Chapter 215

I am truly, deeply sorry for the late post. orz

“Two cruisers crippled, three heavily damaged, eleven minor. We lost two Shield Ships, so our formation is going to have some breezy holes in it. The Battleship Dolchimone is technically only at 'minor' status, but…”

The Adjutant of the Mercenaries Expeditionary Fleet read the damage report, his eyes darting up to steal a glance at Admiral Sod. Sod looked like he’d just swallowed a lemon and was trying to decide if he liked it.

“Scrap it,” Sod said, his voice dripping with bitterness. “We’re not wasting time playing mechanic with that antique while the clock is ticking.”

The Dolchimone’s propulsion system was a proprietary nightmare. It wasn't built with modular, plug-and-play parts; it required artisanal components that they simply didn’t have. Right now, time was the only currency that mattered, and the Dolchimone was officially bankrupt.

“Forget the ship. Get everyone ready for the second wave. Move the fleet into a dense formation. We’re not breaking the encirclement.”

“Understood, Admiral. Issuing the abandon ship order for the Dolchimone now. Still, our interception was fairly solid. You really think they’re coming back for more?”

“I don’t know,” Sod growled, glaring at the radar screen as it replayed the previous surprise attack at 10x speed. He pointed a thick finger at the blur of pixels. If it were me…

“If it were me, I’d have dumped every ounce of striking power into that first wave. You hit them while they’re still wondering if their sensors are broken. It minimizes your own casualties and maximizes the body count. It’s basic math.”

“Is it possible they didn’t realize we weren't prepared for a carrier?” the Adjutant asked.

“Only if the enemy commander is a complete blockhead, and I doubt we’re that lucky. One wide-area scan would have told them we weren't even looking at the sky. No, there’s something else.”

Sod watched the frantic exchange of artillery on the tactical display and sighed.

“Normally, you can't hide a carrier. They’re too big, too loud, and way too many people have to talk about them. Maybe it’s because we’re out here in the middle of nowhere, but they must have one hell of a counter-intelligence network.”

To be fair, the Mercenaries’ own Intelligence Department was a joke. Occasionally, they’d receive a nugget of gold that seemed to come from nowhere, but everyone knew that was just the two company big-shots using their personal connections.

“Well, they do have that Phantom,” the Adjutant noted. “And their intel team is supposedly top-tier. Some guy named Alan runs it. Word is he’s a hardcore hacker who used to spend his weekends breaking into military servers for fun.”

“So the reports say. I’d kill for that kind of talent,” Sod muttered. He spotted a notification that an enemy cruiser had just been flagged as 'crippled' and allowed himself a tiny, invisible fist-pump beneath the command console.

“We’re still winning the slugging match,” the Adjutant said, sounding remarkably composed for a man who had just seen a massive fleet get embarrassed by a handful of bombers. “The math of numbers doesn't lie.”

“If I lose a six-to-one fight, I’m retiring to open a bakery,” Sod barked. “Keep the pressure on! Move it! Squash them with the sheer weight of our hulls!”

Sod collapsed into his command chair—a cramped, bucket-seat affair typical of high-speed ships—and rubbed his chin. He watched the replay of the bomber run again, his eyes narrowing into slits.

Something is wrong.

Sod was a veteran. He was fifty years old and had the scars to prove it. He hated "gut feelings" and "the power of friendship" and all that nonsense, but he’d learned that intuition was just his brain processing data faster than his conscious mind could keep up with.

“There’s something else… there has to be…”

Right then, his internal alarm bells started screaming. The carrier strike had been good, sure, but it felt like a distraction. A flashy opening act.

“Enemy carrier detected! It’s splitting into ten—no, more! Second wave incoming!” the Warning Officer screamed.

Sod started to stand, his hands white-knuckled on the armrests. He froze.

“No way…”

His eyes went wide as he stared at the radar icons. What are they doing? Which way is the real threat?

His stomach did a slow, nauseating flip. He was about to make a choice that would either save his fleet or turn it into the galaxy's largest debris field. He had about three seconds to decide.

“Enemy split-bodies entering jump trajectory!” the officer yelled, the panic in his voice rising an octave.

Sod gritted his teeth, opened the fleet-wide channel, and took a breath that felt like lead.

“All fleets, SCATTER! I repeat: SCATTER IMMEDIATELY!”

The Adjutant looked at him like he’d lost his mind. “Admiral? If we scatter, the bombers will pick us off like sitting ducks!”

“I know that! Just DO IT!”

“...Understood, Admiral.” The Adjutant’s face said I’m putting this in my report, but he relayed the order.

Sod crossed his arms and waited, his heart hammering against his ribs.

“Multiple space reservations detected! They’re warping in!”

Sod closed his eyes, straining to hear the next report.

