Episode 224: A Tale from the Backstage

Scattered across RS Alliance Territory were several backwater space stations. Within them, ancient piers—their construction dates long lost to time—remained like calcified fossils of the Early Galactic Empire. Though these docks had been left to rot during the Former Enzio Era, they were currently experiencing a sudden, inexplicable surge of activity that mirrored their long-lost glory days.

"Hey, pops, where’d you crawl out from?"

In one of the control towers managing the station’s piers, a man gripped a clunky, rod-shaped joystick while rubbing his bleary eyes.

His job was mind-numbingly simple: check the manifest sent via BISHOP and move specific cargo into specific ship holds. Day after day. Hour after hour. He had absolutely no idea why he was doing it, which made finding the motivation to care about as easy as finding a sober sailor on payday.

Worse still, the consecutive all-nighters were finally breaking him. He’d spent the last hour nodding off while standing up. He wanted nothing more than to ditch this meaningless labor and collapse into a heap on the floor, but he grit his teeth and pushed through for the sake of his paycheck. His current employer was eccentric enough to pay something called "overtime"—a concept so alien it was practically a myth in these parts! The premium wage was the only thing keeping his heart beating.

"Are you speaking to me?"

The woman performing the same tedious task at the station next to him didn't even bother to turn around. The man snorted. "Who else is in this room? The ghost of the Early Empire?"

"Some people enjoy the sound of their own voices. Besides, does my place of origin have any bearing on our productivity?" the woman shot back provocatively.

The man’s ego flared, and he opened his mouth to deliver a stinging retort, but he caught himself. She looked just as haggard as he did, with dark circles under her eyes and a generally gloomy aura, but she was still so beautiful it made his chest ache. And, unfortunately for his pride, he was a total sucker for a pretty face. He needed someone to talk to if he was going to stay awake, and she was the best candidate in the sector.

"Just making small talk, lady. No need to bite my head off... Look, it’s even in the employee handbook. The company 'strongly encourages' social interaction between staff, provided it doesn't interfere with the mission."

He recalled the stack of papers the interviewer had forced him to read when he signed his short-term contract. Most of it was standard legal jargon, but a few points had made him tilt his head. This "forced socializing" was high on the list. He couldn't fathom why a corporation would go out of its way to push it.

"Now that you mention it, I believe there was such a clause... How vexing. I haven’t planned a single event for this month."

The woman pouted, muttering to herself. Man, even when she’s scowling, she’s a knockout, the man thought, shamelessly staring.

"Tell me, sir," the woman said, glancing his way. "Regarding this mandatory interaction—if the company were to host an event, what would you suggest? A gala? A sports tournament? Something along those lines?"

The man let out a low whistle at the attention. He rubbed his chin, deep in thought. "Well, if you're asking me... keep it simple. Booze and talk. This is a transport hub, right? We’ve got access to the good stuff from the Imperial Center. You get the men, you get the women, you get the liquor. What more do you need?"

He gave her a greasy grin. She shot him a look of pure, unadulterated contempt, but then—to his shock—she nodded.

"True. Simple events are often better received than elaborate ones. The surveys reflect that clearly... though I still find it hard to believe that people prefer drinking in a dingy pub over a catered hotel banquet."

She pouted again. When the man heard the word "survey," his stomach did a somersault. Wait, surveys? That sounded like high-level data. If she was looking at internal company metrics, there was no way she was just another bottom-tier grunt like him.

"Uh, well, you know. Different strokes for different folks," the man said, trying to backtrack. "This part of the galaxy is about as backwater as it gets. Most of the guys here have never even seen a hotel, let alone a banquet."

The woman turned fully toward him, her interest piqued. "Oh? You sound quite knowledgeable. Are you well-versed in the local culture?"

"Heh, you bet. Born and raised. My family has been mediating disputes around here for generations. If someone in this sector doesn't know the name Takashi, they're probably an off-worlder."

"I see. An unusual name. Is it common in these parts?"

"Actually, no. Well, maybe compared to other sectors. It’s been passed down in my family since the Former Imperial Territory Era. My dad, my grandad, and his dad were all Takashi. Hell, all three of my brothers are named Takashi, too."

"How... inefficient. That sounds incredibly confusing. What do you do for the women?"

