Chapter 271

Since the date has officially changed, Christmas is over. Therefore, posting this is legally permitted.

"I’m not particularly fond of admitting this, but are you suggesting that you lot are so utterly incompetent that you cannot even manage a single boarding inspection?"

In a room that was cold, utilitarian, and constructed of iron, iron, and more iron, an inorganic voice echoed. The owner of the voice slowly slid a finger across the mirror-finished executive desk, feeling a flicker of petty satisfaction when his fingertip came away without a speck of dust.

"My sincerest apologies, Your Excellency the Marshal. However, it was the First’s boys who turned tail. We can’t exactly throw our weight around with them."

Standing before the black-robed Marshal was a Staff Officer in a wrinkle-free military uniform, speaking with unearned confidence. The Marshal nodded slowly. "I am speaking with that very fact in mind," he said with a bite of sarcasm, before adding, "Oh, very well."

"That move allowed us to grasp the majority of their play. From the perspective of achieving our goal, it’s not half bad."

The Marshal stroked his chin, judging the current situation to be a solid 70 out of 100. It was miles away from perfect, but it wasn't a total disaster either.

"The civilian sectors are behaving. We aren’t seeing any movement that exceeds the typical panic caused by the leaks. The military is mostly the same, though Bismarck’s faction seems to be stirring. Intelligence just came in."

The Staff Officer’s gaze, previously fixed on a point in space, wavered as BISHOP beamed data directly into his head. The Marshal skimmed the stream of information in his mind and let out a sharp, amused grunt.

"So, they’ve scattered the spares across the galaxy. Predictable, but they’re moving fast. Are we tracking them?"

"We’ve pegged most of their locations. The rest are just a matter of time."

"I see. A 'just in case' measure on their part, no doubt. Poor fools. Their loyalty will be their undoing."

"Indeed. It will be more than enough to slap them with treason later. It helps that the other Marshals are currently doing effectively nothing."

"They couldn't move even if they wanted to; they don't even understand what's happening. And given the scale of this mess, even if they knew, they wouldn't be able to provide any real cooperation."

Organizations always rot. The Galactic Imperial Government and the Imperial Military were no exception to the rule. Following the immutable natural laws of the universe, one could argue that because they were the largest entities in the galaxy, they were also the most putrid. They spent every waking moment maintaining the status quo and feared change; when change actually arrived, they simply flailed about in a blind panic.

To make matters worse, they were far too massive to be agile. Mentally and physically, their sheer bulk impacted everything around them. It was a paradox: the larger the organization, the more it had to watch where it stepped. To the little people living under their boots, a single clumsy footfall was a death sentence.

The Marshal knew this better than anyone in the galaxy. He was part of the machine, after all—and more importantly, he was the one at the controls.

"If they were allies, this would be a headache. Fortunately, they are enemies. Proceed with the plan."

The Marshal settled back into his rigid metal chair and closed his eyes. Things were going smoothly for now, but in this business, that never lasted. He needed to sleep while he still had the chance.

"Now then, humanity... what’s your next move?"

The voice muttered in the iron room, heard by absolutely no one.

[ ASSEMBLY TRANSLATION WIND VER1.78 TEST... SUCCESS ]

BISHOP’s cybernetic strings of text scrolled across Teiro’s vision. Satisfied with the results, he peeled off the clunky, old-fashioned headset and let out an exhausted sigh.

"The results are quite favorable, wouldn't you say, Mr. Teiro? Excellent work."

The mechanical voice came from floor level. Teiro scooped up Koume—who was currently wobbling around like a metallic beach ball—placed her on the workbench, and gave her a wink. "I guess. But man..." He leaned his head on his hand. "Is this really what I should be doing right now?"

"Calling it 'this' is a bit ungrateful, isn't it, Mr. Teiro? The life-saving and economic benefits this will bring to humanity are immeasurable."

Koume’s lamps flickered rhythmically on the table. Teiro gave a noncommittal grunt.

"I mean, I get why they’re hounding me for Version 2. Helping people is great and all. But looking at my personal life? This feels like the literal eve of a galactic war, doesn't it?"

"Affirmative, Mr. Teiro," Koume chirped. "The loan of Princess Matilda’s fifty thousand private soldiers and their entire equipment manifest is... significant. Considering those are technically a branch of the Imperial Guard, it is likely unprecedented. A major upheaval is imminent."

"Exactly! A thousand guys is one thing, but fifty thousand? That’s basically her saying, 'Here, go start a war.'"

"In my estimation, that is highly probable, Mr. Teiro. The pure combat power alone is equivalent to roughly five fleets, suggesting a massive engagement is expected. In a standard military configuration including support personnel, that’s ten fleets—an entire corps. Admiral Sod was visibly bewildered when he received the news."

"Nearly four hundred ships, right? Complete with Fleet Carriers and Battleships as 'bonuses.' Man, we really hauled some heavy metal... But seriously, what are they going to make us do? Dingo and Lin have been looking at me with total suspicion lately, and it's breaking my heart. I mean, I get it, but still."