“Enemy bombers, count is thirty… wait, correction! Thirty projectiles! They aren’t bombers! They’re… they look like large-scale warheads!”

Sod let out a roar of pure, unadulterated triumph. “YES!”

“Shield ships, maintain position! Everyone else, shift to physical shields! Focus all jamming on the warheads targeting the shield ships! If you can't shoot them down, take the hit on your thickest armor! You should have enough room to pivot now—move!”

Sod wiped a gallon of cold sweat from his forehead. He slapped his own cheeks to stop the celebratory grin from spreading.

Don’t get cocky, kid.

He turned toward the holographic representation of the enemy flagship and pointed a finger at it. “You’re not the only one who can read a map.”

---

“Huh? Wait, they’re scattering?”

Taro stared at his monitors in confusion. He had just used the Plum’s carrier-warp capability to "jump" a volley of railgun warheads directly into the enemy formation, but the targets were moving.

“It appears they read the play, Mr. Teiro,” Koume said. She was as expressionless as a stone wall, but her eyes were slightly narrowed. “It seems we shouldn't underestimate our opponent.”

“Underestimate them? Look at this guy’s resume!” Taro groaned, pulling up the BISHOP-provided dossier on Admiral Sod. “He’s got more medals than I have socks. Dammit! This isn't working.”

Taro tried to micromanage the warheads via warhead control, but the results were depressing. Between the slight BISHOP communication lag over the distance and the enemy’s suddenly frantic anti-air fire, his "magic trick" was falling flat.

“Hey, you still clipped three cruisers,” Marl said, trying to be the voice of optimism while she jammed a dozen incoming beams. “For a first try, that’s great! And look—”

She pointed to the tactical screen.

“While they’re busy chasing your warheads, our other ships are actually landing hits. We’re holding our own despite the numbers. I mean… 'holding our own' isn't winning, but it’s something!”

Marl started the sentence with a cheer and ended it with a slumped shoulder. Taro nodded grimly.

“Yeah, that’s the problem. If we don’t kill five of them for every one of us, we’re circling the drain. And that encirclement is getting tighter. If they close the bag, we’re toast.”

The tactical map showed the enemy fleet slowly wrapping around them like a giant, angry boa constrictor. Taro’s stomach was starting to ache.

“Maybe we’ve done enough for a distraction?” Marl suggested.

“Not even close. If we run now, they’ll just split their fleet and chase us down. They have the numbers to do it.”

“Would they really leave their crippled ships behind? Does a corporate fleet have that much backbone?”

“Depends on how much they want us dead. Honestly? I don't know. That’s why I wanted to hit them harder.”

Taro and Marl went back and forth, arguing over ship-handling vectors and tactical risks, until a sudden scream cut through the bridge.

“NO!”

Etta had vaulted out of her seat so fast she nearly strangled herself on her safety belt. She was clawing at the buckle like it was a live snake.

“Etta? What’s wrong? You gotta go pee or something?” Taro asked.

“Shut up, you total pervert! Sit there and count stars or something!”

“Hieee! Sorry! My bad!” Taro squeaked, recoiling into his chair. He knew that when Etta reached this level of "snappy," she was either about to have a breakdown or she’d seen a ghost.

“...Multiple waves… focal point… they’re searching?” Etta muttered, her eyes glazed over as she stared at nothing.

Taro looked at Marl and Koume. They both just shrugged.

“Camouflage… right… or left?” Etta hissed, curling into a ball and scowling at the floor. Suddenly, her head snapped up, her eyes wide with terror. “Teiro! Turn the ship! RIGHT!”

“Huh? I mean, sure, but why?”

“JUST DO IT, YOU NUMBSKULL! HARD RIGHT! NOW!”

“Aye-aye! Geez! The Plum isn't exactly a sports car, you know…”

Taro grumbled but started punching in the coordinates. He went to set the thruster output to 50%, but then the BISHOP predictive data hit his brain like a lightning bolt. His eyes nearly popped out of his skull.

“K-Koume! Full thrusters! Maximum output! THE INDIAN TO THE RIGHT!”

“Already ahead of you, Mr. Teiro,” Koume replied coolly.

The Plum didn’t just turn; it groaned as the inertial dampeners struggled to keep up with a maneuver that definitely wasn't in the owner's manual. The crew was pinned against their seats by the sheer centrifugal force.

“Hey! What is the—”

Marl started to complain, but the words died in her throat. The radar screen had just turned into a solid wall of red.

A literal forest of beams, fired from every conceivable angle, converged on the exact spot the Plum had occupied a millisecond ago.

“Are you kidding me?” Taro gasped, his face pale. “They were all zeroed in. Every single one. We’re jamming them into the Stone Age—how the hell are they getting a lock?”

Nobody answered. Mostly because they were too busy trying to stay alive.

---

I’m not abandoning the story.

I’m just… really, really busy.