"President!! Cargo's all in, sir!!"
The shout came from one of Alan's Handyman buddies, a man decked out in a garish silver-and-red vertically striped jumpsuit. To keep his hair from drifting in zero-G, he wore a tight swimming cap. He looks like a 1920s chain-gang convict, Taro thought.
"Guess I should design some actual uniforms eventually... Yeah, yeah, good work!" Taro called back, waving distractedly.
He turned his gaze to the Destroyer Plum, which had grown disturbingly bloated. The original storage bays were already bursting at the seams with refugees’ belongings, forcing them to strap additional cargo pods to the hull like mechanical saddlebags. With the Rockboy wedged between the thrusters and Alan's high-speed Stardust latched onto the belly, the Plum looked like a man who’d gone grocery shopping without a list and was now trying to carry thirty bags home at once.
"She was such a sleek ship once, and now look at her..." Marl muttered, hovering over a holographic interface of transaction receipts. "Well, the bank account is swelling, so I suppose it’s a 'magnificent' tragedy."
"I mean, sure, a 220% load capacity is a transporter’s wet dream," Taro said, scratching his head. "The payout is juicy, but... is this even legal?"
"Legal? What do you mean?"
"We don't have licenses. We’re basically hauling a small city’s worth of lives. Doesn't the government care? Back on Earth, you needed a permit just to drive a taxi."
Taro gestured to the endless queue of people still boarding the Plum. These were the "lucky" few from the Peta Star System—the ones with enough credits to pay Rising Sun Corp for a ticket out of their dying rock. Between the natural decay of a Depleted Star System and the recent WIND-induced panic, every station in the sector was experiencing a frantic relocation boom.
"The government won't give it a second thought," Marl said, her eyes glued to the screen. "The Empire is 'tolerant,' which is just a fancy way of saying they don't give a damn. There’s only one law in the Galactic Empire: Freedom and self-responsibility."
Marl went back to her calculations as if that settled it. Taro wondered if that wasn't just "aggressive liberalism," but he lacked the interstellar common sense to judge if it was actually a bad thing.
[MESSAGE RECEIVED FROM BISHOP]
"Alan to Teiro. This line is the last of 'em. Exactly 1,424 souls. Cargo's locked and loaded."
"Copy that. Good work," Taro replied. He pressed his face against the glass of the Gate Lounge window, trying to spot the handyman on the pier.
"Boss, I’m a bit further down... yeah, that's it. Waving right now!"
Taro spotted a figure in a spacesuit dangling off the underside of the Plum. The suit looked less like high-tech armor and more like a shiny full-body leotard with a fishbowl on top. Alan was zipped around with his jetpack, performing a final check on the ship's scarred hull.
Man, that guy can do anything, Taro mused. He might be a weirdo, but I’ve landed some top-tier talent.
"Indeed," Koume's voice chimed in. "Mr. Alan boasts of never failing, and his record actually backs it up. He is selective about his contracts, which is a polite way of saying he is incredibly cautious."
Taro nodded. "Good. We need a 'cautious' guy to stop us from doing something stupid. Anyway, Koume, you get that Route plotted?"
"Naturally, Mr. Teiro. Calculated for speed as requested. Eighteen jumps. However, if you wish to take the side-missions Miss Marl suggested, we can complete 80% of them in twenty-four jumps."
"Nah, let's skip the side-gigs. 'Self-responsibility' or not, I don't want to be the guy who gets a thousand people killed because I got greedy. The odds of fifty WIND waiting for us around the next corner aren't zero, right?"
Taro shrugged. Koume had calculated the absolute shortest path to drop the refugees at their various destinations. Marl had argued they should milk the trip for all it was worth by taking transport contracts along the way, but Taro wasn't feeling it. He might eventually get used to the cold logic of the stars, but for now, the weight of those lives was a bit too heavy.
"It's a long haul with no end in sight anyway, so let's take it slow. Haste makes waste," Taro said, trying to sound like a wise CEO. "Besides, look at that crowd! Our ship is a superstar. I wish I was half that popular. I'm the President, after all. Where's my fan club?"
He looked at the other ships idling at the pier and felt a pang of guilt for hogging all the business.
"It is simple logic, Mr. Teiro," Koume deadpanned. "Migrants value safety above all else. No ship provides that better than a military vessel. If the threat were anything other than WIND, nobody would be caught dead on a destroyer. The fuel economy is garbage, the ride is bumpy, and the cargo capacity—and thus the price—is atrocious."
