Episode 264

"So, here’s the situation: I’ve currently got two Battleships packed with Land Combat troops screaming toward your front door. Do you have any excuses, or should I just skip to the part where I stop caring?"

Dean barked the question at the monitor, his voice dripping with enough concentrated fury to melt the screen. The man on the other end was an elderly media mogul who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else in the galaxy.

"We have official permission for this broadcast!" the man squeaked. He tried to look dignified, but his lower lip was doing a nervous tap-dance he couldn't quite quit. "What crime are we even supposed to have committed?"

Dean let out a cold, sharp snort—the kind of sound a high-pressure valve makes right before it explodes.

"Ever heard of sedition? Take a look at the station's security feeds. It’s a madhouse out there. I can’t even begin to calculate the sheer amount of wealth currently evaporating because of your little stunt."

The bridge of the Carrier Raizesia, flagship of the Alpha Area Army First Mobile Fleet, was deathly silent. However, the monitors told a different story. Enlarged feeds from Andor Station showed masses of people scurrying around like ants in a kicked hill. Even without the audio, the chaotic roar of the panic practically vibrated through the screen.

Usually, those feeds—restricted to management, high-ranking military, and select press—showed a much duller scene. Considering Andor Station was the seat of His Majesty the Emperor and a hornet's nest of high-stakes politics, it was typically a place where "calm" was the default setting. Not today.

"We... we were told it was fine to go public!" the mogul stammered. "We were assured that preparations were in place to keep the peace!"

"I see. Here’s the problem: nobody except the government or us can grant that kind of permission. So, which military unit authorized your little scoop? Or was it a solo act by the politicians?"

"I’m afraid I cannot reveal my source—"

"Do you think this is a game?" Dean snapped, cutting him off with the finality of a guillotine blade. "You’ve got 220 minutes left on the clock. The unit I sent isn't coming for an interview; they’re coming to wipe you off the census."

He pointed to the BISHOP timer ticking down in the corner of the screen. Every second lost was a step closer to the "Go" signal.

"B-but... our... our raison d'être..."

"Your reason for existing? Fine. Go ahead and die with your pride. I’m sure your employees will appreciate the sentiment while they’re being dragged down with you. I’m done. I'll find someone else to talk to."

"Ah... w-wait! Stop! Fine! I’ll talk!"

"Then get to it. And try to realize that you don't actually have 'options' here. I’m a busy man."

Dean hadn't actually planned on 'negotiating.' In his world, you gave orders or you took information. Negotiation required both parties to be on the same level, and this guy wasn't even in the same star system.

"The proposal came from the military. I have the records right here!"

The media kingpin fumbled a chip out of his pocket and jammed it toward the camera. Dean zoomed in, his expression shifting from annoyance to suspicion, and then finally to a sharp, mocking laugh.

"Heh. Oh, that’s rich. Absolutely impossible. That’s my direct unit."

Etched onto the chip in microscopic 3D printing were the words: [CERTIFICATE 1: NAVY INTELLIGENCE DEPARTMENT]. Dean knew that department better than his own reflection; he’d spent half his life there and now ran the place.

"What? No... that’s—"

"That’s a First Certificate. Issuing one requires my personal authorization, and I’m fairly certain I didn't sign off on a suicide pact for the local news. Did you even bother to verify this?"

"Of course we did! We wouldn't touch a story this radioactive without being 100% certain!"

"Well, clearly your 100% is someone else’s zero. Who was the provider?"

"Hold on... let me check... The intermediary listed on the certificate is a Colonel Nami Arden."

"......I see. Crystal clear." Dean rested his chin on his hand, his eyes narrowing. "I’ll put your execution on hold for now. I’m sending my people over; tell them everything. We're done."

He cut the feed without waiting for a reply and sank into thought.

Nami Arden? Never heard of her.

There was no such person in the Intelligence Department. Dean was a freak for names; he could recite every officer and NCO in the entire department from memory. A few thousand names were nothing to a man of his caliber. He didn't make mistakes like that.

"Your Excellency. Have the bastards finally made their move?"

One of his Staff Officers stood at such rigid attention next to him he looked like he’d been carved from granite. Dean glanced at him, considered it, and shook his head.

"It’s the logical conclusion, but I don't know. It’s too... amateur. I haven’t heard any rumors about Marshal Cornelius going senile just yet."

The man was a Marshal and a faction leader; you didn't get that far by being a moron. To Dean, this whole false-flag news report felt clumsy. Cheap.

"If I were pulling the strings, I’d time this with a major fleet maneuver—an exercise or a disciplinary strike. Something to give the movement of troops a shred of plausibility. Or better yet, do it when the Marshal is meeting the Emperor. The audience gets canceled 'just in case,' you scream that the delay is proof of guilt, and every idiot with a screen buys into the hype."

Dean grumbled to himself, pacing for a moment before stopping to make a sharp, horizontal cutting motion through the air.

"We play this cool. No rash moves. Gag the hotheads and tell them to sit tight. I’m taking personal command of this mess. Until I give the word, nobody breathes without my permission. If you get a request for action, ignore it or stall. We are not dancing to their tune. Don't give them a single scrap of justification!"

