Chapter 121

"Something’s wrong... horribly, suspiciously wrong. What kind of stunt are they pulling this time?"

On the bridge of the flagship Inferno, pride of the Enzio Alliance A Fleet, Lorenzo peeled his gaze away from his terminal and rubbed his weary eyes with the frantic energy of a man who hadn’t slept since the last millennium. Outside the viewscreen, the graveyard of the EAP drifted in silent, explosive testimony to his success. Wrecked hulls vented atmosphere and occasionally belched out a festive flash of secondary explosions.

"Statistically speaking, sir, our recent operations have been successful to a degree that borders on the miraculous," his Staff Officer replied, sounding dangerously calm. "Since its inception, the EAP has never suffered a loss ratio this humiliating. I suspect they’re currently in the middle of a collective nervous breakdown."

"I know that! I can see the scoreboard!" Lorenzo snapped, his voice dropping into a paranoid mutter. "But is that really it? Is it really that simple?"

He wasn't really asking the Staff Officer; he was just shouting at the universe. As his subordinate noted, every recent skirmish had ended in an Enzio landslide. The EAP was being backed into a corner so tight they were practically becoming part of the wall.

The golden age of defensive warfare was dead and buried.

In the old days, a defender had to spread their forces thin, desperately guarding every possible door. Meanwhile, the attacker got to pick a single door and kick it down with their entire boot. Unless you were sitting inside a massive space Fortress, the math of war favored the guy throwing the first punch. The saying "offense is the best defense" wasn't just a tactical cliché—it was the cold, hard truth of the vacuum.

The EAP was drowning. Logically, they should have been flailing, launching desperate, aggressive counter-strikes to keep their heads above water. Instead, they were curling into a defensive ball everywhere Lorenzo looked. To his eyes, it looked less like a strategy and more like they’d simply given up on the concept of winning. Sure, turtling up saved a few ships in the short term, but you didn't win a war by letting the other guy turn your house into scrap metal.

"Defensive maneuvering only buys time," Lorenzo hissed. "What in the hell is the EAP waiting for?"

"Reinforcements... perhaps?" the Staff Officer offered.

"Reinforcements? From where, the afterlife? Moving a fleet through the Neural Network Collapse is like trying to swim through wet concrete. And the Empire? The Empire won't move. Not a chance. That old man promised me as much."

Lorenzo dismissed the suggestion with a violent wave of his hand. He didn’t trust that "eyesore of an old man" as far as he could throw a battleship, but the cryptic geezer had one redeeming quality: he had never actually lied. Lorenzo didn't like him, but he found him irritatingly reliable.

"At this rate, we’ll reach the Alpha Star System in no time. We’ll shatter their Stargate, choke their trade, and watch the EAP crumble into dust. We’ve got a self-sufficient economy; we’ll be fine. After that... dammit, this should be easy!"

Lorenzo was practically shouting at himself now, trying to drown out the nagging voice of his own intuition. They had already carved through half the distance to the Alpha Star System, and his fleet was still packing enough heat to glass a small moon.

A few private corporations had joined the fray, claiming they were "avenging their destroyed stations," but their pathetic contributions didn't even cover the EAP's daily hull losses. Between the Stealth Ship bombings gutting their production and the tidal wave of refugees fleeing the Alpha Sector, the EAP was a dead man walking.

Yet, a cold dread settled in Lorenzo’s gut, tight as a noose. A vague, suffocating anxiety that screamed something was coming.

"We’re winning! We’re winning, damn it!"

Lorenzo roared the words into the bridge, hoping the volume would make them true. It didn't.

In a dim reception room bathed in the soft glow of indirect lighting, two men sat across from each other, wearing smiles that were about as sincere as a politician's apology.

"I see. Well then, I suggest you scurry back to your base," the man in the designer suit said, his voice dripping with condescension. "Though, by the time you arrive, your rank might have been downgraded a few notches."

The speaker was the President of one of the 50 Materials, the corporate titans that owned the Alpha Region Space. He looked at the man in uniform with the same interest one might show a particularly dull species of insect.

"How unpleasant," Dean replied, arching a single, unimpressed eyebrow. "Do I look like the kind of man who cowers at a threat from a glorified accountant?"

"Haha! Who knows? I couldn't care less. You’re a non-entity, Colonel Dean. You can’t touch us."

"Is that so? And what brings you to that fascinating conclusion?"

"Oh, please. Don’t tell me you’re ignorant of Grand Marshal Cornelius. You’re in over your head, Colonel."

The President emphasized the rank like a slur, leaning back into his plush sofa with the smug satisfaction of a man holding all the aces. Dean felt a twitch of genuine irritation, but he pushed it down. Every galaxy has this exact same flavor of idiot, he thought.

"Oh, I’m well aware of him. I know his faction hates mine, and I know His Excellency has his fingers in the 50 Materials’ pie. But that’s precisely why we’re having this little chat."

"There is nothing to chat about. We don't negotiate with mere Colonels—"

"The Aaronmash Law for Carbon Fiber synthesis."

