Krakkar, Son of B’loorg loosened his tie and collapsed into his seat on the hoverbus. He was exhausted; the Gragon army was in the midst of an interstellar war with the Vertaani, and sending more warships by the day. From his meager desk on the 142nd floor of the Q’uavloor Building, Krakkar crunched the numbers for his government, and they just didn’t add up. But the Gragon were a warrior race, with no interest in what it took to finance a multi-world empire. I mean, the cost of serrated breastplates alone was enough to bankrupt even the most affluent species! But Krakkar was widely considered by his peers to be weak and useless, even though without men like him their empire would have crumbled long ago. This was his stop. Krakkar held his briefcase tightly on his lap, the one that contained the stolen plans, and pressed his fingertips nervously into the cheap leather.

If the Gragon government didn’t appreciate him, maybe the Vertaani would.