Zin Basan watched the gates of his compound open.
Atop fleshy poles his eyes wondered freely, as only Mulas eyes could. One looked around where he stood, waiting for someone to approach. Not a day went past without multiple incidents taking place. His other eye remained fixed on the gates, beyond which the landing platforms lay.
Now, almost fully open, he could see the crowd that had amassed outside. Throughout the crowd were the painted uniforms of his people, red, worn, mismatched armor pieces. Some thick battle shells, some light leather skins, the quality of armor suggested rank, or at least experience. They weren't a disciplined force by any means, but they were loyal. Well, loyal so long as they got paid. For their earnings, they were never let down; Zin would never make beggers of those that helped him, their wages were never delayed.
The Oridium Mines were a reliable source of income, so long as there was a reliable source of people to work them. So far, there had never been a shortage of bodies. Jex was overflowing with dregs from every Free Space World, each person arrived to the capital planet with dreams and ambition; some would even have those dreams come to life. Plenty, however, would end up here. Or, they'd end up somewhere far worse. Zin was happy to bring in new bodies and give them work. For them, it was far better than the alternatives.
The noise of the welcome grounds was thick in the air, mechanical churning, the barking of orders, ships landing and taking off, the methodical explosions in the distance, the winds passing violently through the man made canyons that gouged the land for miles, and the hum from deep beneath them which sent vibrations through the feet of anyone who walked this place. Beautiful; it was once nothing, and now it provided key building materials to most of Free Space and it was all thanks to dedication and fervor.
"Our replacements seem eager to work," Zin called out as the workforce was escorted through the gates.
"Tears of joy, I'm sure," Carnaris Bengerra said with a wry smile. He looked back and gestured to his men.
As the hand signal went up, his subordinates carried out his will, shouting commands.
"Straighten the columns!" His men shouted, and as they did, those below them shouted inaudible orders of their own. When words failed, batons were effective when it came to shifting the new workers. Within a few moments, they moved as one, all of their bodies morphed into one being; it was an organism with many legs, arms and eyes. Soon, the disorganised crowd was neat and orderly. Much easier for assignment.
Zin began to walk, he headed for the right hand side, and as he moved Carnaris fell in behind him. "What brings these ones to us?" He asked as he skimmed over the faces of the crowd.
"Same as always," Carnaris replied. "Some found there way here for owing money, some had bounties, others had death marks, some homeless." He stopped as his head tilted upwards, eyes flickering as if trying to read the sky. "Oh, and we got a good bunch from Hillbricks, they're at capacity and are happy to send more our way."
"Was there any who sought us out?" Zin asked. "Of their own free will?"
"Not in this batch, I'm afraid."
Zin felt the usual pang of disappointment. One day, he hoped that the bulk of his workforce would find their way here without being dragged. He couldn't understand how there were not more people out there who would come and, in a way, legitimize the operation. The mines were a key industry on Jex, and the benefits to the wider galactic territory were great. People working off debts weren't great for productivity; prisoners didn't make for an effective work force. Typically they caused more trouble than not; they'd kill one another, or sometimes even start an uprising that would make Carnaris's life harder.
"I need people with passion." He stated, barely able to contain his frustration. One of his eyes skimmed the desperate faces of those brought before him, while the other remained static on Carnaris. "I want you to carry out a recruitment drive, I want people who want to be here, not another batch of these sorry creatures!"
"I'll have my people do as you say," Carnaris replied, before throwing a concerned look at the new batch of workers standing in their columns. "What will we do with them?"
Zin sighed, as he turned his full attention to them. "The same as usual," he replied in a deflated tone. With the wave of his wrist he turned from them and walked back to his station.
The same as usual. Rotchi, the disgusting insectoids, with their mirrored eyes, chittering mandibles, and blank backs where wings once were. They'd be sent to the lowest levels of the mines. They would spend their final weeks digging deeper for caverns to exploit. The Triskani, some would follow the Rotchi, but most would be placed on the middle levels along with most of the Humans. Humans; the most prevalent species in Free Space. Beskin's, they were typically used as engineering crews. Doshans, they always worked best above ground. Everyone had their places, and if they weren't good fits, they'd become mulch for the feed fields, or fertilizer. He wasn't entirely sure how they were used, but they were used. Everyone had their use here. To Zin, all but Mulas were good for nothing more than finding something useful.
As he left them behind, he heard the orders being shouted as people were picked from the columns, grouped up and taken away.
His office was cold; it was the perfect temperature for him. There was coolness in the mostly empty room that allowed him to focus his mind on matters of operation. His holo-projector chimed; another notification from people he would rather not deal with. It seemed that it was always someone demanding more than he could provide. The workers weren't good enough; how can someone be expected create a work of art without the right tools?
He skimmed through the message and saw something that made him stand to attention. Razor Jax.
Razor Jax was a name of infamy, even though few had actually had an encounter with him personally. But, most people had at some point dealt with his organisation, The High Flyers. A group of speeder fanatics, renowned for their passion for in orbit vehicles. It was a fine pastime, and their production work was an untapped industry ready for a major boom. There illicit activities, though, made them a prime target for the ZPD.
The message they sent spoke of a deal to be made, one which was mutually beneficial. It left Zin pondering for a long while. The prospects were tempting, but working closely with a group with their reputation wasn't too appealing. He flicked through his other unread messages, each of them threatening, each of them asking for more. He knew something had to be done to resolve his issue, and get the mines out of the slump.
I suppose there is no harm in hearing them out. He thought before he started recording his reply.