Episode 61

Just as Dingo began turning his predatory gaze toward the Alpha Star System, Teiro and his crew were finally exhaling a long, weary sigh over a mountain of finished paperwork. With the stench of bureaucracy finally purged, they prepped to board their ship and dive headfirst into the looming conflict awaiting them in the stars.

"Alright, General Manager Clark! I’m out. You’re in charge of the motherland now," Teiro declared, tossing the words over his shoulder.

They were standing in the indoor dock where the Plum was currently moored. General Manager C. Clark—the "C" stood for Captain, a title he loathed with the passion of a thousand suns—had been with Rising Sun since its fourth-ever public recruitment drive. Despite the company’s relative infancy, he was a battle-hardened veteran of the corporate world. He stared at the data chip Teiro had just shoved into his hand with an expression of pure, unadulterated horror.

"President, if I sign this, I’m not an employee anymore. I’m a director. This is a corporate coup," Clark stammered.

The chip contained a brand-new employment contract. It granted Clark de facto management rights over the entire company while Teiro was away. In layman's terms: he was now the Acting President.

"Nah, it’ll be fine! You’re a genius, Clark. Aside from the fact that you can’t set foot on a ship without getting space-sick, you’re basically perfect," Teiro chirped, his tone dangerously breezy.

It was the objective truth. Clark was utterly hopeless at the helm of a vessel, but when it came to balance sheets and logistics, the man was a god among men.

"Yes, my name is Captain and yet I cannot pilot a toaster, this is true. However, President, according to Delta Station ordinances, this contract entitles me to three percent of Rising Sun’s total assets. Do you realize what you’re doing?"

"A-okay with me!" Teiro replied with a casual thumbs-up. He didn't think Clark was a literal saint, but he knew the man was reliable enough to bet the house on.

"Take the money. It’s a bonus for the headache you’re about to have. But in exchange, I need you to give it your all. Because, well..."

Teiro cut his sentence short and leaned in until he was uncomfortably close to Clark’s face.

If I don’t come back, I’m leaving the family in your hands. I plan on crawling back even if I’m missing half my limbs, but just in case...

Teiro forced a bright, toothy grin and sprinted toward the boarding ramp. He had zero intention of dying, but a good businessman always had a contingency plan—and it never hurt to be over-prepared for one's own demise.

"Fine! Understood!" Clark bellowed after him with a strained, bitter smile. "But I’m still a half-baked amateur at this! If you disappear on me now, I’m going to have a nervous breakdown!"

Teiro simply waved a hand without looking back and stepped into the elevator where Marl was waiting.

"So, you just dumped the entire company on General Manager Clark’s head?" Marl asked, leaning casually against the elevator wall as they began their ascent.

Teiro let out a sharp laugh. "That’s a bit of a harsh way to put it, don't you think?"

"I cleared the backlog of documents! And I’m pretty sure there wasn't anything in there that would cause a gastric ulcer... I think. Probably."

Teiro looked at the ceiling, trying to mentally audit his own work. Marl sighed, looking utterly unimpressed, and poked him hard in the forehead.

"What do you mean 'probably'? Honestly. But I guess Clark can handle it. He’s an Imperial University elite and everyone loves him. If you aren't careful, he might actually be a better boss than you."

"Ugh, don't say that," Teiro groaned, feigning a stab to the heart. The doors slid open, and he stepped onto the bridge.

"I think the crew likes me well enough, but compared to the General Manager? My confidence is in the gutter."

"Well, obviously. A manager who’s always there is way more reliable than a President who goes missing for months at a time."

"I guess you're right... Wait, you’re the Vice President! You're in the same boat!"

"Ehehe, true!"

The duo marched into the Control Room, where Koume was already knee-deep in pre-flight checks. Within minutes, the ship was humming with power.

"Alright, let's do this! Cruiser Plum, launch!"

Heavy with crates of ammunition and newly installed turrets, the Plum banked with a sluggish, powerful grace. Joined by twelve escort warships waiting in the void, the fleet punched a hole in reality and began the warp toward the Alpha Star System.

---

"A hit on the stationary sensors? Are you sure it’s not just space junk?"

In a private suite on Alpha Station reserved for Rising Sun personnel, Alan was rubbing the sleep from his eyes, looking like he’d just been hit by a truck.

"[DEBRIS DOESN'T PULL A U-TURN MID-FLIGHT, ALAN. NINE TIMES OUT OF TEN, THIS IS THE REAL DEAL.]"

Bella’s voice crackled through the comms, prompting Alan to curse loudly. He threw on his gear and sprinted toward the piers.

"Tell the dock crews to get the engines hot! What are we looking at?"

"[A MASSIVE FLEET. THIRTY SHIPS. I’M RUNNING A FULL STATION SCAN NOW; WE’LL HAVE THE GRITTY DETAILS IN A SECOND.]"

Alan tore through the deserted corridors, hopped onto a high-speed transit lane, and burst onto the pier. The area, usually a ghost town at this hour, was already vibrating with the frantic energy of people realizing an unidentified fleet was knocking on their door.

"Bella, what about the evacuation? People are losing their minds!"

"[I’M FEEDING THEM OUT IN PHASES. IF I OPEN THE FLOODGATES ALL AT ONCE, THE PIER WILL BECOME A BUMPER-CAR ARENA. WE DON'T NEED MULTI-SHIP PILE-UPS RIGHT NOW.]"

