Chapter 15: The Heeter Clan
A profound, almost sacred silence held sway in the innermost sanctum of the Supernova. Here, deep within the armored heart of Lord Frieza's flagship, the cacophony of the universe was reduced to a whisper. The air was cool, scentless, and still, carrying only the faint, almost sub-audible hum of the ship's colossal power core, a sound felt in the bones more than heard by the ears. The light was soft, indirect, and perfect, glinting off polished surfaces of obsidian-like metal and shimmering, crystalline data displays that adorned the walls.
At the room's center, floating serenely above the flawless floor, was Frieza himself. Reclining in his anti-gravity pod, he held a slender, elegant glass filled with a viscous, amethyst-colored liquid that seemed to swirl with its own internal light. His tail, a weapon that could crack a planet in half, twitched in a lazy, rhythmic pattern of pure boredom. His crimson eyes were half-lidded, gazing at nothing in particular, a monarch so secure in his absolute power that he could afford the luxury of ennui.
He was not alone. The Heeters were there, a testament to their unique and favored status. They did not stand at nervous attention like soldiers; they inhabited the space. Elec, large and languid, leaned against a polished console, his posture one of casual confidence. He was in the middle of a dry, analytical monologue about galactic mineral futures. Oil, sleek and severe, stood beside him, a datapad held in both hands, her sharp eyes flicking over data streams, her mind cross-referencing Elec's points with cold, hard figures.
Macki, a splash of feral energy in the sterile room, had perched herself on the arm of a massive, vacant chair, swinging one leg idly. She was picking at her teeth with a sharpened nail, her attention wandering from the business talk to the intricate patterns on the ceiling. In the corner, a deeper shadow amidst the gloom, stood Masser, his immense arms crossed over his barrel chest, his silent, watchful presence a constant. And beside Oil, almost blending into the background, was Gas, his smaller frame taut with a nervous, eager energy, his eyes darting between Frieza and Elec, absorbing every word, every subtle shift in power.
It was a council of sharks, discussing the economics of the feeding frenzy.
"...and thus," Elec concluded, "the liquidation of Kikono's assets provides not just a immediate capital influx, but a strategic vacuum in the sector that we can exploit to drive up the value of our own holdings in the adjacent systems."
Frieza took a slow, deliberate sip from his glass. "How tediously pragmatic, Elec. I do so enjoy it when you talk shop. It reminds me that there are still things in this universe more boring than the Saiyans."
Before Elec could offer a retort, the seamless wall to the left of the room hissed open without a sound. Commander Zarbon entered, his emerald skin and meticulously styled hair a contrast to the room's monochrome severity. He moved with a fluid, graceful economy, coming to a stop at a precise distance from Frieza's pod and executing a deep, flawless bow.
"My most sincere apologies for the intrusion, Lord Frieza," he said, his voice a smooth, cultured baritone.
Frieza didn't even look at him. He swirled the liquid in his glass. "This had better be monumentally important, Zarbon. You've interrupted a truly scintillating discourse on market fluctuation."
Zarbon straightened. "A status report has been received from the Saiyan team, my lord. Regarding Planet PX-723."
A flicker of interest, cold and cruel, passed through Frieza's eyes. He finally deigned to look at Zarbon. "Oh? Have our trained apes finally finished defecating all over that backwater rock? Do regale us, Zarbon. I could use a… humorous anecdote."
From her perch, Macki snickered, her eyes lighting up.
Zarbon's face remained a mask of perfect neutrality. "The transmission is brief, Lord Frieza. The planet has been pacified. Initial long-range scans confirm a ninety-nine point eight percent reduction in sentient life forms above the designated bio-mass threshold. The ecosystem, while… agitated… remains largely intact for future resource harvesting. Prince Vegeta reports the mission is complete. The planet is ready for auction." He delivered the news of a global genocide with the same clinical dispassion as a weather report.
Frieza let out a soft, sighing laugh. "Satisfactory. It would appear that even a monkey can be taught to push the correct buttons if you shock it enough times." He glanced at Elec. "You see? Brutish, simple, but effective. The perfect solution for when you need a garden weeded and aren't concerned with how many flowers are trampled in the process."
