Episode 266

The terms were simply too good to be true.

Taro didn't even need to consult his companions to know that for a fact. The galaxy would have to turn inside out and do a backflip before Dingo discovered the "joys of charity," he thought. Besides, he wasn't such an incompetent President that he didn't know every "golden opportunity" usually came with a rusty hook hidden inside.

Testing the waters, Taro threw out a warning. "You realize I'm going to charge you an absolutely extortionate amount, right?"

Dingo merely nodded, his face a stone wall. "Do as you like."

"There’s going to be a massive time lag on the information," Taro added, trying to find a crack in the man’s resolve.

"I’m well aware."

Marl didn't bother with subtlety. Speaking right to Dingo’s face, she said, "To be honest, I can't take this at face value. I don't think you're the type to tell boring lies, but you’re a slippery one, Mr. Dingo."

Dingo let out a sharp "Huh?" and flashed a momentary, intimidating glare, but he reined it in almost instantly. Watching this, Taro realized the situation was actually dire. If this guy is holding back his temper, we're in deep. He decided it was time to get serious.

"Look, for us, this is a dream deal," Taro said, fiddling with the electronic paper—the "Broadside"—that Dingo had brought along. "But we can't just nod and say 'sounds great' without questions. I don't think we can do much damage with this thing, but not knowing your endgame is a dealbreaker."

Ever since the neural net collapsed, sending data via physical chips had become the galaxy-wide standard, but it was a clunky emergency measure at best. Compared to the old days of instant network transfers, the disadvantages—the time lags, the storage limits, and the sheer logistical nightmare—were staggering.

And if chips were bad, a physical Broadside was even worse. Taro had invented the thing out of pure necessity, but he couldn't imagine why anyone else would actually want it. He was completely at a loss as to why Dingo was so obsessed with it.

"I can appreciate the paranoia," Dingo said. "I made a killing in the last war, and now I’m trying to dump those resources into a piece of junk like this. Hey, you’re the President—you’ve gotta know what I’m really after."

Taro shrugged. "I’ve got the title on my business card, yeah. Look, electronic paper isn't exactly high technology. It’s weird for transporting data, sure, but your Alliance could probably manufacture this stuff in your sleep."

"I’ve already secured the factories," Dingo countered. "Mass production begins in a few days."

Whoa, he’s not kidding around. "Seriously? You’re more committed to this than I thought. But if you’ve got the tech, why come to us? It’s for the know-how and the distribution network, right? Strategically, letting another Alliance handle your information flow is... well, it’s a choice."

"It’s not a choice; it’s a suicide mission," Dingo growled. "Obviously, my people will be involved. I’m not handing you the keys to the kingdom. But how long are you gonna play dumb? We know for a fact that you’re sitting on high-precision Star Charts."

"......No comment."

"Oh, come on, Teiro-san. I actually respect you. You’re leagues better than those lobotomized suits at the EAP, and you’re miles ahead of the usual rabble. If our Alliances went to war, I don't think I'd lose, but I sure as hell don't think I'd win. That makes us 'friends,' doesn't it?"

Dingo leaned in, his expression turning uncharacteristically bitter. Taro was genuinely surprised; he’d never seen the man look so sour, even if half of it was for show.

"I'll handle my core territory. I want you to handle the fringes and the border zones where we meet. While you’re out there, I don't care if you're surveying or mapping—just keep it quiet. The maps you give me only need to cover my core region space. It doesn't hurt you, and you’ll never have a reason to use them anyway. Am I wrong?"

The ball was in Taro’s court. He chewed on the proposal for a moment, then glanced over at Marl.

"I hate war," Marl said concisely. "And frankly, I don't think our management style would sit well with the bunch of thugs running around White Dingo Territory."

Taro nodded. "She’s right."

They had zero interest in territorial expansion via brute force. Besides, the White Dingo Alliance was essentially a coalition of the Alpha Region Space’s most wanted; they were the polar opposite of Taro’s democratic—if somewhat chaotic—process. Taro wouldn't take over that headache even if Dingo paid him.

"We don't have any territorial ambitions," Taro said, crossing his arms with a bit of performative bravado. Please let this not turn into a giant pain in my ass. "Fine. I’ll do it. But I have conditions."

Dingo cracked a small, dangerous smile. "Now we're talking. What are they?"

Taro held up a finger. "Information. First, I want to know why you’re so hung up on this Broadside project."

He waved the electronic paper in the air. Dingo let out a sharp snort.

"I’ll tell you, but don't expect me to be 100% honest."

"I'll trust you for now. If you're lying, I'll just ghost the project later."

"Fair enough. The reason is simple: I was invited to join a rebellion against the Imperial Government."

"......Huh?"

"Exactly what I said. I already tried to pull a stunt like that once before, so they figured I’d be an easy sell."

"You mean that time you tried to blockade the Alpha Star System? The one we stopped? Right, okay, but what’s that got to do with this?"

"The 'what' doesn't matter. The 'who' does."

