Three months after escaping Luminara, Confucius had learned to survive. He’d snuck onto a cargo ship bound for Vex-5; Lord Vex Ji’s home planet and lied his way into a job as a scribe in Ji’s Granary. The granary was a colossal structure floating above the planet’s dust plains, its frame a mix of steel girders and living bamboo, its walls covered in holographic ledgers that tracked “nutrient orbs”—the main food source for the planet’s peasants.
His role was simple: input distribution data into the system. 200 orbs to the Iron District, 150 to the Dust Flats. It was mindless work, which is exactly why Lord Vex Ji’s regime liked it—no room for questions. But Confucius had questions. He’d noticed the peasants in the Water District, where he slept in a crowded hut, growing thinner by the day. That night, he decided to check the logs. He accessed the public distribution records first, which showed the Water District—home to 3,000 people—had received only 50 orbs that week. The week before, just 30. That wasn’t enough to keep even a fraction of them alive.
To find answers, he needed access to the restricted files. Fortunately, he’d stolen a data chip from a sleeping machine-ninja three days earlier, slipping it into his robe while the ninja recharged its circuits. Now, he inserted the chip into the terminal. It bypassed the security firewall with a soft beep, and a folder labeled “Internal Allocations” appeared. He opened it, and his blood ran cold. 95% of the nutrient orbs meant for the Water District were being rerouted to a “military reserve bunker” beneath the granary—Lord Vex Ji was hoarding them for his private army, letting peasants starve to strengthen his forces.
“Whatcha lookin’ at, scribe?”
Confucius nearly jumped. It was Kael-7, the granary’s overseer—a cyborg with a metal arm and a face scarred by plasma burns. He leaned against a crate of orbs, his cybernetic eye zooming in on the screen.
“Nothin’, sir,” Confucius said, quickly minimizing the folder. “Just… double-checking the counts. Can’t mess up, right?”
Kael-7 snorted. “Lord Vex Ji don’t pay you to check. He pays you to type. One wrong number, and you’ll be fertilizer for the bamboo.” He stomped off, his metal boot clanging on the floor.
Confucius waited until Kael-7 was out of sight, then copied the restricted logs to the data chip. Next, he navigated back to the public distribution system and revised the Water District’s next shipment: 5,000 orbs, priority delivery. The system confirmed the change with a chime: “Adjustment confirmed. User: Confucius, Scribe-Level 1.”
He pulled the data chip from the terminal and tucked it into his robe. His plan was simple: get the chip to the Water District leaders. With proof of Ji’s theft, they could rally the peasants to storm the bunker and reclaim the orbs.
But as he stood to leave, red lights flashed, and an alarm blared: “Unauthorized data access detected. All exits locked. Scribe Confucius, report to security.”
The system had flagged his adjustment. He cursed—“Stang,” a swear he’d picked up from a peasant kid—and sprinted for the maintenance shaft in the corner. He’d memorized the granary’s layout during his first week, noting the shaft as a potential escape route.
He climbed the ladder to the roof, then flattened himself against the metal tiles. Below, he heard guards pouring into the courtyard—at least 20, if their shouts were any indication. They were wearing steel armor, and he could see the glint of blasters in their hands.
He scanned the area for an escape route. To the east, a network of bamboo walkways connected the granary to three nearby guard towers. The walkways were narrow, but they were his only chance. He ran to the nearest one, boots thudding against the bamboo planks, which flexed but held under his weight.
A guard appeared at the end of the walkway, blaster raised. Confucius reacted instinctively, diving to slide under the man’s legs. As he passed, he grabbed the bow slung across the guard’s back—a quantum model, its string made of carbon fiber, arrows tipped with plasma.Lord Vex Ji will be starving soon.
He popped up, nocked an arrow, and fired. The plasma tip hit the guard’s blaster, melting it into a useless lump. The guard stumbled back, yelling, giving Confucius time to run. But more guards were climbing the ladders to the roof now; he needed to get the data chip to the Water District quickly.
He spotted a hut below, its window open. A girl with a gaunt face peeked out—Lila, a 16-year-old from her hut, who’d snuck out to fetch water. Their eyes met, and she nodded, understanding he needed help. Confucius tore a strip from his robe, wrapped the data chip in it, and tied it to an arrow. He gauged the wind (blowing west at 10 mph), the distance (40 feet), and the chip’s weight (light, but enough to affect the arrow’s trajectory).
Breathe in. Breathe out. He let the arrow fly. It sailed through the window, and snatched it, tucking it into her raggy robe, further tearing it before ducking inside.
“Hey! Over here!” a guard shouted from behind. Confucius turned, fired an arrow at the guard’s knee, and sprinted toward the next tower. Behind him, the alarm wailed, but he smiled. The data was safe.
For the Water District, he thought. For everyone.
He pulled the data chip from the terminal and tucked it into his robe. His plan was simple: get the chip to the Water District leaders. With proof of Ji’s theft, they could rally the peasants to storm the bunker and reclaim the orbs.
But as he stood to leave, red lights flashed, and an alarm blared: “Unauthorized data access detected. All exits locked. Scribe Confucius, report to security.”
The system had flagged his adjustment. He cursed—“Stang,” a swear he’d picked up from a peasant kid—and sprinted for the maintenance shaft in the corner. He’d memorized the granary’s layout during his first week, noting the shaft as a potential escape route.
Somewhere in the distance, a machine-ninja chanted: “Ignorance is obedience. Obedience is peace.”
