Episode 267

“Not funny. Seriously, not funny at all.”

General Dean stared at the sheet of electronic paper, his face a mask of stony indifference.

The report was a chaotic grocery list of every bizarre screw-up and "accidental" catastrophe to hit Alpha Region Space over the last few days. It ran the gamut from the catastrophic—entire fleets opening fire on each other because they suddenly forgot who was on their side—to the petty, like soldiers receiving shipments of luxury items they definitely hadn't ordered and definitely couldn't afford on a grunt’s salary.

Taken individually, each mishap was just a weird Tuesday. Freak accidents happened; that was just the cold, hard reality of statistics. But when you piled them all up?

It wasn't a coincidence. It was a migraine-inducing conspiracy.

“Statistically impossible,” Colonel Minerva remarked, adjusting her military jacket which was currently losing its battle to stay straight. She was one of the many adjutants Dean had found himself saddled with lately. She slid out of the plush bed with the grace of a languid cat and added, “It’s a mess. A massive, steaming mess.”

“Obviously,” the General grunted. He massaged his temples, glaring at the paper as if he could set it on fire with his mind. “You don't just have an Expeditionary Fleet and a Regional Defense Fleet start a shooting match for no reason. This is a full-blown emergency.”

Dean was still trying to get used to the "novelty" of reading actual printed text. It was a massive pain in the neck—literally. His eye strain was reaching legendary levels. But since the brain-link Pulse Chips were about as secure as a screen door in a hurricane, he had no choice but to rely on the two organic optical sensors he’d been born with.

“Should we declare Martial Law?” Minerva asked, casually handing Dean his clothes.

“Don’t,” the General snapped. He let her help him into his uniform, his expression grim. “That’ll just turn the current confusion into a galaxy-wide riot.”

“Maybe. But are you just going to stand there and watch it burn?”

Minerva gave him a look of pure reproach. Dean let out a dramatic sigh and threw his arms wide. “As if!” He pulled her into a brief embrace and pecked her on the forehead. “Your big sister would have my head on a platter. I’m going to do everything I can—and then some.”

It was half-truth, half-blatant-lie. Dean took a certain grumpy pride in never half-assing his job, regardless of how much he hated it. If the galaxy was going down, he’d be the one working overtime to make sure it went down in an orderly fashion.

“And which sister are we talking about?”

Minerva saw right through him, her tone turning sulky as she poked at the one part of his statement that was actually true.

“Which one? Don’t ask stupid questions.”

Dean pulled away, adjusted his military cap, and gave himself a quick once-over in the mirror. Break time was officially over. Now began his twenty-hour shift of being ‘The General.’ He clasped his hands behind his back, turned to Minerva, and fixed her with a professional stare.

“Colonel. I didn’t put you in this position just because of my ‘personal feelings,’ despite what the gossip says. You have a role to play.” He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. “Understood?”

Minerva snapped to attention, her playful mood vanishing. “Sir!”

“Good. Your younger sister is stationed over there too, so you should be able to make it work. You’ve met her, right?”

“A few times at the Imperial Court, five years back. Some stuffy tea party, I think.”

“Ah, right. Good times... Anyway, don’t get on the same ship. That’s a direct order.”

“Understood. You’re expecting a fight, then?”

“Who knows? But the whole place smells like a powder keg. Either way, there’s no reason for both of you to die at once. Waste of talent.”

“I see. Hehe. So even the mighty General has a soft spot he can’t stand to lose.”

“Don’t start. I’m human too—mostly.”

Dean gave her one last eyebrow-raise, kissed his lover one last time, and marched out. Waiting in the hall was another Adjutant who looked like he’d been practicing his ‘I’m not listening to the bedroom noises’ face for an hour. He saluted immediately.

“Any progress, Major?” Dean asked, returning the salute with a lazy flick of his hand.

The two began walking down a corridor lined with natural wood. The grain was exquisite, and the rhythmic clack-clack of their boots on the expensive timber was the only thing filling the silence.

“Yes and no, sir. Mostly no. Mysterious signals are popping up like weeds all over the galaxy. Pinning down the source is... proving difficult.”

“Watch your language, Major. The word you’re looking for isn’t ‘difficult,’ it’s ‘impossible.’”

“Sir, you’re absolutely right. So you already knew?”

“Civilian comm-links aren’t total garbage. If there was even a hint of a traceable pattern, they would’ve caught it by now. We’re going through the motions just so we can say we tried. It’s a ridiculous waste of time, but that’s the job.”

“Politics, huh? A world of nonsense I’ll never understand,” the Major sighed.