"So you're just going to ignore my joke about being popular? Cool. Great. Thanks."
Taro pouted. He wanted to argue that the Plum was a fantastic ship, but since Koume was right on every count, he shut his mouth. Compared to a civilian luxury liner, the Plum was about as comfortable as a metal box filled with gravel.
"Since we’re cramped into communal barracks, they’ll just have to deal. Alright, let's get this show on the road!" Taro stood up, gave a massive, bone-cracking stretch, and headed for the bridge.
"Mr. Teiro," Koume said, following a step behind. "Did you get taller?"
Taro glanced back. "Hardly. My puberty-meter hit zero years ago."
Two weeks passed. They were halfway through their galactic delivery service, and Taro was dying of boredom. He was currently horizontal in the elevated captain's chair of the Destroyer Plum's command bridge when Marl's voice screamed through the comms.
"TEIRO! CHECK THE NEWS! NOW!"
Taro startled so hard he rolled right off the chair and face-planted onto the deck.
"Ow, ow, ow... Haven't done a floor-dive in a while..."
Stuck in a pathetic, face-down-butt-up arch, he jacked his BISHOP into the neural net.
"News... uh, this one?" He pulled up the top trending topic—the numbers were astronomical.
"Okay, let's see... 'WIND activity intensifying galaxy-wide. New variants equipped with Warp and Beam Jammers detected.' Great, our 'friends' are going global. 'Imperial Government issues Emergency Declaration Level 1. Calling for vigilance from local governments.' Oh, and 'Compensation for damage to Stargates and stations no longer mandatory.' Holy crap. That’s cold-blooded."
"Teiro! Did you see the news? We were so luc—Gah! What is wrong with you?!" Marl shouted, skidding into the room. She stared at Taro's shrimp-like pose on the floor.
"I’d like to record you just once to figure out what kind of mistake leads to that posture..." she muttered, shaking her head. "Anyway! Did you see? The government is officially off the hook for public facility repairs!"
"Saw it," Taro said from the floor. "I guess the repair bills got so high the Empire’s bank account started smoking. Look at the sidebars—insurance companies are imploding everywhere. This is a mess."
"Yeah. I bet the Self-Euthanasia Facilities have a waiting list a mile long today," Marl said grimly. "It's not even a localized outbreak. I wonder what’s next?"
"The Imperial Military is on the move, so the core systems should be fine," Taro grunted, finally picking himself up. "I mean, even if there are ten thousand WIND, they’re just gnats to the regular army."
"Maybe," Marl countered. "But they’ll never send the fleet to the boonies. Not after the Usurpation Incident. The Empire is terrified of splitting its forces."
"Usurpation? That like... a coup?"
"Exactly. Years ago, the main fleet left the capital for a massive wargame. The forces left behind tried to seize the throne. The wargame fleet—tens of thousands of ships—rushed back for a standoff. They managed a 'soft landing' without firing, but it almost triggered a total civil war. Just thinking about that many guns pointed at each other gives me the chills."
Whoa, Taro thought. His inner nerd was screaming. The scale was insane.
"The Imperial roster says... 200 Super-Dreadnoughts, 5,000 Battleships, 20,000 Cruisers, 50,000 Destroyers, and hundreds of thousands of small craft? I can't even process those numbers. How do you even command that? That’s like a kid saying he has 'infinite plus one' toys. It’s 'My First Invincible Armada' logic."
Marl laughed. "True. But here’s something relevant to our business." She flicked a file to his BISHOP.
Taro rubbed his chin. "Permanent bounties for WIND kills and intel... I’m not exactly looking for a fight, but this changes the math. Though, we’re still small fry compared to the pro Bounty Hunters and Security Companies."
He knew they couldn't compete with the big boys—the massive privateers with veteran crews and bottomless pockets.
"Still," Taro smirked, a greasy little grin forming. "We’ve got a warship. There are plenty of ways to play this. Heh heh. I think I smell a profitable spring in the air."
He started running the numbers. The galaxy was turning into a storm, but if they caught the right gale, they’d fly.
"Spring, huh?" Marl looked out at the silent stars. "To me, it feels like winter. And winter is coming for the Empire."
With the foundation of their new life established, Volume 2 concludes. From Volume 3 onwards, things are going to get very busy as they dive into business and battle alike.