Dingo’s eyes darted around the room for a split second. Suddenly, Taro’s BISHOP interface chimed.

[WARNING: UNAUTHORIZED NETWORK ACCESS ATTEMPT DETECTED]

"Hey, look, this room is air-gapped," Taro said. "If you need to send a signal, you’ll have to go downstairs—"

"No, this is perfect. I was counting on that," Dingo interrupted, looking satisfied. He scanned the room one last time, his gaze landing on Koume, who was boredly swinging her legs. He narrowed his eyes. "The one who invited me... was an AI. Just like that one."

On that particular day, Major Arnold was feeling a bit "pickled."

He was currently leading an Assault fleet of 1,500 ships and tens of thousands of crew members toward a nearby star system. Their mission? To punish some corporate entity for failing to meet an Imperial-approved contract. It was the kind of routine shakedown that happened once a month.

The offense was something trivial—unpaid late fees or a missed deadline. Usually, as soon as the Imperial Military showed up, the "missing" money would miraculously appear, everyone would exchange pleasantries, and they’d head home. The military loved seizing valuables, but cold, hard Credits were even better—no paperwork involved in liquidating assets.

It was, in essence, a glorified protection racket. In his twenty years of service, Arnold had never seen a real battle. Sure, they’d occasionally swat a desperate micro-fleet, but nobody ever fought to the death. Nobody wanted to die in a one-sided slaughter.

This sector was familiar territory, and the trip was easy. Arnold couldn't even remember the last time he’d felt a prickle of danger. It was just another day in the peaceful, bureaucratic life of an Imperial officer.

So when the report hit his desk, he assumed it was a typo.

"Enemy fleet of 700? Don't be a moron. You missed a decimal point or added an extra zero."

Major Arnold, lounging on the bridge of his flagship, grumbled at the patrol ship’s captain on the monitor.

"No, Commander. It’s no mistake. It’s not 7 or 70. It’s 700. We haven't spotted them visually yet, but we're being hit by massive, high-output scan waves. They’re heavy hitters, sir."

The captain of the Stealth Ship on the screen was sweating bullets. Arnold waved a dismissive hand. "Calm down. What’s the ship-type breakdown?"

"Optical scans are giving us a rough estimate: two Carriers, about fifteen other Large-scale Ships, 250 Cruisers, and the rest are destroyers or frigates."

"A standard combat formation? But Carriers? Since when do the local corps have Carriers? It’s a trick. Some kind of holographic deception."

Arnold looked at his Staff Officer, who simply shrugged.

"It’s too big for a hologram, sir," the captain on the screen stammered. "They’re deployed right across the Corridor, blocking our path! There’s no way... wait, hold on."

The captain turned away to shout at someone off-screen. The audio was muted, but his frantic gestures and the way he was screaming at his subordinates made his panic palpable.

"What is going on?" Arnold muttered vacantly. He fumbled to activate his BISHOP, his booze-addled brain trying to make sense of the tactical map. But then—

"ADMIRAL! THEY’RE FORMING A SQUARE FORMATION! THEY’RE ARMING WEAPONS!"

The Major snapped awake. Years of training overrode the alcohol.

"A-all ships! Condition One battle stations! Prepare for combat!"

He scrambled out of his seat, shoved his flask into a storage bin, and grabbed a hydration tube, sucking down water like his life depended on it.

"Sir, we’re being hit by wide-range jamming! The comms are—wait, no, they’re still open? What is this?" his Staff Officer shouted, stumbling back to his station in a daze.

Arnold tried to ignore the confusion, but one word kept echoing in his head.

Enemy?

The tactical data on his BISHOP updated in real-time. The opposing fleet was moving with terrifying precision, placing Shield Ships at the front and shifting into an offensive stance that allowed every single ship a clear line of fire. They were professional. They were fast.

"The enemy... they were waiting for us? An ambush?"

Arnold was in shock. This was unprecedented. This was a violation of the natural order. They were the Imperial Military! They were the law! The puny lawbooks of the Galactic Empire said so, but more importantly, their massive cannons said so.

As the shock wore off, a slow, drunken rage took its place. He didn't know who these lawless lunatics were, but they were clearly fools who valued their credits more than their lives. Well, this is Outer Space, he thought. I guess there are still idiots out here.

"If they fire even a single shot, wipe them out!" Arnold bellowed. He nodded to himself, satisfied. Every now and then, the Empire had to remind the galaxy why it was in charge. It was time to show these rebels that the sleeping giant wasn't just snoring—it had teeth.

"MY GOD! ENEMY IS FIRING! ENEMY IS FIRING!"

The scout captain shrieked one last time before the feed cut to static. The escalation was so fast Arnold’s head spun, but he wasn't too drunk to remember his own order.

The command to return fire was broadcast to the entire fleet.

And there, for the first time in centuries outside of a simulation, the Imperial Military began to tear itself apart in a massive, bloody civil war of friendly fire.