Chapter 232

Sorry for the late post, everyone. Life just doesn’t go the way you want it to orz.

The relentless raids by the Electronic Warfare Craft were tearing the RS Fleet a new one.

Under normal circumstances, a surprise attack by a handful of ships wouldn’t amount to much more than a blip on a report. However, these pilots were launching desperate, suicidal strikes with zero regard for their own survival, packing enough punch to drag ships of their own size straight into the abyss with them.

"Enemy squad silenced, Mr. Teiro. However, contact with Cruisers RS-44 and RS-48 has been severed. We’re picking up beacon responses, so it’s likely their communication systems are toast."

It was a trade-off: a standard ship for a far more expensive Electronic Warfare Craft. But while the standard ships were merely losing their ability to fight back electronically, the Electronic Warfare Craft were being physically obliterated along with every soul on board. In any sane military manual, the side losing the specialized craft would be considered the losers.

"I hope the life support systems are still holding... Did anyone eject?" Taro asked, his voice strained.

"Negative, Mr. Teiro. It appears we’ll need to dispatch the Recovery Craft immediately."

"Dammit, I hope they make it... Wait, how many ships is that now?"

"Sixty-two, Mr. Teiro."

"Sixty-tw—... You know what? Let's just pretend I didn't hear that."

The tragedy lay in the fact that the "weight" of a single ship wasn't equal for both sides. It wasn't about the absolute value of the hull or the crew; it was the ratio of losses to total fleet strength. In that regard, the RS Fleet was getting the raw end of the deal.

"By the way, Mr. Teiro. I have good news and bad news. Which do you want first?"

Koume, who had been keeping Taro company on the bridge of the Battleship Plum, spoke up with sudden realization. Marl was currently out cold taking a nap, and the "good" Etta was lost in dreamland, leaving the bridge unusually quiet with just the two of them.

"I can't imagine anything being worse than losing thirty percent of my combat strength, so hit me. I'm unshockable at this point. Give me the bad stuff first."

Taro grumbled from the Captain’s Seat, his face a mask of bitterness. On the edge of his vision, the radar screen flickered as it updated the positions of his own ships arriving one by one after their Overdrive jumps.

"Understood, Mr. Teiro. Our Fixed-Point Observation Team has just confirmed an enemy Reinforcement Unit. This is a separate force from the fleet that split off earlier. The observation team included a message: 'Go for it, Prez! You can do it!'"

"Oh, for real? Is that the group Dean was supposed to be pinning down? 'Go for it'? That's a bit casual, isn't it? So, how bad is it? One fleet? Two?"

"Ten fleets. Approximately five hundred ships."

"That’s a whole damn Corps! 'Go for it'?! Are they kidding me?! Those guys are definitely laughing at me behind their keyboards!"

"Furthermore," Koume continued, unfazed, "several Fleet Carriers have been spotted among the reinforcements. It seems the enemy has no intention of leaving a reserve at the Imperial Center. They’ve likely signed temporary Non-Aggression Treaties with everyone in the vicinity."

"Man, those Mercenaries are loaded. They must’ve made a killing during the WIND Crisis... well, I guess we did too. But a Carrier Strike Fleet? Dammit. I guess I have no choice but to use my secret weapon."

"Mr. Teiro, no matter how many times you open and close that side-table drawer, you are not going to find a Time Machine in there. Honestly, it’s getting quite creepy to watch."

It’s gotta be in here somewhere, Taro thought desperately. "No, no, it’s definitely here. It’s worth a shot... Anyway, what’s the 'good' news?"

"Right. A Subsection Chief in the Accounting Department just had a baby. A healthy baby boy, apparently."

"Oh, well, that's wonderful! Congratulations to him! BUT WHY ARE YOU TELLING ME THAT NOW?! THAT IS NOT 'GOOD NEWS' FOR THIS SITUATION!"

Taro slid out of his seat in a heap. He began thrashing around on the floor in a full-blown tantrum before eventually going limp, limbs splayed out like a discarded marionette.

"Actually, I’ve got even more bad news," Taro muttered, staring blankly at the ceiling. "The parliament is getting cold feet about the war. If we lose this fleet battle, any hope of a guerrilla resistance is dead in the water."

Koume walked over and stood over his prone body. "It would seem so. However, as long as the enemy’s goal is The Facility, there is a high probability they won’t even bother chasing us into our territory. Was this not part of your calculations?"

"Well, yeah. But actually being backed into a corner feels a lot different than theorizing about it. This next engagement is the 'Final Boss' battle."

"Indeed, Mr. Teiro. And was that not also anticipated?"

"I mean, sure, but... when it’s staring you in the face, it’s a bit of a shock. Especially since—"

Taro let out a sharp breath and tried to spring to his feet with a cool Neckspring. He failed miserably, thumping back onto the floor, before finally standing up the old-fashioned way while rubbing his bruised head.

