Chapter 202

Sorry to keep you waiting.

My pace has been a bit of a train wreck lately, but we’re officially back in business.

The first move Mercenaries made was a total textbook play.

Using their obscene wealth and high-level connections, they began a systematic economic nut-punch directed squarely at Rising Sun. They reached out to every possible company they could lean on, focusing their weight on the military-industrial complex where their influence was strongest. Naturally, their subsidiaries and business partners weren’t thrilled about being told to cut ties without a proper explanation, but in the end, they all bent the knee. It was the same old corporate song and dance; these small-to-medium-sized fish had zero hope of winning a staring contest with a galactic leviathan.

The RS Alliance, suddenly cut off from the trade of ship parts and military hardware, didn't quite descend into a headless-chicken panic—thanks mostly to a heads-up from their leader—but they were definitely having a bad time. The sheer gravitational pull of a mega-corp’s influence was terrifying. Under normal circumstances, a company the size of Rising Sun would have been face-down in a gutter and declaring bankruptcy within the hour.

"All this just from ships and ammo?" Taro muttered, a cold shiver racing down his spine as he remembered the titans they’d nearly picked a fight with before. If they pulled this crap with basic resources, we’d be 100% dead.

If even one of the "50 Materials" companies decided to slap economic sanctions on Alpha Region Space, the local economy would evaporate instantly. Alpha would be less of a star sector and more of a mass grave for tens of millions of people who’d starved to death over a spreadsheet error.

"The impact on trade and transport firms is massive, sir," a report stated. "We’ve already got a graveyard of bankrupt companies, and my inbox is overflowing with people screaming at us to do something. Also, our own Transportation Department is about to take a massive hit to the chin."

"Supply lines for military consumables have been severed. Fleet maintenance is down to 91%. If this keeps up, our combat readiness is projected to bottom out at 75%."

"Multiple clients have publicly announced they're ghosting us. It’s a clear breach of contract, so we can probably sue them for every penny of the penalty fees, but what’s the call, Boss?"

"The smaller firms are already eyeing the exits, talking about leaving the Alliance. Seat prices are cratering. The core companies are holding steady for now, but if one big player bails, the whole thing is going to come down like a localized avalanche. We need to watch these guys like hawks."

The bad news hit Taro’s desk like a series of wet thuds. The economy, which had been on a rocket-ride upward since the Alliance formed, finally hit a brick wall. The line graphs on his screen stopped their graceful climb and started vibrating like a caffeinated squirrel. Without firing a single shot, the fleet had lost a quarter of its power. Rising Sun’s transport ships, previously booked solid for six months, were actually sitting idle in the docks. Employees and residents were starting to get the "we're doomed" jitters, and a few were already packing their bags for other sectors. The top brass scrambled to put out the fires, but the damage was undeniable. Rising Sun was learning a hard lesson: never underestimate the power of a giant, angry corporation.

However, over at Mercenaries HQ, things weren't going exactly to plan.

They had fully expected these sanctions to trigger the total, messy implosion of the RS Alliance. The galactic economy lived and died by its shipping lanes; if you choked off the supplies needed to keep those ships moving, most companies folded like a cheap lawn chair. It had worked every time before. They figured this time would be no different.

But the RS Alliance refused to die. Reports of the sanctions’ "success" trickled into Mercenaries Headquarters, but none of them delivered the killing blow. Contrary to every mathematical model, the companies under the RS banner were being annoyingly stubborn. [COLEMAN’S FORMULA] had predicted the total disintegration of the Alliance and the rise of a new power vacuum, but reality was currently flipping the formula the bird. The Mercenaries executives, who had spent their careers worshiping at the altar of the Formula, were starting to sweat.

One reason for this defiance was a delicious bit of irony. The Former Enzio era had been locked in a bitter feud with the EAP, meaning their foreign trade had been non-existent for years. Their entire economy had been forced to become self-sufficient. The RS Alliance Territory had inherited that "prepper" mentality. While the sanctions definitely killed the vibe of their growing foreign trade, they didn't actually stop people from eating.

The second reason? The inconvenient little thing called democracy that Rising Sun championed. Taro had spent most of the morning cursing democracy for making it impossible to run a tight, state-controlled economy during a crisis, but in reality, democracy was the only thing keeping the lights on.

