Chapter 79: The Parley
The decision was made, and the high-efficiency execution protocol engaged immediately.
Within hours, a lean, specialized team codenamed "Probe" was assembled. The team lead was Dr. Mela Sorenson, a woman in her forties who held doctorates in advanced materials science and possessed extensive experience in external technology negotiations. She was known for her calm, pragmatic demeanor and her keen grasp of counter-party psychology. Her second was Major Richard Ward, a quiet, observant operations expert from the external security division, with a long record of successful low-impact missions in sensitive territories.
The core team was rounded out by a top-tier network operations specialist, responsible for ensuring secure communications and analyzing potential digital traps, and a behavioral analysis expert, whose sole purpose was to assess the true state and intent of their target.
By cross-referencing Kwan's testimony, anomalous data-flickers from the areas surrounding the Strange and Winters assassination sites, and a deep-dive analysis of the Edgerunners' known associates, the team quickly isolated a potential, indirect contact node.
They did not choose to go directly to the desert sanctum—that would be an overt provocation. Instead, near a derelict communications relay tower on the outskirts of Night City, they set a physical beacon with a specific, pre-agreed identification signal, requesting a preliminary parley.
They did not have to wait long.
Moiré's figure materialized at the entrance of the ruined tower. Her posture was relaxed, yet hyper-alert, like a predator patrolling its own territory. She wore a dark grey combat-suit under a functional long coat, its hem stirring in the light breeze.
Her precisely augmented eyes swept over the "Probe" team members. Her irises were a near-perfect, natural sea-blue, with only the faintest, deep-red glow visible at certain angles.
Major Ward's breathing hitched, an almost imperceptible reaction.
He recognized the unique posture, the perfect center-of-gravity distribution. They were the characteristics of a subject who had undergone Militech's highest-level combat augmentation and training. But what shocked him was that the figure before him felt... stronger... than any "Scalpel" operator he had ever encountered. Her movements possessed a honed, synergistic fluidity that transcended pure mechanical precision.
Dr. Sorenson stepped forward, maintaining a respectful, safe distance. She projected an air of professionalism, wasting no time on pleasantries.
"We are here on behalf of Militech," she began, her voice clear. "We have received and carefully analyzed the message delivered by Mr. Elliot Kwan. We understand your 'Master' wishes to de-escalate any future, unnecessary conflict."
Her terminology was precise, chosen to avoid any misinterpretation. "We have noted the specific contents of the reparations list. We believe there is a basis for further discussion. However, we are more interested in exploring the possibility of bypassing a simple framework of compensation and ceasefire, and opening a more... constructive, future-oriented channel for dialogue. We believe this could represent a far greater value to both parties."
As she spoke, Sorenson, Ward, and the behavioral analyst behind them observed Moiré with total focus.
Moiré listened in silence, her right hand lightly touching her left forearm. Her facial expression remained neutral, but her eyes were intensely focused, as if weighing every word. When Sorenson mentioned "more constructive dialogue," her brow twitched, almost imperceptibly, before smoothing again.
Sorenson delivered the core request: "To that end, we request an opportunity for a more direct exchange with your 'Master.' Whether through an absolutely secure, high-level encrypted channel, or a face-to-face meeting at a neutral, secure location... we are prepared to show our good faith."
Moiré remained silent for a long moment, her optical lenses flickering slightly as she data-linked with a distant presence.
After several seconds, she replied, her synthesized voice carrying a strange, resonant quality, "Message received. It will be relayed."
Her gaze lingered on Sorenson for a moment. "Await a response. I will contact you."
Without another word, she gave a slight nod, turned, and walked away. Her departure was precise, efficient, and without ceremony.
Moiré transmitted the complete log of the "Probe" team's contact—their composition, their exact phrasing, their subtle vocal intonations, and all environmental data—back to the desert sanctum.
As the data uploaded, she looked down at her own hand, flexing the joints. The simple movement reminded her of the endless drills on a Militech training field, but the power moving this chassis now was of a fundamentally different, and superior, nature. She shook her head, purging the irrelevant memory.
She knew the message her Master had sent through her was delivered. And in response, Militech had offered something more than just fear or concession—they had offered a strategic probe.
The final decision now rested with the entity who had given her this new life and this new, holy directive.
In the core sanctum, bathed in cold, artificial light, Joric's tall, crimson form stood before the holo-console.
His crimson optical lenses calmly swept over Moiré's detailed report. On an adjacent display, the Dimensional Sextant's real-time energy readouts and harmonic waveforms pulsed steadily.
His logic-engine was running at high speed. All these new variables—Militech's offer, Biotechnica's inevitable (and likely more emotional) retaliation, the risks of maintaining the status quo, the potential gains from opening contact—were converted into cold parameters and fed into his decision-making models, weighed against efficiency and his primary objectives.
For him, the choice between a more violent, punitive strike to cow Biotechnica, or accepting Militech's probe to begin a high-stakes game of transactional diplomacy, was simply a matter of selecting the most efficient tool for the task.
Emotional motives—revenge, the desire for power, anger at being challenged—these were human-centric, inefficient variables, already marginalized and quantified within his logic.
Which path, at this specific time-juncture, would most efficiently acquire the resources he needed? Which would cause the minimum disruption to his core, holy research? Which would most effectively neutralize the risk of a large-scale conflict that would consume his precious time and energy?
That was the sole, fundamental standard for his decision.
The only sounds in the sanctum were the low thrum of the machinery and the hiss of the power conduits.
Joric's metallic fingers tapped an unconscious, rhythmic, and cold beat on the edge of the console.
A decision that could shift the entire balance of power in Night City, and perhaps far beyond, was quietly being forged in the desert depths.
(End of Chapter)