"UNDERSTOOD, YOUR EXCELLENCY!" the bridge crew roared in unison.

Dean nodded, a predatory, provocative smile creeping across his face. "It’s going to be a long day. Good. I was getting bored."

---

[DEPTH 55... 56... 57... IDEAL DEPLOYMENT SPEED REACHED. YELLOW ALERT: SUBJECT 4B BRAINWAVES. SHIFTING TO PROCEDURE 004, PHASE 2. DEPTH 58... MS59...]

The laboratory was a tomb of dim, sickly blue light. The researchers’ faces glowed in the monitors, making them look like disembodied ghosts floating in a cramped, windowless void filled with a chaotic mess of hardware.

The room was freezing. Everyone was bundled into bulky Insulation Suits, relying on the electric hum of Thermo Boosters to keep their blood from turning into slush. With their heads encased in acrylic helmets, the only way to communicate was through the crackle of Mikes and speakers.

"How much longer until this hunk of junk actually works?"

A man in a suit identical to the researchers' stood over a cylindrical vat. Through a tiny porthole, a stray limb—an arm? a leg?—floated in a murky, unidentified soup.

"Six months, if we sprint," the Research Team Chief replied, his rank displayed on his chest. "Marshal’s been riding our necks about it."

A man bearing the mark of an Imperial Navy Major General shook his head vigorously. "Six months is too long. We’ll be dead or in prison by then. We’re on the brink of ruin here."

"I know, I know! We’ve already shaved 25% off the timeline—"

"I don't want your math, I want results! Marshal Cornelius is in a hurry. Cut another 20% off the schedule. Now."

"That’s insane! We’ll compromise the entire experiment!"

"Then compromise it! You’ve got an unlimited budget and all the resources you can eat. Just make it happen."

"Fine, fine. We’ll 'effort' it. What about the fresh meat?"

"I brought twelve. All tucked in and dreaming. Officially? They’re already dead. Paperwork’s filed. Do whatever you want with them."

"How delightful," the Chief Researcher chuckled, nodding with ghoulish satisfaction inside his helmet.

Major General Neo Wan Hoshi, a loyalist of the Cornelius Faction, watched the scientist and let out a low, disgusted growl that no one else could hear.

"Drop dead, you soulless freaks."

He’d clicked his Mike off before swearing. Even though the researcher was three feet away, the room was a semi-vacuum and the helmets were built like spacesuits. Silence was the only thing that traveled for free in here.

"Oh, by the way, General Neo. The other project? It’s going swimmingly. Care for a tour?"

Neo wanted to vomit, but work was work. He nodded reluctantly.

"This way."

They left the room and headed for the wall. Nobody actually walked the endless corridors of this place; they hopped onto the High-speed Moving Lane.

Neo waited as the Chief manually punched in the destination. Once the belt started humping, he gripped the handrails for dear life and buckled himself in. The lanes weren't exactly designed for gravity environments, making every trip a low-budget roller coaster ride.

"Dock 8. Watch the left turn. It’s a doozy."

"I know, I know," Neo grunted.

The corridor whipped into a sharp curve. Inertia, being the heartless mistress she is, tried to toss Neo into the bulkhead as they hit nearly 200 kilometers per hour.

"And here we are! Prepare to be amazed."

Neo survived the gut-wrenching deceleration and unbuckled, fighting the urge to complain about the blatant safety violations. They climbed the stairs to the control room and stepped into a massive, open space. Looking out through the reinforced glass bulkhead at the sprawling shipyard, Neo finally felt like he could breathe again.

"This... you’ve actually made this much progress?"

He couldn't help the gasp of awe. Beyond the glass sat a titan.

The ship was mostly a skeletal frame—a standard Block Module construction—but the guts were all wrong. The propulsion system was wild. Instead of the usual conical thrusters, these things were massive, bulging doughnuts. There were only six of them, which looked terrifyingly inadequate compared to the hundreds of thrusters a normal ship carried.

"Engine output is stabilizing. In a lab setting, we’re calling it a win," the Chief bragged. "Practical application is just around the corner."

Neo stared at the Egg-shaped engine nestled in the heart of the framework.

"A drive engine for normal navigation... so, in this one specific field..." Neo trailed off, watching the tiny, ant-sized workers and their remote drones swarming the hull.

"We’ve finally caught up to technology from 4,500 years ago."

His gaze drifted to the side, landing on a filthy, ancient wreck of a ship sitting in the adjacent berth.

It barely looked like a ship at all. It was missing its skin, its guts, and its soul. It wasn't modular; it was a complex, archaic mess of specialized blocks. The living quarters and control centers were long gone, leaving only the massive propulsion block behind. The weapons were missing, too—reportedly lost during some failed usurpation centuries ago when a researcher tried to save what was left of the vessel. After that, the trail went cold.

The Alster Wayne Institute.

That was the name of the group that had studied the ship back in the dark ages of history. And it was the name of the secret organization still pulling the strings today.