“Hmph. Stick around long enough and you’ll learn to hate it as much as I do.”

They transitioned from the ‘retro’ wood flooring into a salon that looked like it had been decorated by someone with a marble fetish. Everything from the floor to the ceiling was polished stone. Bored-looking nobles lounged on sofas, gossiping and doing their best to look important while doing absolutely nothing.

“I really hate dealing with these people,” the Major muttered, eyeing the nobles with pure disdain. “Do they even realize the world is ending?”

“The military’s not much better,” Dean whispered back. Though at least the military has better uniforms, he thought. The corruption levels are probably neck-and-neck, though.

“By the way, His Excellency,” the Major whispered even lower. “How did it go with Colonel Minerva?”

Dean kept his face a mask of professional boredom. “She’s leaving in a few days. She didn't even argue, which was a pleasant surprise. Saved me the trouble of having to tie her up and throw her in a cargo pod. She’s smarter than she looks.”

“Huh. A smart royal? That’s a first. I thought the higher the rank, the emptier the skull. A wise princess... that’s terrifying.”

“Tell me about it. People with brains tend to want to use them. If she gets bored of being a ‘spare,’ things might get interesting.”

“Whoa, sir, don’t say scary things like that. She’s 12th in the Imperial Succession Right. What’s she going to do, murder the other eleven?”

“It’s a possibility. Or she just waits for the Empire to crack. Whether it’s political rivals or WIND, someone’s going to break the glass. I’m not convinced she isn't sitting back with popcorn waiting for it to happen.”

An AI server glided over. They both took glasses of top-shelf booze just to blend in, then retreated to a corner without taking a single sip. This stuff probably costs more than a small moon, but I can’t afford a hangover while the robots are revolting.

“Notice anything?” the Major asked, pretending to admire a painting.

Dean didn’t give a damn about art, but he nodded anyway, looking just as "moved" as his subordinate. “Yeah.”

“The Cornelius Faction is missing. Place feels empty without all those wannabe-elites sniffing around,” Dean mocked.

The Major let out a tiny chuckle. “Exactly. I spotted maybe one or two scouts, but the usual hundred-plus idlers are gone. What are they up to?”

“No clue. But they’re moving fast. I thought it was just the general chaos, but I’m not buying it. They’re trying to play it cool, but resource shipments to the Epsilon Star System are through the roof. We’re talking tens of thousands of personnel.”

“To a Fortress Star System? What, did they all decide to become shut-ins?”

“If they stayed there forever, I’d send them a ‘Thank You’ card and a fruit basket.”

They started wandering again, dodging any noble who looked like they were winding up for a conversation. Dean didn't have the patience for flattery today.

“The real question is what they’re planning. Epsilon is a defensive hub for the heart of the Empire, sure, but that’s it. It’s useless against the kind of attacks we’re seeing now,” Dean muttered, grabbing a piece of fruit from a nearby table.

Next to the fruit sat a bowl of "health tablets"—natural supplements that were actually loaded with enough toxins to kill a normal person. He thought back to the actual Natural Food he’d eaten at the Rising Sun. Maybe I should suggest the government buy from Taro instead of poisoning their guests. Put it on the 'to-do' list.

“An attack?” the Major asked, crossing his arms. “You really think this is all WIND?”

“Yeah,” Dean replied shortly. “I’ve got a hunch.”

“A hunch?”

“I can’t explain it, and you wouldn’t believe me if I did. No evidence. But I’m certain.”

Dean checked an old-fashioned wall clock—the kind of relic you only saw in places trying too hard to look "historic."

“They’re late,” the Major noted. “Rare for a guest to keep us waiting this long.”

Dean nodded silently, double-checking his mental schedule. This schedule wasn't on the network, it wasn't on electronic paper, and it wasn't on any terminal. It was strictly organic memory.

It was an ancient, paranoid rule that Dean used to think was stupid. Now? He wanted to kiss whoever came up with it. It was probably the only thing WIND hadn't hacked yet. He couldn't risk the AI knowing the movements of the most important man in the galaxy.

“Where are the chamberlains? Notice anything off?” Dean asked, looking at the ceiling.

The Major looked around, his brow furrowing. “Wait... where’s the Head Chamberlain? Actually, all the senior staff are gone.”

Dean’s eyebrow twitched. He turned on his heel, his voice dropping the playful act entirely. “We’re leaving.”

“Where to?”

Dean didn’t answer. He just started walking, his face tightening into a grim mask of fury.

Could it be? Have we been outmaneuvered already?