Chapter 212: The Beast and the Bureaucrat

“Enemy fleet groups one and two have breached the Zayed Route, Mr. Teiro. Groups three and four are currently dead in the water in the Karaba D2 and California systems, thanks to our stalling tactics. Reports suggest they’ll likely miss the opening act of this little drama entirely.”

Koume didn’t even glance at her terminal. She kept her eyes locked on Taro, reciting the tactical data from memory like a lethal weather report. Taro pumped a fist, sending a silent prayer of gratitude to Colonel Dean and the Phantom for their beautiful, bureaucratic sabotage.

“I’m annoyed we couldn't stop the main fleet, but this makes things a hell of a lot easier. Groups three and four represent eight fleets—that’s roughly four hundred ships. To think their auxiliary forces alone match our total combat strength... seriously, what kind of broken game balance is this?”

Taro tapped the BISHOP interface on the tactical screen, flicking two major fleet icons into the digital trash bin. Poof. Half the red dots on the holographic map vanished. However, a massive, angry red cluster still pulsed at the entrance of the Zayed Route like a migraine.

“Group one—the main force—has twenty fleets. Group two has twelve. Since they’ve got over ten fleets apiece, I guess we’re technically dealing with full-scale corps,” Marl said, looking back at Taro. Her face was a messy cocktail of anxiety and ‘screw it, let’s go.’ “We’re hitting the second group first, right?”

“Based on Phantom’s intel, yeah,” Taro said. “Group two is packed with high-speed ships, so they’ll sprint straight for The Facility. The main force will probably hang back and surround the area just in case we try to make a run for it.”

“It would be a disaster if a ship carrying evidence escaped,” Marl noted. “Is the plan still a go?”

“Basically. But since the main force is moving faster than I’d like, we might have to move up the schedule for that... Koume, any word from Alan?”

“No, Mr. Teiro. He reports that things are still... difficult. In the worst-case scenario, the deployment won't be ready in time.”

“Ugh, you’re kidding! We’re basically betting the farm on that thing!”

Alan was usually hunkered down in Battleship Plum’s second bridge, but he was currently elsewhere, babysitting a high-stakes operation. Taro felt a dull, sickening throb in his stomach. My ulcers are having ulcers.

“It is an unprecedented operation, Mr. Teiro. It cannot be helped,” Koume said, her face as cool as a cucumber. To Taro, who was currently vibrating with stress, her robotic calm was the only thing keeping him grounded. “Our immediate problem is catching the enemy’s second fleet group. Focus on that.”

“Right... Bella-san, how’s your end looking?” Taro asked the comms unit.

Bella’s upper body flickered onto his goggles immediately. “Ready as we’ll ever be, I suppose. The volunteers are moving like they’ve got lead in their boots, though. Micromanaging them in a firefight is going to be a nightmare.”

“Understood. I’m counting on you, Commander.”

“Leave it to me. Aside from the weekend warriors, I know these crews like the back of my hand. I’ll make sure they earn every credit of their hazard pay, Commander-in-Chief.”

Bella flashed him a playful, sharp-toothed grin. Taro managed a weak, lopsided smile in return.

While Taro was technically the Big Boss of the RS Fleet, the actual heavy lifting of the Main Fleet was entirely in Bella’s hands. She led the fleet daily, and her Collective Control Gift was a thousand times more reliable than Taro’s method of brute-forcing parallel processing until his brain leaked out of his ears.

“I don’t have the bandwidth to be everywhere at once,” Taro muttered.

He turned his attention back to the tactical screen, focusing on the specialized unit under his direct command—separate from the main force. The Assault Fleet: fifty hand-picked ships with Battleship Plum as the flagship.

“Alright. Let’s go give ‘em a little poke.”

Taro closed his eyes, trying to find his center. His head was ninety percent pure, unadulterated panic, but somewhere in the basement of his mind, a beast was rattling its cage, waiting to be let off the leash.

[DATA LINK: ESTABLISHED]

[LINKAGE OVERDRIVE: STANDBY]

Taro used his left hand to forcibly steady his trembling right. He opened his eyes wide, praying the beast would hurry up and eat his anxiety.

“Assault Fleet, advance! Let’s go slap those shameless bastards who think they can walk into our house with their shoes on!”

The bridge erupted with acknowledgments. The Plum’s thrusters roared, emitting a blinding flash as the massive ship began the slow, ponderous acceleration unique to battleships. The Cherry Boy and Techno Break, piloted by the Suga Siblings, fell into formation immediately, while four flat Shield Ships fanned out to guard the flanks. The rest of the fleet tucked in behind the shields in four long, disciplined lines. They were ready for blood.