Elec offered a thin, professional smile that didn't reach his cold eyes. "Efficiency is its own form of beauty, Lord Frieza. This is excellent news. The Kikono Kingdom's delegation will be most pleased. The planet's biosphere alone should command a premium price. I'll have my team begin the acquisition paperwork immediately." His mind was already five steps ahead, on the profit to be made.
Oil, without looking up from her datapad, interjected, her voice like the clicking of a calculator. "The energy signature logs from the sector are… notable. Several significant power spikes, consistent with uncontrolled release of energy. The kind that creates orbital debris fields and seismic instability." She finally looked up, her gaze icy. "The cleanup and stabilization costs will have to be factored into the final sale price. Their lack of finesse is a measurable financial liability."
Macki hopped off her perch, grinning. "I wanna see the pictures! Bet it's a real mess. Bet they're all covered in… well, everything. Heh." She seemed genuinely excited by the prospect of the carnage.
From the corner, Gas finally spoke, his voice younger, sharper, edged with a fanatical zeal that contrasted with the others' cold calculus. "The Saiyans… their power is so… untamed. A wasteful tool." He said it with a mixture of disgust and yearning.
Frieza chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. "Oh, I don't know. There's a certain… artistic charm to their unbridled savagery. It's so authentically… primitive." He took another sip. "But you are all quite right. They are a messy, unpleasant necessity. Like a particularly vicious mop used to clean a slaughterhouse."
He waved his free hand in a dismissive gesture towards Zarbon. "Now that that trifling report is concluded, inform our Saiyan employees that their pods are to be refueled and resupplied. Their next assignment is already pre-programmed into their navigation systems. The details are on their scouter. I expect less dithering on this one. There are planets to be cracked, and their juvenile squabbles are wasting my valuable time."
The message was exquisitely clear. There would be no debriefing. No audience. No medical assistance beyond what their pods could provide. They were instruments. And an instrument does not report to the hand that wields it; it is simply stored until needed again.
Zarbon bowed again. "At once, Lord Frieza." He turned and exited the way he came, the door sealing behind him without a sound, leaving the room once again to its masters.
The conversation amongst the Heeters and Frieza seamlessly resumed, as if the report of a planet's death had been nothing more than a slight change in the background music. Elec began discussing potential buyers for the next system over.
The episode was over. It had been less than a minute. The fate of a world and the beings who cleansed it had been decided, discussed, and dismissed without a second thought.
***
The transmission reached Raditz's scouter not as a voice, but as a blistering packet of data, screeching across the void from the immense, silent bulk of the *Supernova* looming in the distance. It was utterly impersonal.
He was staring at the external monitor linked to Kakarot's pod, watching the regenerative fluid churn a murky, unhealthy brown. The vital signs on the screen were a chaotic jumble of erratic spikes and terrifying flatlines. He jumped as the data stream hit, the sharp ping inside his skull a violent intrusion.
He listened, his face, already grim, hardening into a mask of bitter resignation. Coordinates. A new planet designation. A skeletal mission parameters file. And a final, terse command: Refueling. Proceed to next coordinates immediately. No deviations authorized.
There was no inquiry about their status. No mention of Kakarot. No acknowledgment of the completed mission beyond its function as a trigger for the next assignment.
Nappa, monitoring from his own pod, grunted over the comm. "Well? What's the word from his Royal Pain-in-the-Ass?"
Raditz didn't answer immediately. He looked from the cold data on his scouter display to the image of his brother, suspended between life and death, being put back together by machines for the sole purpose of being broken again. He looked out the viewport at the Supernova, a city of cold, indifferent light, and then down at the planet below, its continents now scabbed over with the silent, smoking ruins they had left behind.
The sheer, crushing weight of their existence settled on him. They were not warriors. They were not conquerors. They were a utility. A disposable one.
"The word is 'move'," Raditz finally said, his voice hollow, all defiance beaten out of it. He began powering up his pod's engines, the familiar hum feeling like the tolling of a funeral bell. "We're done here."
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