Global Event: Coalition Inspection
The harsh rasp of the comms system sliced through the morning stillness. Sergeant Major Rostova, her face etched with perpetual suspicion, barked, “Governor, priority transmission from orbital control.”
Ashton sighed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The past few months had been a brutal baptism. Repelling the Ironclad Raiders, forging a fragile alliance with the miners, battling the Crimson Bloom, and now, whispered horrors in the outer settlements. Sleep was a rare commodity.
“Put it through,” he grumbled, rising from his makeshift desk – a repurposed crate – in the governor’s office, a room whose peeling paint and flickering lights mocked its grandiose title.
The comms crackled, then a crisp, modulated voice filled the room. “Governor Ashton, this is Inspector Valerius Thorne of the United Terran Coalition Inspection Directorate. ETA to Ashfall orbital station: one standard hour. I trust preparations have been made for a thorough audit of resource allocation, tithe fulfillment, and overall planetary compliance with Coalition directives.”
Ashton felt a knot tighten in his stomach. Valerius Thorne. The name echoed with a disturbing familiarity. Not personal, but institutional. Thorne was known throughout the Coalition bureaucracy as an unyielding stickler for protocol, a man who lived and breathed regulations. He’d made his name climbing the ladder by exposing inefficiencies, real or manufactured, on struggling colony worlds. Landing on Ashfall was akin to a vulture circling carrion.
“Inspector Thorne, welcome to Ashfall. We are, of course, prepared to receive you,” Ashton replied, forcing a cordial tone. Inside, his mind raced. He had been meticulously diverting resources – medical supplies meant for tithe shipment, fuel earmarked for the Coalition’s coffers – to combat the Crimson Bloom and repair the damaged atmospheric filters in the outer settlements. The tithe was woefully short. Compliance was a carefully constructed illusion.
Rostova, ever pragmatic, cut the connection. “Governor, this is… problematic. He’ll see through our facade in minutes. The defenses are weak, the settlements are barely functioning, and the resource numbers are, shall we say, creative?”
“Creative accounting is a time-honored tradition in the Coalition,” Ashton retorted, but his humor felt hollow. “We need a plan. Thorne can’t see the true state of things. He needs to see a functional, productive colony, eager to serve the Coalition.”
“Impossible,” Rostova stated bluntly. “We’re weeks, maybe months, away from that, even on an optimistic projection.”
“Then we need to manufacture that impression. We need to stage it.” Ashton began pacing, his mind firing on all cylinders. “Rostova, get every able-bodied person out of the central settlement, decked out in their cleanest rags. We need them lining the landing platform, cheering, waving Coalition flags.”
“Flags we don’t have,” Rostova pointed out.
“Improvise! Bed sheets, paint… anything. Make it patriotic. Make it believable. We need to overwhelm Thorne with the illusion of prosperity and loyalty.”
Next, Ashton activated the command console. Its glitching interface flickered, displaying a series of error messages before grudgingly granting access. He needed to use the console to control information. Specifically, information that would reach Thorne’s scanners and sensors.
“Console, reroute atmospheric readings from the landing zone. Reduce toxicity levels by twenty percent. Compensate for the difference planet-wide. He doesn’t need to know how much poison we’re actually breathing.”
“Console, adjust resource projection statistics for the next quarter. Increase tithe estimate by fifteen percent. Ensure data aligns with pre-existing Coalition records.” He hated lying, but survival demanded it.
He then turned his attention to Dr. Thorne. “Aris, I need your help. Thorne is an environmental specialist. He'll be running atmospheric tests, soil samples, the whole nine yards. We need to… mitigate… any discrepancies.”
Aris, perpetually dusted with the fine gray grit of Ashfall, raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Mitigate? You mean lie. You want me to lie to a Coalition inspector about the ecological devastation they caused in the first place.”
“I need you to present the most… optimistic… interpretation of the data,” Ashton clarified. “Highlight the successes we’ve had with the Dust Stalkers, the progress on the atmospheric scrubbers. Downplay the failures, the contaminated water sources, the… other issues.”
Aris sighed. “Fine. But I want it on record that I'm doing this under duress. And if this Thorne is even halfway competent, he'll see right through it. Ashfall is a dying world, Ashton. No amount of spin can change that.”