"Unknown, Mr. Teiro. However, I suspect it will not be very fun."

"Yeah, no kidding. Pretty sure it’s not going to be a parade. Sigh..."

Teiro let out another deep sigh—he’d been doing that a lot lately—and looked around the room to distract himself. The space was crammed with ancient, miscellaneous hardware and piles of high-tech junk. It reminded him of the time he’d spent in Marl's Workshop. He actually found the mess quite cozy.

They were currently in a room deep inside the Big Egg—formerly a Coleman research facility, now renamed the RS WIND Countermeasure Research Station. Access was restricted to the absolute top brass of Rising Sun, making it one of the most secure spots in the sector.

"Still, it’s wild all this ancient stuff survived. It’s all from the dawn of time, right?"

Teiro picked up a rusted, handle-shaped component. It was so corroded he couldn't tell if it was a door handle or part of a death ray, but it was definitely old.

Everything here had been snagged by the Antique Network they’d set up after witnessing the nightmare at Wyoming. These were items narrowly rescued from being melted down as Scrap Metal. Since building top-tier security for every scrap yard in the galaxy was impossible, they’d simply funneled everything interesting into one place.

As a result, the room contained everything from literal garbage to museum-grade artifacts like the ones found on Planet Nuke. Through the glass of the adjoining lab, Teiro could see Dr. Arzimof hunched over some project.

"While space lacks an atmosphere to cause oxidation, radiation and other factors cause their own types of decay. They aren't in as good a condition as they look," Koume noted.

She rolled off the table, hit the floor with a heavy clunk, and tumbled over to a specific pile of junk. She stopped in front of a stack of thin, square metal plates, illuminating them with her lamp.

"Excluding the Nuke samples, the outlook for most of these is bleak. Archaeology is truly a pursuit meant for those willing to spend decades on a single find... Hmmm. What’s this?"

Koume leaned in toward a metal plate that had characters written on it in what looked like permanent ink. Teiro ignored her and took the opportunity to stretch, his joints popping as he tried to work out the stiffness in his neck.

"Ugh, my shoulders are shot... but hey, if Gigantech Corp is actually going to help look for Earth, I can afford to be patient. Besides, whatever they make us do next, it’ll put Mr. Dean in our debt. Then we can drag him into our search for the home world."

"That is a sound tactical observation, Mr. Teiro. By the way, I have a question. Weakpedia. Weekiepedia. Wikipedia. Wykepedia. Do any of those sounds ring a bell?"

"Huh? What’s a 'pedia'? Sounds like a textbook or something. Is it a weekly magazine?"

"I am unsure. Based on the label metadata, it appears to be an encyclopedia, but if it isn't in your memory, perhaps it’s a relatively recent invention from the old era."

Koume rolled away toward another corner. Teiro watched her idly until her lamp flickered again.

"Also, a report just came in from Gigantech’s Strategic Statistics Department. It concerns the manifestation of individuals with Enigma Resistance, a trait Mr. Alan previously flagged. The numbers are small, but we shouldn't be careless."

"Yeah, yeah, Teiro-chan will do his best. Don’t nag me."

"I shall hold you to that. I will provide all necessary support... Hmmm. 'The Mushroom-Bamboo Shoot War'? How fascinating. I hope the storage medium is still readable."

"It’s probably just some stupid ancient squabble. Forget the past; the war right in front of us is a way bigger deal. Anyway, give me a hand with these function classes. There’s way too many of them to sort alone."

"Understood, Mr. Teiro. I’ll be right there... By the way, is the numbness in your right arm still bothering you?"

Teiro paused. "...Look, since the dawn of time, virgins have always overworked their right hands. It’s a proud tradition that keeps the industry alive, okay? You gotta respect the grind, Koume-chan."

"............I see. I have processed that information. If I were to calculate the total caloric expenditure of every virgin in the galaxy, the results would be... statistically hilarious. I wonder if that energy could be converted into a Beam weapon?"

"That sounds like the most disgusting weapon in history. I refuse to be killed by a Virgin Beam."

"Do not worry. As a fellow virgin, you likely wouldn't be targeted."

"Hey! I’m different! I’d totally be a target! I’m high-value prey!"

As the man and the machine bickered back and forth, Teiro felt a strange pang of nostalgia for the lonely days he'd spent on the Ghost Ship. He lost himself in the work, and before he knew it, six hours had vanished. He was just starting to realize how hungry he was when the door slid open.

"Found you. Teiro, Koume... I’ve been looking everywhere."

It was Etta, her eyes still heavy with sleep. But her next words made Teiro’s heart skip a beat.

"Something is... wrong. The network... it’s acting weird."

Teiro locked eyes with Koume. Without a word, they both scrambled toward the exit.

Reading a novel like this on such a happy day. Honestly.

Well, I’m the one writing a novel like this on such a happy day, so I guess we’re even!!

Merry Christmas. May happiness find you all in some way.