Specifically, it had birthed a concept almost entirely extinct in the Imperial Center: Spite.

—As if we’re gonna let some corporate suits from out-of-town push us around!!—

That was the vibe, in a nutshell.

The Galactic Imperial Core was a soul-sucking paradise of standardized [BLOCK MODULES]. You could move to a different star system for the price of a sandwich. Everything was so perfectly automated and modular that "moving" usually just meant the view from your window changed while you stayed in the same pod, participating in the economy without ever putting on pants.

But out here in Outer Space? Not so much. You didn't just hop borders whenever you felt like it. "Going to work" often meant actually traveling to a physical location. Every star system had its own weird culture and history. Where you were born actually mattered.

In 99.9% of the galaxy, people were just subjects living under someone else’s thumb. But here? They were the ones in charge. Every company, every employee, and every citizen with a vote felt like they owned the place.

Taro’s political meddling had accidentally mixed with the rugged weirdness of Outer Space to create a potent strain of nationalism. The fact that so many civilians had been vaporized during the Enzio Campaign only added fuel to the fire. This wasn't just a corporate war anymore; it was personal. As a result, an astounding number of people—by Imperial standards—decided that instead of running away, they were going to stay and see just how hard they could bite back.

"I guess 'what goes around comes around' actually works... pays to be a nice guy once in a while," Taro said, clutching the latest analysis. He was fighting back a lump in his throat. If he didn't stay focused, he was going to start sobbing like a baby.

"Don’t get sappy. Those people are only doing it because they’ve got skin in the game, too. It’s a win-win," Alan said from the opposite sofa, a smirk playing on his lips. Taro nodded, looking around Plum’s lounge. The usual suspects all looked significantly less stressed.

"Don't get too comfortable. The enemy hasn't gone home yet," Phantom said softly, his hands busy polishing a firearm with a silk cloth.

"He’s right," Marl chimed in. "We're okay for now, but if this drags on forever, the math changes. I’ve heard rumors of companies being offered 'survival packages' if they agree to kick us out of the Alliance. It’s obviously a lie, but people get desperate."

Taro crossed his arms. "Yeah. If they even suspect we found those stations, they’re coming for our throats. Heck, they’d probably do it even if they only thought we might know something."

To Taro, it was obvious. This undeclared war was all about those secret harvesting stations. The timing was too perfect for it to be anything else, and Rising Sun and Mercenaries had basically zero history before this.

"The real question is," Alan mused, leaning his head on his hand, "how did they find out we found them? I’ve run the numbers, and I don't see a leak. We’ve got total gag orders in place, and the Alliance brass wouldn't even tell their own mothers about this."

Taro scratched his head aggressively. "The old Enzio bosses are all gone, and our merger with Johnny was a recent thing. It's hard to believe a Mercenaries spy managed to get deep enough to hear about the stations already. Don't those things take years to set up? Or can you just speed-run a deep-cover infiltration?"

He looked at Phantom. The cyborg gave a slow, deliberate nod.

"Creating a reliable asset—someone who will leak high-level info—is a grueling, time-consuming process. Ninety percent of an intelligence officer's life is just building those human [ASSETS]. Sneaking into a base to download files is for the movies. You can burn through an existing asset if you’re in a hurry, but if you don't have one on the ground, you're out of luck."

Phantom finished speaking and slid his gun back into its holster with a metallic click. Taro nodded, feeling a surge of gratitude for the legendary spy sitting in his lounge. The guy had assets all over the galaxy and was currently burning them like fuel to help them out. Wait, why DOES a bounty hunter have a galactic-scale spy network? Actually, better not ask.

"So, if it’s not a spy—"

Taro started to suggest other possibilities, but Phantom cut him off.

"However," the cyborg said, standing up. He turned his gaze toward the corner of the room where Etta was currently losing a card game to Koume. "There is an exception to every rule. And in this case, we have to consider that possibility."

Phantom’s voice was uncharacteristically heavy. Etta, realizing the entire room was suddenly staring at her, blinked her big, innocent eyes and tilted her head in confusion.

I’m grateful for the support, but man, I’m busy.