Alan grunted in agreement. He sprinted past the Rising Sun destroyers left for defense and headed for a strangely shaped vessel tucked away in the back. He reached the sealed security gate and pressed his palm against the interface. BISHOP immediately spat out a string of glowing characters.

[CIPHER REQUEST. KEY: ELECTRIC?]

"Kokeshi," Alan barked.

The gate hissed and groaned, sliding open slowly. Alan didn't wait; he squeezed through the gap while the door was still moving, prying his way inside.

"Wiz Alan, prepped and ready for launch, sir!" his subordinate shouted the moment he hit the deck. Alan gave a sharp salute and took his seat.

"Paul, give me the tactical layout."

"Multiple Motion Signatures detected near Point B9. They’ve been drifting toward Point B8 for the last fifteen minutes."

"Lateral movement? They’re testing the waters... looking for a hole in the fence. The second they realize we’re shorthanded, they’ll swarm us. Status on the Dummy Beacons?"

"Active and broadcasting, sir!"

Alan nodded, satisfied with the crisp report. Paul had been with him since his Handyman days; the man knew his business. Alan checked the scan—the Dummy Beacons were live, casting fake electronic shadows across the sector. To any enemy Radar Screen, they would look like a formidable wall of warships.

Alan steered his ship into the center of the void, positioning himself like the flagship of a phantom armada. He mirrored the enemy’s movements, dancing a delicate ballet of bluffing and posturing.

The main force isn't here yet... Come on, you bastards, just take the bait and turn around...

Alan felt a bead of sweat roll down his face but only wiped it away with the back of his hand. He wanted to crank the AC, but he couldn't risk the thermal spike. If one "ship" in his phantom fleet started glowing like a sun on heat-scanners, the jig was up.

"Enemy fleet is splitting! Three prongs! They’re flanking left and right, with a detachment coming straight down the pipe!"

"Dammit! It’s a reconnaissance-in-force! Bella! Here they come!"

"[RELAX. DON'T BLOW A GASKET. TEIRO WILL BE HERE SOON. JUST HOLD THE LINE UNTIL THEN.]"

Alan grimaced at her relaxed tone. "He’s still six hours out!"

He manually adjusted the dummy fleet into an interception pattern.

"Stick to the rules of engagement! Alpha Station is a First-class facility. Do not—I repeat, DO NOT—draw them into the station’s immediate airspace. These pirates might not care about Imperial law, but we can't afford to lose our license."

"[I KNOW, I KNOW. HOW MANY YEARS DO YOU THINK WE’VE BEEN RUNNING THE MAFIA IN THIS HOLE?]"

"Right... sorry. My blood’s just pumping. It’s been a while since I’ve had a proper scrap."

Alan took a shuddering breath, forcing his heart rate down. Speed was good; panic was a death sentence.

"Alright. All units, converge on the First Defense Line. I repeat, all units, get to the First Defense Line now!"

"[SECOND FLEET, COPIED. ETA 220 SECONDS.]"

"[BLUE COMET HERE. WE’RE ALREADY ON-SITE AND BORED.]"

"[BLACK METEOR. DITTO.]"

Alan acknowledged the three defensive squadrons. With a silent prayer that the enemy would mistake his decoys for a reserve fleet, he pulled the dummies back and merged the Wiz Alan into the Second Fleet’s formation.

"[I ADMIT, I MISCALCULATED,]" Bella’s voice crackled. Alan pulled up a secondary monitor, showing the red HAD she was piloting. "[I DIDN'T THINK THESE ASSHOLES WOULD MOVE THIS FAST.]"

"They’re either brilliant or incredibly lucky," Alan muttered. "Either way, it sucks for us."

"[PFFT, I’D PREFER LUCKY. AT LEAST YOU CAN BEAT LUCK. BY THE WAY, IS THIS CRAP-BUCKET ACTUALLY GOING TO HOLD? IT LOOKS LIKE A CONSTRUCTION SITE ACCIDENT.]"

Bella’s HAD puffed its verniers, hovering near a small station that served as their makeshift fort.

The "fort" was actually Alpha Station 4, a decommissioned relic Rising Sun had bought for pennies on the credit. It was a Frankenstein’s monster of a base, hastily fitted with oversized station-grade shields, heavy gun batteries, and a forest of Jamming Devices. It was technically a First-class station, and since they had the Imperial paperwork proving it was "waste," they could legally turn it into a deathtrap. It was essentially 400 meters of long, thin, majestic trash.

"It wasn't supposed to be finished until next month," Alan admitted. "It’s operating at half-power, but half-power is better than no power. We owe the Bureau a drink for letting us have it."

"[CONSIDER IT A 'THANK YOU' GIFT FROM THEM. NINE TIMES OUT OF TEN, THEY’D NEVER LET A DISPOSAL REQUEST GO THROUGH DURING A WAR. BUT HEY, RISING SUN SAVED THIS SYSTEM FROM A WIND SWARM, REMEMBER? REPUTATION MATTERS.]"

"I guess being a nice guy pays off," Alan muttered, glaring at the enemy blips that were now entering Engagement Range. On the Radar Screen, the hostiles were circling like sharks, maintaining a provocative distance.

"I’d be thrilled if you just kept doing laps all day," Alan whispered.

But the universe wasn't feeling generous.

The enemy fleet suddenly snapped their bows toward the defense line in perfect unison, and the void began to scream as they activated their Beam Jamming all at once.