Episode 120: The Grand Gamble

Marble floors, buffed to such a blinding sheen they could double as high-definition mirrors, stretched across the room. Wooden furnishings of the most expensive sort stood like sentinels of wealth. In a chair woven from premium vines sat a man who had clearly survived at least six decades of imperial drama, dressed in a crisp military uniform and wearing a smile that suggested he’d just won a very lucrative lottery. A few paces away, Dean was a picture of practiced humility, kneeling with his head bowed so low he was practically inspecting the floor wax.

"I see... I’ve got the gist of it. So, you’re saying you’d like to play for my team?"

The man’s smile widened into something genuinely delighted. Dean didn’t miss a beat, firing back a reply that was as sharp as a fresh bayonet.

"I am absolutely certain, Your Excellency, that under your prestigious protection, I can finally contribute to the Empire in a way that truly matters."

"Umu, excellent... Yes, quite. Your current rank is a bit of a tragedy, isn't it? A man of your talents shouldn't be stuck in the mud. We really must find you a seat at the big kids' table."

"You are too kind, sir. I’m overwhelmed," Dean replied, sounding like the world's most dutiful sycophant.

"Fufu... If I recall, the performance review for that new toy—the secret weapon—hasn't been finalized yet. That’ll serve as the perfect excuse. It’s a bit unconventional, but let’s go ahead and slap two more stars on your collar tabs. How does that sound?"

"I am eternally grateful for Your Excellency’s magnanimity."

With his face still toward the floor, Dean couldn't suppress a smirk. It wasn't official paper yet, but he’d secured a verbal lock. He was about to leapfrog the promotion ladder. Sure, the jealousy from his peers would be toxic enough to melt lead, but he’d factored that into the price of admission.

"You haven’t blabbed about this to anyone else, have you?"

"Sir, no sir! I came straight to Your Excellency the moment the opportunity arose."

"Good. Keep it under your hat. And whatever you do, make sure Grand Marshal Cornelius and his lot don't catch a whiff of this."

"Consider it done, sir."

"Umu. Dismissed. I’m expecting big things from you, boy."

"Sir! By your leave!"

Following orders with the snappy precision of a clockwork soldier, Dean spun on his heel. Before hitting the door, he pivoted one last time, clicked his heels with a satisfying clack, and delivered a textbook salute. With a final "Excuse me," he vanished into the hallway.

And just like that, I’m a faction man, Dean thought, his mind racing as he marched down the corridor away from the Grand Marshal’s Office. I knew I couldn't dodge the politics forever, but let’s see where this rabbit hole goes.

Up until now, he’d played the middle ground, a neutral party in a den of vipers. He felt a prickle of anxiety about finally picking a side, but it was nothing compared to the sheer adrenaline of the potential payoff.

Discretion is the name of the game... The Cornelius Faction will find out eventually, of course, but the trick is to be so far ahead by then that they’ll have to choke on the results and call it a win.

Dean looked up at the ceiling, mumbling like a madman to himself.

Grand Marshal Reinhardt von Bismarck, the jolly old man he’d just charmed, sat at the head of a powerful faction that treated the Cornelius Faction like its mortal enemy. Normally, anyone with half a brain would have sided with Cornelius—they were the biggest shark in the tank. But Dean was holding a high-voltage card, and he intended to play it for maximum chaos.

If you’re going to sell a favor, sell it to the guy who’s starving.

The Bismarck Faction had been in a slow-motion tailspin for the last 150 years. They were desperate, which meant they’d pay the highest price for what he had. It was a suicidal gamble, but he hadn't hesitated for a second. Caution was for people who had something to lose; Dean knew he was at a "double or nothing" turning point in his life. He had to floor it.

I really should thank Master Teiro... or maybe I’ll end up wanting to strangle him.

Dean smirked as he pictured the man who had handed him a live grenade: the Razor Metal Refining Method. That little secret was a weapon of mass destruction in the right hands, but handle it wrong, and it would turn the user into pink mist. He didn't believe Taro’s "I just stumbled across it" story for a second, but it didn't matter. All that mattered was that someone had found it and given it to him.

"Well," he sighed, trying to sound annoyed but failing miserably to hide his excitement. "I’m about to be very, very busy."

"All right, all right... and stop! Etta, how are we looking?"

Taro was currently wrestling with the controls of a ship that felt like a foreign language, squinting at a high-res sector map. It was a different model than he was used to, but the basic "don't hit the big glowy things" logic of ship-handling was close enough to the Plum. He wouldn't want to fly it into a dogfight, but for their current mission, it would do.

"Yeah, Teiro. This spot is the loudest. It’s like a rainbow curtain flapping in a hurricane... and Etta hates it. It feels like being trapped inside a space station. It’s loud, it’s noisy, and I want to leave!"