The words cut through the room like a guillotine. The President’s smug expression didn't just fade; it disintegrated. His jaw worked silently, his mouth trembling like a landed fish.

"Now, listen closely, you incompetent suit," Dean said, his voice dropping into a lethal chill. "I know the Razor Metal Refining Method. I could leak it to every corner of the galaxy on a whim. You called me a 'mere Colonel,' yet you didn't stop to wonder why a mere Colonel was granted an audience with you in the first place?"

"Y-You’re insane! If you did that, the Empire’s economy would implode!"

"Stop screaming. Your voice is grating enough at a normal volume. Like I said, this is a consultation. I don't want to burn the galaxy down, and neither does Grand Marshal Reinhardt. But we will if we have to."

Dean leaned forward, his eyes devoid of warmth. To him, the man across the table was no longer a power broker; he was just another tedious piece of administrative junk that needed filing.

"I’m not asking you to make us the 51st member of your little club. You’re too greedy to allow it, and I’m not interested in fracturing the military over it. So, pay attention."

Dean slammed his boots onto the expensive desk, looking down at the President with pure, unadulterated contempt. Normally, a corporate titan would have summoned security. This one just sat there, sweating.

"I could have waited," Dean continued, enjoying the silence. "I could have engineered a situation where you’d be forced to beg us to join as the 51st. The fact that I’m offering you a deal instead is a courtesy. Use whatever’s left of your shriveled brain to figure out why."

"So, the debt is cleared? We're square?"

The man clicked open the suitcase, his eyes reflecting the glitter of the contents.

"Heh. Of course. Honestly, I don't even remember what debt you're talking about."

Phantom’s voice drifted from beneath his hood, accompanied by a grin that promised nothing but trouble. He gestured with his chin toward a small mountain of suitcases stacked nearby. "I need you to move all of these."

"All of them? You’re joking... wait, no, you don't do 'funny.' Fine. Leave it to me. I’ll get the goods and the intel where they need to go, and I’ll put my head on the block to make sure they get there."

The courier gave a shaky thumbs-up and a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. Phantom gave a slow, satisfied nod.

"I trust your skills haven't gone soft."

Phantom crossed his arms, tilting his head. The courier let out a sharp, nervous bark of a laugh.

"Who do you think you’re talking to? This isn't my first rodeo with you. But hey, Boss... give me a tip. You’re moving this much weight? You’re about to set off one hell of a firework, aren't you?"

Phantom turned to leave, but then he paused. The EAP was short on friends; he supposed he should look after the few assets they had left.

"This is just a soliloquy," Phantom muttered, his voice barely audible. "But I hear economic activity in the Napoli Sector is about to explode. If I were a man with a lot of cash, I’d be buying up station operating rights in that area while they're still dirt cheap. Stargate rights, too, if you can find them."

"Napoli? That backwater hole? Why would I—" The courier stopped, his eyes widening. "Right. Got it. I trust you. Damn, I thought I was paying off a debt, but I think I just got deeper into your pocket."

The man didn't waste another second. He pulled out an old-school handheld terminal—the kind that didn't rely on BISHOP—and began barking orders into the past.

"Hey... Joe... tell me I’m hallucinating."

The Salvager sat in his cramped Work Ship, his hands frozen on the flight controls. He stared out the reinforced window, his jaw hanging low enough to catch space dust.

"I wish I could, buddy. You’re usually a space-cadet, but if you’re seeing that massive Fortress in front of us, then we’re both crazy."

They were in the Napoli Star System, a place so strategically irrelevant it was practically off the map. Usually, the only things that visited were the occasional supply ship or a tiny Anti-WIND patrol boat. Since the Neural Network Collapse, the place had become a literal ghost system.

And now, a gargantuan space Fortress was sitting right in the middle of it, looking like it had just grown out of the vacuum.

"How do you even move something that big?" the first Salvager whispered. "What is that thing?"

"Don't ask me! Should we call the government? Someone should call someone!"

"Why us? Let the Management Bureau deal with—wait, we’re getting a signal."

The comms light on the dashboard began to blink rhythmically. There wasn't another ship for light-years; the signal was coming directly from the Fortress.

"Do I answer it? I'm answering it..."

Curiosity killed the cat, and it was currently doing a number on the Salvagers. The man hit the toggle, and a high-energy, sickeningly cheerful female voice blasted through the cockpit.

"GRAND OPENING! Welcome to the Razor Metal On-Site Refining Plant! Do you have raw L-Titanium? Bring it on down for safe, secure, and dirt-cheap processing! It’s just a rock when it comes in, but it’s a shiny ingot when it goes out! Note: This service is strictly limited to corporations within Enzio Alliance Territory."

The two Salvagers stared at each other, their brains struggling to process the cosmic absurdity of a Fortress-sized infomercial.

But the real kicker came with the closing line.

[THIS MESSAGE IS BROUGHT TO YOU BY THE IMPERIAL MILITARY DEVELOPMENT MANAGEMENT BUREAU.]