Episode 211

The Karaba D2 system—the front door to the Zayed Route for anyone coming from the Galactic Empire. If you ignored the void of outer space, this was officially the most backwater "sticks" in the entire Empire. Yet right now, a massive fleet was currently bobbing around the system’s solitary, pathetic space station like an oversized school of piranhas.

If you looked closer, the fleet was split into two distinct packs, squared off against each other with the station caught right in the middle of their metaphorical staring contest.

"An inspection? You’ve got to be mental! We’re in the middle of a war!"

The commander of the Mercenaries Fourth Fleet Group was currently losing his mind in the pier lobby of Karaba Station.

"Hardly my problem," replied Colonel Dean of the Imperial Navy, his voice so calm it was practically horizontal. "This is Galactic Empire territory. You’re in our house now, and that means you play by Imperial Military rules."

The atmosphere in the lobby was thick enough to choke a horse. Hundreds of personnel from both sides stood nose-to-nose, a mirror image of the high-tension standoff happening with the warships outside.

"Wartime regulations clearly state we can bypass inspections! Are you telling me the military is going to break its own damn laws?"

"Perish the thought. As the ones who make the laws, we respect them more than anyone. Unfortunately for you..."

Dean made a grand, theatrical show of rubbing the electronic sheet on the back of his hand to bring up the time.

"Your formal declaration of war wasn't officially accepted until 15:00. However, this inspection began at 14:30. As law-abiding citizens, we simply can’t ignore those thirty minutes of legal limbo. It seems you lot were just a bit too eager to get a head start."

"That’s pure sophistry! You’re just using the military for your own private games!"

The commander lunged at Dean, only to find himself staring down the barrels of several guns held by Dean’s guards. They had moved with the kind of synchronized speed that suggested they’d been practicing this specific brand of intimidation all morning.

"I’ll pretend I didn't hear that outburst," Dean said. "Now, be a good little admiral: go back to your flagship and sit tight. It’s only two hundred ships. We should have the whole place searched in a few days."

Dean snapped his fingers. The guards lowered their weapons, and the pressure in the room dropped a fraction.

"If I were in your shoes..." Dean leaned in, getting close enough to the commander’s ear to share a secret. "I’d look at this as a stroke of brilliant luck. Think about it: you’ve been sidelined through no fault of your own. It was those big, mean bullies in the Galactic Empire who stopped you. When it comes time to explain to your superiors why you're late to the party, can you think of a better excuse than 'The Empire made me do it'?"

He used his 'persuasion voice'—the one that sounded like warm silk and honeyed lies. The commander’s face shifted from rage to a very specific kind of calculating greed. Catching the change, Dean lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

"If your bosses start talking about ‘responsibility,’ just give me a call. I’ll make sure you’re taken care of. An Admiral with two hundred ships under his belt? I could find a nice, comfy spot for a man like that in one of our fleets without anyone raising an eyebrow."

It was a sweet, poisonous bribe delivered straight to the brain. Dean slipped a small data chip into the commander’s breast pocket. The man gave a tiny, involuntary shiver.

"That’s the contact info for a Colonel in the Imperial Military Intelligence Department. I have a feeling you’re the kind of man who knows exactly what that’s worth. Now, get moving. It’s rude to keep my inspectors waiting."

Dean stepped back and started barking orders at his subordinates. The commander stood there, dazed, for a long moment. Finally, he pressed a hand against his pocket, and a tiny, treacherous smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"It’s a lovely offer, but I’ll have to pass. I’d hate to make an enemy of every other man in the galaxy, you see."

The voice echoed through the cramped office. It belonged to the president of a mid-sized transport firm—one of the many companies currently handling the logistics for the Mercenaries' big military push.

"Miss Longville. I am not in the mood for jokes—"

"Then I’ll leave you to your bad mood. I have a gentleman waiting."

Longville cut the line before the Mercenary high command could get another word in. Her company was practically a subsidiary of the Mercenaries, and under normal circumstances, that kind of sass would have been corporate suicide. Today, however, she didn't give a damn.

"Satisfied? I assume you’re going to actually keep your end of the bargain."

Longville turned around to face the man in the robe standing in the corner. He nodded once, tucking a pistol he’d been idly twirling back into his gear.

"Of course, Miss Longville. Credibility is everything in my line of work. Sometimes I think we spooks are actually more honest than the 'normal' people."

"Fufu, what a charming joke, Mr. Phantom. But fine, I’ll take your word for it. You are one of the most famous men in the galaxy, after all."

Longville sashayed over to Phantom and flashed him a look that was pure provocation.

"Not by choice, I assure you... but if it earns the trust of a woman as beautiful as you, I suppose I can live with the fame."

Phantom caught her as she leaned into him, resting a hand gently on her shoulder. Longville looked up at him with an enraptured expression, laughing like she was having the time of her life.