Closing her eyes, Etta pouted with enough force to warp space-time, sitting on the floor and kicking her legs in a miniature tantrum. Taro gave her a "Sorry, sorry!" gesture with his hands. "We’re leaving soon, I promise!" He then extended the Joint Tube to the ship running parallel to them. It was a low-tech solution for a high-tech problem: a big fancy straw for people to crawl through.

"Stage one complete. Let’s get the other three scattered and set up... Alan, what’s the word on your end?"

Taro looked at the comms. Alan’s face popped onto the monitor, wearing a grin that usually meant someone was about to lose their shirt.

"Looks like we’re golden, Big Boss. Reception’s crisp, and the bandwidth is fat. Those Credits didn't go to waste after all."

Alan gave a thumbs-up and beamed the data over. Taro skimmed the numbers and let out a long, shaky breath of relief.

This ship—a specialized, eye-wateringly expensive piece of hardware—had cost enough Credits to make Rising Sun’s bank account look a bit malnourished. But they couldn't pull off the plan without it.

"Seriously, are we not bringing an escort?" Marl asked, looking at Taro with pure fiscal anxiety. "If this thing gets turned into scrap metal, we’re going to be bankrupt, and it won't be funny."

"Like I said before, stealth is our only armor," Taro said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. "This thing is a wet paper bag in a fight, but it’s way better at playing hide-and-seek than the Plum. Now come on, let's move."

He stood up and nudged Marl and Etta toward the door. He turned to the handpicked crew from the Security Department—the brave souls who would be staying behind on this ship. He snapped his fingers together in a sharp salute.

"I’m counting on you guys. This is a big one, and you’re going to be out here for a long, long time. I know it’s tough, but do your best."

"Sir! We know exactly how high the stakes are. Leave the rest to us, President!"

Taro flashed a smile at the confident crewman, then beat a path down the hallway toward the Joint Tube. He had a mountain of work to do, and in this galaxy, time was a currency he was running low on.

A man and a woman stood before a massive observation window, staring out at the sapphire void. Outside, a swarm of ships buzzed around a gargantuan sphere like bees around a hive.

"Drive Particle levels are optimal. Expected drive time is T-minus one hour," a subordinate reported from the shadows behind them. The two leaders nodded in sync, their eyes glued to the view.

"I hope this works... honestly, I’m a nervous wreck," Rin admitted, his head sagging.

"It’ll be fine," Sakura said, her voice dripping with unshakeable conviction. "My darling son-in-law dreamed it up, didn't he?"

Rin let out a weak chuckle. He really envied her blind faith. "I hope you're right. We've thrown a staggering amount of EAP ships and funding into this. Our front-line forces are going to be spread thinner than cheap butter because of it."

"Well, that’s life. Managing limited resources is the same whether you’re fighting a war or running a grocery store, isn't it?"

"I mean, sure, but... this is completely unprecedented. I’m still reeling. When he first pitched this to me, I literally put my head in my hands. If this goes south, the Alliance is toast."

Rin scratched his head, looking like a man who hadn't slept since the previous century. Sakura just gave a dismissive snort.

"What good is a Supreme Commander who can't stand tall? Let the grunts worry about the details. I was taught that a commander’s job is to stand there looking like you know exactly what’s happening, even when you don't."

"Ahaha... fair point. My father used to say the same thing. 'Never let them see you’re clueless.' Though, knowing Master Teiro, he’d probably just come right out and say he has no idea what’s going on."

"Umu. Well, my son-in-law is a special breed. Unlike us, he keeps morale high by making his subordinates feel like they can't leave him unsupervised for five minutes. That’s a talent in its own right."

"Unlike us, you say? Ah... never mind." Rin shot Sakura a look that clearly said 'You realize you’re exactly like that, right?' but she seemed blissfully unaware, so he let it drop.

"Still... he really is something else. I’ve never seen a President like him. He’s irresponsible, he wings everything, he acts like a child, and he brings us these absolutely absurd schemes."

Rin managed a wry smile as he thought back to the laundry list of crazy requests Taro had made since the Enzio War kicked off. Taro wasn't exactly a household name in EAP—only a handful of people knew what he was actually capable of.

That was the problem: Taro had zero political clout to actually make people listen to his strategies. So Rin had spent his days pretending Taro’s ideas were his own or begging various departments to just trust him, all to make Taro’s vision a reality. Just as Taro had pulled them out of the fire against the Dingo, Rin believed he’d do it again.

"Ahahaha! True enough! I’ve never seen a President like that either. But—"

Sakura laughed, turning to Rin with a smile so bright it could have powered a small moon.

"Even so, that man gets things done. My son-in-law just has that... thing about him. You can't help but believe he’ll find a way."

She stated it with the absolute certainty of a religious zealot. Rin, who couldn't find a single reason to disagree, simply nodded.

"Yeah. He does."