[LINKAGE OVERDRIVE: ACTIVATED]

The fleet was suddenly bathed in an eerie blue glow. One by one, the ships transformed into arrows of light and vanished. The Plum, having the most mass to move, was the last to go, carving a massive blue rift in the void before disappearing.

Six hundred warships hung in the silence of space. Known to the Rising Sun as the enemy's 2nd Fleet Group, and to the Mercenaries as the Strike Fleet Group, it was a makeshift assembly of high-speed ships. Normally, an ad-hoc fleet of this size would be lucky to fly in a straight line without crashing into itself.

But this fleet was led by Admiral Sod, Director of the Mercenary Dispatch Department. Under his command, the ships moved with the grace of a synchronized swimming team. Their day job was being sold to the highest bidder on various battlefields; they were professionals at making "impromptu" look like "masterpiece."

“Admiral, it seems they’ve spotted us. Miss Yotta has confirmed a massive, continuous Drive Particle signature,” the Adjutant reported on the bridge of the flagship, Battleship Asmolde.

Admiral Sod let out a low groan. “Their sensory range is terrifying. How do they even track us from this far out?”

Sod was well-acquainted with the terrifying Gifts of his superiors, Etta and Yotta. A man in his fifties with hair as white as a fresh snowdrift, he spent a moment being profoundly glad those women weren't pointing their talents at him.

“This sector is a graveyard, sir. There’s nothing else out here emitting Drive Particles besides us. We might as well be lighting flares in a dark room,” the Adjutant suggested.

“Maybe. But it’s a blessing not to need a lumbering observation ship. Those things are just slow targets once the shooting starts.” Sod glanced at the screen. His fleet was performing sequential warps with clockwork precision. Despite the breakneck pace, they’d only lost two ships to mechanical failure.

“Still, I’m amazed they had such a detailed map of this sector,” the Adjutant said, leaning in. “Maybe the rumors about the enemy aren't all hot air.”

Sod gave him a sharp sidelong look and shook his head. “Drop it. You want to know how I reached this rank? I never pried into the business of the people above me. If you want to keep your head, you’ll do the same. Those women read minds like they’re reading the morning news.”

Leaving the nervous Adjutant behind, Sod walked toward the tactical viewport. The real-time feed was cluttered with data tags on every star and ship in sight.

“At this speed, we’ll hit them in two or three days... What do you think? Will they commit their main force?”

Etta had predicted the enemy would throw everything they had at them. She had never been wrong.

“Obviously, sir,” the Adjutant said. “It’s six hundred against four hundred. They don’t have the luxury of holding back.”

Sod nodded vaguely. Then, he asked the question he’d been obsessively repeating since they left port. “The emergency escape systems on all vessels—they’re green?”

The Adjutant looked exhausted. “Yes, sir. Double and triple-checked. Everything is functional... Sir, do you actually think we’re going to lose?”

The bridge went deathly quiet. Every crew member leaned in, the silence heavy and suffocating.

“No. In a fair fight, we win. Their commanders are good, but so are we. And in this business, numbers are the only God that matters.”

Sod turned and marched out of the bridge, signaling the end of the conversation. He wasn't lying. Theoretically, they had the advantage.

“...Yes, assuming it’s a fair fight,” Sod whispered to himself in the empty corridor. He leaned against the bulkhead and sighed.

He didn't pry into his superiors' secrets, but he wasn't an idiot. This war felt... wrong. The higher-ups were screaming for speed, but there was zero talk of logistics, resupply, or reinforcements.

At first, he’d been optimistic. An easy win, he’d thought. But the more he learned about the "Outlaw Corp" they were fighting, the more his skin crawled. They weren't just a military company; they were a pack of hardened veterans who fought like a single organism. High morale was a terrifying equalizer against superior numbers.

“The corporation will win. But what about my fleet? Are we just the bait?”

Sod immediately checked his surroundings, terrified someone might have heard his treasonous thought.

“Outer space... why the hell are we even out here?”

Like most Imperial Citizens, Sod’s knowledge of the frontier was limited to ‘here be monsters.’ It was a lawless wasteland. Would these ‘Outlaws’ even respect the humanitarian laws of war? Or would they just use his escape pods for target practice?

“What a nightmare,” the commander of six hundred ships muttered. He let out one more heavy sigh and prayed to whatever gods were listening that the enemy commander was, at the very least, a merciful man.