"I really am lucky. Every corporation in the galaxy would kill to have the Imperial Military Intelligence Department as a business partner. And I get a handsome spy out of the deal, too."

"I’m flattered. But if you're looking for a long-term 'friendship,' I’d recommend the Colonel who sets up the contracts. He’s going to be a General before long."

"Oh? And why can’t I have both?"

"……I surrender. Let me buy you a drink."

Phantom swept Longville off her feet and kissed her with a passion that was entirely manufactured. To be honest, she was exactly the kind of woman he couldn't stand, but he was a professional. He wouldn't let a little thing like personal distaste get in the way of the mission.

"I’d love to hear more about your work. Is there somewhere quiet we can go where you might... accidentally let a few secrets slip?"

As a Cyborg, it was trivial for him to cross-reference her dating history and simulate a face and voice that hit every one of her buttons. As he carried her toward the exit, he was already mentally triaging the list of intel he needed to squeeze out of her.

Once upon a time, this sector had been a buzzing hive of ships heading for the galactic core. Now, it was a graveyard. Etta, commander of the Mercenaries' Main Fleet, stared out the bridge window of the flagship Gemini at the desolate Zayed Route with an expression of pure, unadulterated boredom.

"……Are we there yet?" she groaned.

Her adjutant practically leaped out of his skin. "M-Ma’am! The local Stargate Administration Bureau says the reboot will be finished in twenty-four hours!"

The man shouted the report with a straight back, but his hands were vibrating with pure terror. Most of Etta’s adjutants ended up like this—trembling wrecks—and Etta personally found the sight hilarious.

"Right... Hey, Yotta. What’s the math on a Stargate just 'coincidentally' breaking down?"

Etta spoke into her comms, sounding like she was complaining about the weather.

"If I remember correctly," Yotta’s voice came back instantly, "it happens maybe once every few years, Sister. But having the main system and the backup fail at the exact same time? That’s a new one even for me."

Yotta sounded just as annoyed as Etta. Etta gave a small "Mhm" and went back to her silent brooding.

"How irritating. This situation is officially a pain in the ass."

Etta stood up, deciding it was time to actually do something. The string of 'accidents' since the declaration of war was way too convenient. Someone was definitely pulling the strings.

"Guards, with me. We're going to go 'encourage' them. Violently, if necessary."

She zipped up her jacket—which had been lazily open down to her navel—all the way to her chin and marched toward the hatch, leaving her panicked adjutant in the dust. By the time she reached the Stargate Control Sector, she was flanked by three hundred heavily armed soldiers.

"Whoa, hey! This is a restricted area, it’s dangerous—wait, what are you doing?!"

The guard at the Stargate hub turned pale at the sight of the mini-army. Etta didn't say a word; she just raised a hand, and her soldiers promptly pinned the man against the wall.

"Pardon us. We’re coming through."

She didn't even look at him. If it were up to her, she’d have deleted him from existence for being in her way, but even she knew she couldn't just go around murdering Imperial Citizens who weren't technically combatants.

"Sorry to drop in while you’re busy. Who’s the boss here? ……You?"

Etta reached the Coordinate Calculation Facility and walked straight up to a woman who was frozen in shock, ignoring the rest of the frantic technicians. The woman looked like an average worker, but Etta could smell the 'person in charge' vibes a mile away.

"I’m sorry, but the supervisor is currently—"

"I see. You’re a dispatch from Corsy Corp. Since you’re a Gigantech affiliate, I assume that means those bastards have officially picked a side? How tedious."

Etta had already intercepted and read the BISHOP Communication the woman had sent. The BISHOP unit was a standard galactic model; for someone like Etta, reading its internal logs was about as hard as reading a child's picture book. She ignored the stammering woman and moved on to a different technician.

"I hear you can't lock onto the coordinates. What’s the damage? Which part is fried? Give me a progress report."

She didn't wait for a verbal answer. She just watched as the man reflexively accessed his BISHOP to check the status "in his head." Etta instantly slurped up the entire data stream.

"Analyzer damage? Or a software bug? Right, got it. My battleship has a spare core block for a large-scale Analyzer. We’re just going to swap the whole thing out. Why bother fixing it?"

Etta turned back to her guards.

"Alright boys, help the locals out. It seems we’ve found ourselves a room full of amateurs who think it takes twenty-four hours to fix a simple Analyzer. Do it gently—I don't want any lawsuits later."

The guards gave a two-finger salute and swarmed the workstations with maximum arrogance. Etta, satisfied, turned her back on the chaos and headed back to her ship.

"I thought they were just small-fry, but look at that. Someone’s got some very expensive friends... Fufu, I love it. This is exactly what a war should feel like."

She let out a dark, sultry laugh, savoring the delicious thrill of the hunt crawling up her spine.