"Funny you should ask! See, for the ladies—"

Seeing that she wasn't immediately running away, Takashi leaned into the rare opportunity to chat with a beauty. He was a social creature by nature, but his gruff looks and blunt attitude usually kept people at a distance. He was running low on topics, but he was determined to keep the fire of conversation burning. To his delight, she actually seemed to be listening. He offered a silent prayer of thanks to whatever god was currently presiding over the galaxy.

"—And that’s the long and short of it. My dream is to serve on a Battleship one day and fight to protect everyone. This job is just my foot in the door... Oh, wait. I never got your name. What do I call you?"

He tried to sound casual, hoping to get a lead he could use to look her up later. She gave him a suspicious squint before answering curtly, "Liza."

"Liza, huh? Nice name. Sounds sophisticated. Definitely an Imperial Center vibe... Hey, Liza. Since you're so smart, you know what this stuff is actually for?"

Takashi gestured with his thumb toward the window. Outside, the massive mechanical arms they were controlling were frantically moving crates across the pier. Liza looked out, and her expression immediately soured.

"I have a superior who acts quite a bit like you," she said coldly. "I’d love to describe the 'treatment' he receives, but I’m not fond of physical violence. Perhaps an electric shock would be more appropriate? My nerves are quite frayed from lack of sleep, you see."

She reached to her waist and pulled out a small handgun. Takashi didn't know if it was the sleep deprivation talking or if she was actually a cold-blooded killer, but the look in her eyes suggested she could end his life just by staring at him. He scrambled backward, nearly tripping, until he looked out the window and realized the horrific mistake he’d made.

"N-no! Wait! Misunderstanding! I wasn't talking about your containers! I meant mine!"

The crates Takashi was moving were filled with literal garbage—scrap metal, ship parts, old rags, random furniture, and spoiled food. He’d been wondering why he was shipping trash.

However, Liza was in charge of a different manifest. Her containers were packed to the brim with adult toys and "personal massagers." Asking her "what do you use this for" was, in hindsight, the most disastrous pickup line in history.

"Is that so?" Liza said, though she didn't put the gun away. "My brother did warn me that all men are animals and that I should be prepared for the worst... fine. If you’re asking about that pile of debris, it’s for the war effort."

Takashi blinked. "War? You’re kidding."

"Hardly. There’s a war on, haven’t you heard? You mentioned wanting to serve on a Battleship, but shooting cannons isn't the only way to fight."

She spoke with the clinical detachment of someone explaining the weather. Takashi felt a wave of relief that his head wasn't being blown off, but her words left him feeling hollow.

"...I don't get it. How does shipping literal trash help anyone? Do people actually live or die because of this junk?"

"Who knows? That’s for the Security Department and the President to decide. It’s not my concern."

"Whoa, hold on. You're doing this without even knowing the 'why'? Doesn't it bother you?"

Liza fixed him with a sharp, unwavering gaze.

"Whether it 'bothers' me is irrelevant. I have a job to do. I do what I can, to the best of my ability. Nothing more, nothing less. Do you understand?"

She spoke without a shred of doubt. Takashi stared at her, then finally looked away. "I see."

He’d been treating this like a meaningless gig to pay the bills, complaining the whole time. But if this was part of a war, then maybe his role was more vital than he’d realized. Looking at Liza, he felt a strange sense of perspective. She was covered in grime, her face was a wreck from exhaustion, and she was clearly overqualified for this manual labor. The fact that she carried a gun meant she was high-ranking, yet here she was, in the trenches with him. To Takashi, her dedication was almost... divine.

"What I can do, huh..."

He chewed on the words. He wanted to impress her—or at least stop being the "pervert" in her eyes. He thought desperately.

"Hey, if things are really this desperate and you're short on hands, I can help. I can call in the whole clan. My family has been operating mechanical BISHOP rigs for generations. This kind of work is a walk in the park for us."

He waited for her reaction, hoping he’d finally said something right.

"I appreciate the sentiment," Liza said, sounding exhausted. "But adding one or two more people—or even ten—is like trying to put out a sun with a bucket of water."

"Nah," Takashi grinned, starting to count on his fingers. "In this station alone, I’ve got about 2,200 relatives. That’s just the first batch. There’s another 2,000 or so a few sectors over. One word from me and they’ll all be here by tomorrow."

Liza’s eyes went wide. For the first time, she looked genuinely stunned. "T-Two thousand? On this station? Wait... don't tell me their names are also..."

Takashi gave her a thumbs-up and a million-credit smile.

"Yup. Every single one of 'em is named Takashi."

A story from the backstage.

I bet all the women are named Mom.