. The low, smooth hum of their power armor servo systems operating stood in stark contrast to the rugged, noisy mechanical sounds of the locals, immediately drawing sidelong glances from nearby residents and armed personnel.
Valerie was the last to step out of the hatch.
She had changed into a sharply tailored women's business suit of excellent quality, though not overly luxurious. Over it, she wore a light-colored trench coat suited for the climate of a desert planet. Her dark hair was neatly tied back, and she wore light makeup designed to enhance her professional appearance and create a slight sense of distance.
Carrying a lightweight alloy briefcase, her calm gaze swept over this frontier town filled with the scents of dust, steel, and tension.
In sharp contrast to the silent, cold steel guards behind her was the stylized, composed faint smile of a business professional on her face—though this smile did not truly reach her eyes.
According to intelligence, the most likely place to find Jim Raynor right now was the small tavern he ran, which also served as the unofficial gathering spot for the Raiders.
Valerie did not waste time. With one "Security Consultant" shadowing her closely (while the other nine fanned out to maintain a perimeter), she headed straight for a two-story building in the center of town that looked sturdier than the surrounding structures, a worn neon sign hanging by its door.
Pushing open the heavy, soundproof door of the tavern, a smell composed of cheap alcohol, tobacco, sweat, and machine oil washed over her.
The lighting was dim. Even though it was daytime outside, quite a few people were gathered inside.
Some were conversing in low voices with solemn expressions; some were drinking in brooding silence; others were inspecting and maintaining their weapons.
At the front of the bar, a tall man wearing an old shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbows was distractedly drinking alone.
He had slightly unkempt hair, a blue stubble on his chin, and deep exhaustion carved around his eyes, along with the cynical traces left by life's long grind.
It was Jim Raynor. He was sitting on a tall stool at the bar, half a glass of amber liquid sitting in front of him.
Valerie's entrance, particularly the "steel bodyguard" behind her that was clearly not a local product, instantly drew almost every eye in the tavern.
The whispers stopped, and various indiscernible gazes landed on her: curiosity, scrutiny, and undisguised wariness.
Raynor also turned his head. His previously somewhat unfocused gaze sharpened rapidly upon encountering this incongruous combination.
He set down his glass and turned his body slightly in Valerie's direction. The exhaustion in his eyes was replaced by an almost instinctive sharpness, carrying a sense of scrutiny and distance, like an experienced veteran evaluating an intruder of unknown intent.
Valerie ignored the stares, walking straight up to the bar and sitting in the empty seat next to Raynor.
Her "bodyguard" stood like a statue a step behind and to the side of her.
"Looks like business is good today; at least there's still alcohol to drink," Valerie began, her voice calm and clear, carrying a well-trained professionalism that was neither overly enthusiastic nor seemingly cold.
"There's always alcohol; it just depends on who's drinking it and why," Raynor withdrew his scrutinizing gaze from the bodyguard and picked up his glass again. His tone was flat, but it held a barely detectable aloofness: "New face. Tourist? Passing through? Or... did you get lost?"
"Consider it a business trip, Mr. Raynor." Valerie did not beat around the bush. She took out a simply designed but exquisitely crafted business card from her trench coat pocket and placed it lightly on the bar. "Valerie. Currently representing an investment consortium interested in the development potential of the Koprulu Sector, conducting preliminary research."
Raynor glanced at the business card. The information on it was concise, but the small words "Registered in the Earth Sphere" caused the fingers holding his glass to pause slightly.
When he looked up at Valerie again, that aloofness was mixed with a clear trace of coldness and undisguised suspicion.
"Earth Sphere?" He pulled a humorless curve at the corner of his mouth. "A rare guest indeed. What, did your 'Directorate' come up with a new trick? Instead of sending the UED fleet this time, you sent... a commercial representative?"
"My personal resume is not connected to the military operations of the United Earth Directorate (UED), Mr. Raynor." Valerie responded calmly, showing no surprise or anger at the obvious hostility. "The consortium I represent is an independent commercial entity. Our funding sources and composition are complex, and we have nothing to do with the Directorate's attempts at conquest. Our interest lies in evaluating long-term, stable commercial possibilities, not military occupation."
"Sounds pretty." Raynor took a sip of his drink, clearly not fully convinced. "Then, what 'commercial possibilities' did this 'independent' representative from the Earth Sphere come all the way to this backwater of Mar Sara to evaluate? Surely you didn't take a liking to the sand here?"
"The more barren a fringe world appears, the more it can often reflect a sector's true resilience and unrecognized opportunities. Of course, it also hides more unique risks," Valerie said unhurriedly. At the same time, she placed the alloy briefcase she carried on her lap, opened it, and took out a thin folder. "In fact, prior to initial contact with potential partners, based on our obligations and preliminary observations, I have a piece of information unrelated to commerce, but concerning the safety of everyone here, that I need to impart."
She raised her eyes, looking directly at Raynor, her tone becoming more formal: "The long-range detection systems we brought with us when entering the sector have captured an anomalous, massive cluster of biomass signals moving from outer space toward Mar Sara."
"According to trajectory and signature model analysis, it is estimated that their vanguard could make contact with this planet within four to seven days. The signal strength indicates that its scale... is absolutely not a natural migration, and the threat level is extremely high."