The hour passed in a frantic blur of activity. Rostova managed to rally the populace, a ragtag band of miners, farmers, and former soldiers, into a semblance of order. They lined the landing platform, their faces a mixture of fear, hope, and weary resignation. Crude Coalition flags, fashioned from tattered cloth and hastily applied paint, flapped weakly in the toxic breeze.
Ashton, clad in his ill-fitting governor’s uniform, stood ramrod straight, forcing a smile that felt unnatural on his face. He could feel the tension radiating from the crowd, the silent plea for him to somehow fix this broken world.
The Coalition transport, a sleek, silver dart, descended through the murky atmosphere, its engines kicking up swirling clouds of dust. The ramp hissed open, and Inspector Valerius Thorne emerged.
He was exactly as Ashton had pictured him: tall, thin, with a severe face and eyes that seemed to bore into your soul. His uniform was immaculate, pressed to a razor-sharp crease, a stark contrast to the grime and decay that surrounded him. He carried a datapad in one hand and a scrutinizing gaze in the other.
“Governor Ashton, I presume?” Thorne said, his voice precise and devoid of warmth. He extended a gloved hand, the gesture more formality than greeting.
“Inspector Thorne, welcome to Ashfall. We are honored by your visit.” Ashton shook his hand, feeling the cold, calculating pressure.
Thorne’s gaze swept over the crowd, lingering on the patched clothing, the gaunt faces, the flimsy flags. His expression remained impassive, unreadable.
“Let’s dispense with the pleasantries, Governor. I have a schedule to adhere to. I’ll begin with a comprehensive inspection of your resource management facilities, followed by an assessment of tithe compliance. I expect full transparency and cooperation.”
For the next three days, Thorne was a relentless presence. He visited the mines, the farms, the processing plants, his datapad recording every detail, every discrepancy. He questioned workers, managers, even Rostova, his interrogations sharp and probing.
Ashton danced a delicate dance, guiding Thorne through carefully curated paths, diverting his attention from the worst areas, feeding him carefully crafted narratives. Aris Thorne proved invaluable, presenting data with a persuasive blend of scientific jargon and carefully chosen optimism.
There were close calls. A malfunctioning filtration unit threatened to expose the true toxicity levels of the atmosphere. A sudden spike in mutant activity forced Ashton to hastily divert Thorne away from a particularly vulnerable settlement. A worker, driven to desperation by hunger, attempted to expose the truth about the diverted medical supplies. Rostova dealt with that last one swiftly and silently, but the incident sent a chill down Ashton’s spine.
The strain was immense. Ashton was running on fumes, fueled by caffeine and desperation. He knew that Thorne was not fooled, not entirely. He could see the suspicion in the inspector’s eyes, the subtle tightening of his lips when presented with yet another carefully constructed statistic.
On the final day, Thorne summoned Ashton to his transport. “Governor, I have completed my preliminary assessment. I will be submitting my report to the Coalition High Command.”
Ashton braced himself. “And your conclusions, Inspector?”
Thorne paused, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon, where the toxic storm clouds gathered like malevolent spirits. “Ashfall is a troubled world, Governor. Your resource allocation is… unconventional. Your tithe figures are… optimistic. But… there is something else here.”
Ashton’s heart pounded in his chest. “What do you mean, Inspector?”
“I see a… resilience… among your people. A determination to survive against impossible odds. A sense of… loyalty… to you, despite the hardships they endure.” Thorne turned back to Ashton, his eyes, for the first time, betraying a flicker of something other than cold calculation. “The Coalition has a way of crushing such spirit, Governor. Be warned.”
He paused, then continued in a lower voice, almost a whisper, “There are whispers, too, of forgotten things. Of ancient powers stirring beneath the dust. Be careful, Governor. Some things are better left buried.”
Thorne turned and entered the transport, the ramp hissing shut behind him. The transport engines roared to life, and the silver dart ascended into the toxic sky, disappearing into the gloom.
Ashton stood alone on the landing platform, the wind whipping his hair around his face. He had survived the inspection, for now. But Thorne’s words echoed in his ears, a warning and a promise of darker days to come. The Coalition was not the only threat lurking on Ashfall. And the secrets buried beneath the dust were stirring. His fight was far from over. It had only just begun.