"—it’s about to start any second now."

With a small, tired smile, Taro pointed a thumb toward the radar screen. Koume followed his gaze to Delta Point. The last of the Cruisers were sluggishly dropping out of warp and merging with the fleet, turning their bows to form the final wall between the enemy and The Facility.

"If you're going to try and look cool, Mr. Teiro, please at least land the kip-up next time. On a related note, the actual good news is this: the scheduled start for Operation Delta Jungle and the current time are almost perfectly synced."

Koume spoke while looking off into the void. Taro simply muttered, "I know," and triggered an [ALERT FUNCTION] via BISHOP to jolt Marl awake.

"[LINKAGE MAINTAINED AT 80% PLUS. DRIVE-OUT IN 2 MINUTES, 33 SECONDS.] Once Samasa and the Advance Entry Fleet arrive, the Main Force, including this vessel, will commence entry in approximately sixty seconds."

The man who had become the Adjutant to the Mercenaries Supreme Commander a mere few hours ago spoke while glancing at his terminal. Etta, lounging in a Captain’s Seat that was far too plush for a warship, acknowledged him with a lazy wave of her hand.

"Still no word from Admiral Sod?"

Etta’s voice was laced with irritation. The Adjutant straightened his back. "Regrettably, no."

"The update frequency dropped off until it went dark. It’s likely they’re taking a Route that leads away from us to cut off the enemy’s retreat."

Etta smirked. "Not a bad move. The fewer survivors we have to deal with after this war, the better... Well, it’s almost time. Let’s have some fun. We’ll rendezvous with the split fleet in a few hours, and then the reinforcements will arrive. No need to rush. We can take our sweet time."

Etta picked up a cup of water and downed several tablets. They were high-dosage drugs with nasty side effects, but she didn't care. She was certain this next clash would be the end of it.

"Ah... there it is. Everything is so clear now."

Her vision exploded into psychedelic colors. The ship's interior was suddenly a swirling vortex of light representing BISHOP Communications, cramming future data—both vital and trivial—into her mind. Usually, the sensory overload was a headache, but now it felt divine. She could read the flow of fate like an open book.

"[10 SECONDS TO DRIVE-OUT. 9... 8...]"

The Adjutant’s voice sounded like it was coming from the bottom of a well. Etta felt a surge of contempt for vocal communication—a medium that could only convey the boring, stagnant 'present'—unlike the glorious BISHOP.

"[3... 2... 1... DRIVE-OUT.]"

The torrent of particles outside the viewport vanished, replaced by the heavy silence of deep space. In the periphery of her drug-heightened consciousness, Etta watched her crew scramble to perform their post-jump scans.

"Enemy fleet gathered directly ahead! No large celestial bodies detected. Wait—optical sensors are picking up a massive amount of debris in close proximity. A small Debris Belt? But based on these coordinates, it shouldn't be here..."

The Adjutant’s voice wavered with anxiety. Etta let out a soft, admiring hum and checked the sensor logs. The list showed over a hundred thousand individual pieces of junk. And some of them were in very, very inconvenient spots.

"...I see. They’re positioned at the exact limit of the Drive-out interference zone. Perfectly calculated. Maybe five thousand of them are active?"

Etta praised the move as if she were an impartial judge at a contest, a grin spreading across her lips.

"Well, well. It seems I’ve been had."

She ran through the possibilities in a heartbeat and settled on the most likely truth: her specific ability was known to the enemy.

"Fufu... fine. This finally makes it interesting."

Etta lived for the razor’s edge. She had always run her company on high-stakes gambles, and she had won almost every single time. The rare defeats were just the spice that made the eventual victory taste that much sweeter.

That little girl said enjoying war is for fools, but she's wrong. Whether you enjoy it or not, the work is the same. You might as well have a good time while you’re at it.

Etta turned her gaze to her side, where her temporary 'little sister' stood trembling.

"Come here, Tetta. I need your strength... Yes, lean closer."

Etta pulled the smiling girl into an embrace, adjusting Tetta’s head so she could better sync with the girl’s BISHOP signal.

"A whole lot of debris is about to start flying our way. They’re aimed right at us. I want you to track every single piece and calculate their coordinates. Don’t worry about anything complicated. Just do that for me."

Etta gave her a quick, clinical kiss as a 'reward,' beaming at the delighted girl.

"The enemy will use BISHOP to guide a swarm of warheads. I will read their intent and intercept. Simple. Elegant. A pure trial of strength where all the cards are on the table and there's no room for tricks. A duel of future-sight, where the one who looks the furthest wins. Oh, it’s marvelous! This is what a real game feels like!"

Etta writhed in her seat, overcome by a wave of raw, borderline-erotic excitement. She basked in the rush for a moment, then instantly wiped the smile from her face.

"Come then, little President. Let me show you your place."